I don’t remember the sermon. Or the music.
From this Sunday, not long ago, all I remember is two conversations.
She sat beside me, not a close friend, but one whose words resonated in my heart.
She spoke deep, deep words of encouragement, words of affirmation.
Words that coming from other mouths would have sounded hollow. Fake.
But her words are true, of this I am sure.
Because she has been here. She has been where I’m sitting.
Her words carry weight not because she is perfect.
Her words carry weight because she has been here. She has been broken. And she is letting Light shine through the cracks.
Less than an hour later, another mama is pouring her heart out to me.
Crazy hard stuff. Too hard.
Stuff that she cannot handle alone.
You guys, I want so badly to minister from my strengths.
I’ve always wanted this.
I want to get it all together and then tell the story.
But this never seems to be how it works.
So I muster my courage and tell a little bit of my story.
Not about the part where I do things well.
But the part that is a hot mess in the process of being redeemed by a ridiculously gracious God.
The part about a clinging for dear life to a great high priest who is able to sympathize with my weaknesses (Hebrews 4:15).
I know that my story doesn’t make her life any easier.
But I hope so hard that my words ring true in her heart.
Not because I am perfect. But because I am here.
Because I am broken.
Because, recovering perfectionist, recovering fake church-girl that I am,
All I want this morning is for a little bit of Light to shine
Through the cracks.