I see you there. The one who feels like maybe, just maybe, this Christian walk wasn’t designed for people like you. The one who feels like church is a big exclusive party, and your invite was lost in the mail. The one who is a little rough-around-the-edges. The one who feels like a square peg being forced into a round hole.
I see you, the one who desperately clings to that tiny mustard grain of faith and promise that God is for you, that He is sovereign. The one who constantly reminds yourself that He has your sanctification held in the palm of His hand—that deep knowing that we will never fully arrive at perfection until we see Him face to face. The one who scrambles to hear the Holy Spirit, whispering truth amongst the clanging gongs of uncertainty.
I see you, doubting Thomas. The one who needs to feel the holes in Christ’s wounds, the one who needs to hear His voice boldly proclaim affirmation.
I see the frustration in your inability to simply believe, to shut off the brain God designed so intricately that likes to overanalyze every ebb and flow. The one who looks around and sees hypocrisy within the church walls and struggles to subscribe to it.
I see you, mama, in this season of busy. The one who has inadvertently put Jesus on the backburner as the day slipped by like water through your fingers. I see your exhausted head hit the pillow in surrender and the tired prayer of hope that you are enough—for your family, for your children, for your God. I see the subsequent waves of guilt—of not doing enough, not being enough. I see your deep pangs of inadequacy as you spin a thousand plates that eventually smash to the ground, scratching up your shiny new hardwoods in the process.
I see you, new Christian. The one who is finding your footing in strange territory. The one who has seen things, been through things. I see you timidly stand in the doorway of the church, as you eye those shiny-looking people who seem to have it all figured out as you grapple with this new life and translating this impossibly gigantic book that promises to have all the answers.
I see you, Christian who feels the harsh divide of politics within the church. The one who feels like your brothers and sisters have drawn a line in the sand and cast you aside. The one who watches in alarm as Jesus is torn apart, taken advantage of, and piecemealed to fit the mold of man-made political parties.
I see your heart break as you witness the lack of unity and sharp tongues from representations of the One who is love.
I see you, because I am you.
When my eyes are fixed on everyone around me, when the collective voices drown the truth I know as a believer, my faith begins to sink into a deep chasm of doubt and discouragement. But what is my faith rooted in—what they say . . . or what He says? He made that brain that never stops thinking. He made that heart that never stops bleeding. He created me, and died for me, and knew my name on the cross, and thought of me, and bled for me, knowing every single imperfect detail of my existence.
He did that for perfectly-coiffed Cindy at church, and your pastor, and the pope, and the president.
He loves you, dear Christian who feels like a square peg. His grace is as everlasting as He is, His patience deeper than that chasm of discouragement you may feel you’re freefalling in.
He doesn’t scoff at doubt—He gently lays your hands on His wounds to say, I am here.
He loves you even when the world says differently. Even when you feel left out. Even when you feel like you’ll never get this Christian thing together. His love isn’t fixed in peoples’ opinions or your opinion of yourself. You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
He loves you.
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me'” (2 Corinthians 12:9).