I’ve been seeing my heart in a slightly strange way lately.
I’ve seen it emptied out, poured out, stretched out. Like an empty hull of a damaged ship, cargo jettisoned, passengers floating away in lifeboats—fully abandoned in the stormy seas.
My worship echoes through that hull, a whisper compared to the waves. The truths I’m desperately clinging to from the Word are like marbles, tossed right along with me, but making so much noise as they go back and forth with the rhythmic force.
Acts 23.11 has been one of those marbles this week.
“The following night, the Lord stood by him, saying, “Take courage, for as you testified to the facts about me in Jerusalem, so you must testify in Rome.”
I find it interesting (a girl in my small group pointed this out) that usually when God visited His people in prison, it was through an angel. But when Jesus needed to be there, He was there. Himself. In flesh, standing beside Paul. I take courage in this prison scene, because he must have been at a very low point for the God of the universe to show up—not to free him or hold him, but just to speak to him. The mouth that spun chaos into creation…wove words around Paul’s weary heart.
And mine.
“Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” (Luke 7.50)
“Take heart, daughter, your faith has made you well.” (Matthew 9.22)
“Therefore, having this ministry by the mercy of God, we do not lose heart.” (2 Corinthians 4.1)
These little marbles, won’t rest, making sure I know that they’re there, that Jesus is here, standing beside me, saying (constantly), “Take courage.” He makes His presence known. It doesn’t mean He stops the storm.
Sometimes the storm is exactly what we need to keep these truths loud and clear—rolling over every other conception, sin, idea, and even promise that we think is bigger, better, more worth it.
Only He is worth it. He is well worth it.
