Into the Fire

Faith is often something we have for others. We believe in them and for them, and we pray accordingly. We know God is working in their lives and issues, and we sense answers on their way.

When it comes to ourselves, well . . . Not so much. Why is that? I can't answer that for you, but I can tell you the root of it for me lies somewhere in that personal worth tangle. Somewhere in that condemnation thing. Somewhere in that I don't deserve it realm. And, yes, I know where those taunts originate. I do. However, that doesn't make them seem any less valid.

Some of us have little bundles of baggage. Others of us pack around loaded trunks. We all come equally to the Cross and are equally welcomed by our Lord. Still. Sin has consequences and regret has no age limit.

I'm a writer now. I always have been. Detours allowed life to be lived before writing that first novel. Several followed with more underway. Determining the course God had and has for me has been clear at times and silenced at others. I wait, and I write.

Sometimes we stand at a four-way stop and peer in each direction. Where to go next looms. Perhaps we know which road we'd like to take, but that journey presents an ominous warning. We step out of the way in case anyone comes up behind us. We wait. Staring. 

Empty.

And praying.

Father, whatever we lack, we're supposed to ask you for it. Increase my faith and help my unbelief in those certain matters. I'm desperate for you, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.