I have wallowed in this mysterious self pity too long. I don’t know where all the doubt in myself and my writing has come from, but somehow it must end. I have lost count of the number of times I have sat down to write something only to press down on the backspace and watch my thoughts vanish into oblivion. As if I have considered what I have to say unworthy to be read. I don’t know why I would be so harsh with myself when all I have ever heard is good things.
I sit here thinking it may be more than just a lack of confidence in myself, or fear of failure. Something within me longs for more. There’s a brokeness within me that I can’t fix on my own. I’ve distanced myself from the One who inspires me. I wandered onto a path of my own choosing although I can’t for the life of me understand why. It has only brought me regrets.
I am ashamed to think of how many times I have shut God out of my life to go running back to Him when times get tough and I get desperate. It shames me to think that I may be an offense to the One who knit me together in my mother’s womb, the One who bestowed the gift of writing to me. I was never worthy of such a gift.
But here I am, knowing I’m nothing without Him. I can try to be happy. I can keep smiling and tell the world I’m okay, but I wouldn’t be, not if I kept shutting the door on my Father’s face like a rebellious child. The suffering in my spirit would fester like an open wound.
Just like I am unworthy of the gift of writing, I am unworthy of His profound love. I don’t deserve His grace, given so freely. I am unworthy of His pursuit of me, and in my unworthiness, I am humbled.