I am.

I am.

Our children’s pastor shared a sermon yesterday that politely smacked me in the face.

See, I have this issue of being a control freak.

As a writer, I create worlds. And I very much want this one to be my own.

I like to dictate who I am in any moment, how my family comes off to other people. The way things “look” has always been a subject near and dear to my heart.

But that kind of grip on the world can be exhausting. And fortunately, I’ve learned to let go.

But there still are two very real problems that I face: 1. I like to believe I’m the main character in this story called life. 2. God is whatever I imagine Him to be at any given moment.

Both are incredibly hurtful lies that start to unravel my edges.

This story isn’t about me. Which is a great thing because we’d all be watching a thirty-something (emphasis on the something) woman wearing ankle-biting sweatpants in the middle of summer, trying to pretend she knows what “on trend” means.

She obviously does not. Just look at those sweatpants.

This story is about the Lord. We’re all here for His glory, and the suffering that sets our teeth on edge? It’s the crescendo, the final movement of sound and light that leads our eyes to the cross.

God redeems even when we’re too busy pointlessly gluing the pieces of our broken hearts.

I am.

He exists whether I want to believe it or not. He is the all powerful and wonderful mighty creator.

Everything starts from something. It’s the cymbal clash that’s always been audible behind my sternum.

And I know where the noise comes from. Why it keeps me writing until my fingers fall off and my eyes go blind.

This isn’t about me or you.

We only are because He is.