By Jen Miller 
It breaks my heart to hear you cry, “I’m not good enough.”
To hear you say, “Nothing I do seems to matter.”
I fell to my knees when you let it slip that you’re struggling to be happy, that it has become apparent to your children that their mama is sad.
You’ve been searching so long for purpose, happiness—stuffing anything and everything into the void of your soul. Oh, I know that void. I know the highs and lows of happiness. It’s fleeting. It’s frivolous. One more drink, and I’ll be ready to dance. I haven’t forgotten the way to temporary happiness. It leads to the life of the party. It takes flight, and you’re on top of the world. Enjoy it! Savor it!
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Because we both know what’s to come next—it all comes crashing down. It lands you skinned up knees. It comes at a hefty price—you must pay.
The way to happiness is the same—it never ceases to change though it seems longer to get there each time.
It requires just a little bit more, whether it is another drink, another dollar, or another dose. But isn’t it worth it if it gets you where you need to go, if it supplies the smile even if just for a while?
Oh, my dear, sweet friend, I pray you open that Bible before that dark road leads you deeper into debt, drags you down further into the ditch to your dead end.
I have a solution. It’s the good stuff, too. It’s forever joy that remains present even when life is hard. My buddy Peter speaks of it. He refers to this joy as “imperishable,” “undefiled,” and “unfading”—it’s that good. If you’re interested—if only I could interest you.
I know just the well to satisfy your thirst.
I know where you can rise up and take courage. I know Whose daughter you are. You are the daughter of the One who is near the brokenhearted. He is the same One who moves the mountains. He is rich in mercy.
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I know it’s hard to grasp. I know the world says different. I know all the get-bys and good enoughs. I haven’t forgotten the fear—the fight to make it through the day while trying to fill the family from an empty cup. I haven’t forgotten what He’s saved me from, which is why my dear, sweet friend, I wish you’d open that Bible.
You will find in there a woman with sins piled high like laundry, and you will know the weight of those sins in which she fell at Jesus’s feet and wept. You will find a Savior in the pages of the Bible, Whose power cannot be measured by man, a Savior Who loves that woman, you, and me relentlessly. As He made the sun and the stars, He too made you, so do not doubt, my dear, sweet friend that you aren’t enough. God has great plans for you. Plans for good and not evil, a future of hope.
If only I could make you believe. If only it were that easy, Lord.
I know what you need—the everlasting light, the refuge of the storm, He who heals. I have slipped you a few of these seeds, but these seeds you must sow all on your own. In order for them to grow, you must surrender it all over to the Lord. He is the One and Only who will save you. He is the One and Only who will free you. You will soon know that in His eyes, you are enough. You will find that forever joy.
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Dear, sweet friend, I wish you’d open that Bible. Until you do, know I will always be praying for you. For the Bible that remains on your shelf, says, “Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” These words, I believe, because He’s yet to fail me, a sinner saved by His grace. He will not fail you.
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