Oh God, remind me why I'm doing this.
Why me? What do I know about anything?
They sit across from me, broken dolls whose dull eyes beg me to offer hope that they no longer believe exists. Hope is a four-letter word that belongs to someone else. They've given up because they are out of options. They can see nothing in the future but more pain.
And I'm IT? I'm all that stands between desperation and hope? Sometimes, life and death? What were you thinking, Lord?
Who am I to tell a young rape victim that God loves her?
Who am I to advise a wronged wife to stay with the man who tore her heart out?
Who am I to offer understanding in situations I have no ability to understand?
How can I make a woman believe in a loving Heavenly Father when all she knows is fatherly abuse?
How do I gather the scraps of a shattered life and put them together again?
How do I convince a woman consumed by rage that it is safe to leave that anger with You? She's mad at You too.
How do I pretend to believe that this round of sobriety will be different for the lifetime drug addict? The last eight times didn't work, but this one will? Because now he faces ME? I'm not sure I believe that myself.
I feel so inadequate. So unworthy. Who am I to be trusted with this great responsibility? Who am I to meddle deep inside the private recesses of a human heart, to hold it in my hands, twist it, turn it, hurt it so that it can finally struggle free from its prison.
It's scary, Lord. Sometimes, right in the middle of a session, I don't want to do this anymore. Why am I doing this?
But now I'm remembering something.
I'm doing this because You asked me to. You promised that you would do it through me if I would just stay out of the way.
And now that I think about it, You have every time.
You put a smile on the lips of that rape victim.
The young couple is holding hands again.
The ones who knew only hate are experiencing love for the first time. It's hard for them. They don't know what to do with it, but You're showing them a little at a time.
And as I watch, I know it isn't me at all. It never was.
You always seem to enjoy choosing as your tools the least likely people: the frightened Gideon, the obstinate Jonah, the renegade Moses. And look at that ragtag band of disciples Jesus chose. What an unlikely group to be entrusted with Your plan of salvation for the entire world! Frankly, I would have chosen some better candidates, if I'd been given the opportunity.
So I guess I'm in good company, huh? Is that what You're telling me? My inadequacy fits the profile?
Is this what you meant by "My grace is sufficient for you. My power is made perfect in your weakness"?
I'm glad to know that, because if I wasn't sure You were doing this through me, I would quit. The burden is too great. The price of failure too high.
But You're right. I have seen You work. I've sat there and watched Your Spirit open a closed heart, purify a perverted soul, cleanse a dirty conscience, heal a damaged spirit. And I just sit there. You're doing all the work.
If You called me, You will enable me. I'm just a warm body for Your Spirit to flow through. Healing is not my job, it's Yours.
I panic when I forget that. Help me never to forget again.