Your Identity
Heavy breaths accompanied by quickened heart beats and hands with death grips on to do lists.
We think in and we think out
But we don’t often breathe in and breathe out.
Slow is not a considered pace and chaos is a rhythm.
Father I’m in and I’m out of the door running until the leaves are stacked up nicely in a pile.
Pile of laundry sitting on the couch.
Pile of unread books stacked on dusty counters.
Piled on and on until the weight crushes my patience into dust and my refinement into rust.
Yet my soul awakens to the notion of your presence. It’s like sinking in sand but still reaching for the warmth of the sun in the same land.
That’s the thing about writing the lists and dusting the lamps and frustrated tears on faces, he’s always in those places.
He’s not one we have to endure.
His motives are always pure.
Turn your eyes from the false demise of tasks not finished.
Come close and hear him say, “It is finished.â€
He’s comfort and he’s home.
He’s okay with dirty coffee mugs and sticky five year old hugs.
He wants to hold you as tight as you hold the list.
To show you nothing is missed.
To show you he doesn’t want you to endure your faith but to endure by faith.
We think in and we think out
But we don’t often breathe in and breathe out.
Slow is not a considered pace and chaos is a rhythm.
Father I’m in and I’m out of the door running until the leaves are stacked up nicely in a pile.
Pile of laundry sitting on the couch.
Pile of unread books stacked on dusty counters.
Piled on and on until the weight crushes my patience into dust and my refinement into rust.
Yet my soul awakens to the notion of your presence. It’s like sinking in sand but still reaching for the warmth of the sun in the same land.
That’s the thing about writing the lists and dusting the lamps and frustrated tears on faces, he’s always in those places.
He’s not one we have to endure.
His motives are always pure.
Turn your eyes from the false demise of tasks not finished.
Come close and hear him say, “It is finished.â€
He’s comfort and he’s home.
He’s okay with dirty coffee mugs and sticky five year old hugs.
He wants to hold you as tight as you hold the list.
To show you nothing is missed.
To show you he doesn’t want you to endure your faith but to endure by faith.
Move Church, Don't let your doing determine who you are. You are a son. You are a daughter. That identity remains even when the to-do lists aren't finished, the house isn't clean, the kids are climbing the walls, you failed a project at work, your marriage is hard, your friendships feel nonexistent, and your emotions and thoughts are a whirlwind of heaviness and negativity. Sit, breathe, and recognize His presence. You are seen, you are heard, you are loved. That does not change. He is right there in the middle of it all.
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I so needed to hear this. Thanks for sharing, Kait 🫶ðŸ¼