Open Confessional

Dear Jesus,

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.–James 1:17

As You already know, I read this morning, all the while thinking to myself: What exactly does this have to do with integrity? Why did the devotional talk about earning these gifts given so freely? Trust? Why do You give these gifts when I feel unworthy?

Maybe this is where the confessions should start: When I work on something, say math or writing, I immediately lean solely on myself. I mean, I sit there for awhile and feel fine. When things become difficult though, I freak out. I feel so panicky, nervous, unqualified, ashamed..okay, yeah, You get it/

What’s the worst part to all of this? I feel like I’m failing You. And therein lies the problem: my lack of trust and complete reliance on my own strength. That leads me to confession: I really don’t like asking for help. Feeling like a burden is part of it, yes, but there is a bigger issue.

Independence. It’s ingrained in my head that. “You must be able to provide for yourself.” You. No one else. It makes me sad because I actually believe it. I know this is an extreme example, but I couldn’t give myself life. From the time I was born, up until now, I have had to rely on people for food, shelter, clothing, etc. In the midst of that, I’m growing up to learn how to be “self-sufficient”.

I know this is where all my anxiety comes from. I shy away from people because of this mentality of self-reliance. So many people think it’s the greatest thing in world to provide for themselves. It’s all monetary. Stuff doesn’t provide joy, more like restrict it. We are all restless creatures after all. The minute we pick something up, we become bored, exclaiming: There has to be something better! Guess it’s time to start making more money!

I bet that’s why I hate money. I don’t want to get into that kind of mindset of, “I did this all by myself!” I can’t even control the thoughts that are illogical at best. You know the ones: I could be famous one day. This desire to write could get me somewhere, maybe. What if I end up not giving You glory, where it most certainly is due?

I couldn’t get anywhere in this world if I was the one leading. We both know I’m cowardly, at best. I won’t lie and tell You I haven’t let the Devil persuade me. I’ve let him pull my attention from Your hopeful face, to the faces of suffering, whispering, “Why even try?” Then, I find myself feeling that little light of hope die out with tears I’d rather hide, instead of letting them be seen.

You say, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Yet, the world makes me feel I have to have this armor that I myself need to craft, because no doubt I’m going to fall, and no one will be there to pick me back up. I hate how it’s spread around, like wine on every si holidays with family, even though I never drink. It’s the talk of: “I did this.” and “I did that.” Pride. I get lost in the talk, quiet, until someone happens to make me laugh. I’m left with the sinking feeling of guilt, of wrong because I can’t formulate words to say: Jesus died for us, but instead you’d rather talk about mindless junk only alcohol can produce. Why are all things so important? Please, tell me.” The whole world can’t be like this, can it? No, much worse. I can’t help, but feel Your sadness welling inside each and every time.

I just wish the world could see this way. Yes, suffering hurts greatly, some worse than for others. Through it all, whether we realize it or not, You shine brightest when we’re down on our knees, with emptied, folded hands. Grace. If my body wasn’t enough proof of my weakness, then the way I seek world’s approval before Your own is foolish enough.

I could say, I’m so sorry, over and over, but all that You would say is, “Hush now My child, for all I have asked you is to entrust Me with your life. I am always by your side.

Let Me be the endless gift of love you had lost.

Resigning to love,

Your Daughter

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