Last night, I sat at house fellowship and could not stop crying. Which isn’t at all unusual, if you know me, but the steady stream of tears caught me off guard because my words seemed to fall so short of how I was feeling. I couldn’t seem to say more than a few words for h o u r s. I was so weary, so tired, so… broken.
But as the tears kept coming, God wasn’t the only one noticing. Another friend was watching, and He was stirring something in her to speak to me. So she came over to me as we worshiped, sat down next to me, and spoke. I just felt like God wanted me to share this psalm with you. It’s psalm 126; can I read it to you?
I nodded and stared at her Bible as she read, every phrase underlined, as a standout reminder of its truth. My tears grew stronger as I heard the familiar words, words I’ve claimed over and over again, words I’ve pleaded with the Father many times over the past six months of being here. In the Message, its climax says, “And now, God, do it again—“
She continued speaking. From His heart, not her own.
I just feel like the Father wants you to dream with Him again.
“Dream with me, daughter,” I heard Him whisper, an echo of her words.
God wants you to go back to that place of dreaming again. That India would no longer be just a place that has slapped your face with reality, but that it would be a place where you can dream again with Jesus.
And I just love this psalm’s promise—there’s JOY on the other side of tears, but there’s also fruit.
And then she began to pray for me. She wrapped her arms around me and really prayed for me—again, from the Father’s heart, not her own. The prayers of Jesus from the right hand of the Father for me pulsated in every pause of her prayer. The Spirit’s groaning, His inexpressible words, were made tangible through each syllable she said.
And in her prayer she brought up the very story that I got to share in a village on Friday. The very story that has been stirring my heart’s affection for Jesus and my heart’s desire for other women’s hearts to be equally stirred, too. The very story that defines brokenness in the world’s eyes—just another symptom of sin, and in Jesus’ eyes—a beautiful act of love.
She’s broken before you, Jesus, like the alabaster jar. She’s poured out. But you are worth it. Help her to see that you are worth it, Jesus. In physical weakness, in tears, in chaotic schedules…You are worth it all.
And suddenly, I realized just how broken I was, how unadmittedly broken I had been for months now. I had called it stress, worry, fear. I had claimed weakness, silence, mistrust. Bruised, hurting, crushed. But broken? Utterly unable-to-pick-up-any-pieces broken? I didn’t put a word on it like that.
But it’s what I am. Broken. A jar of clay that has fallen off the shelf of expectations. And I typed here a few months ago and called Him good as He shattered them all, one by one.
What I didn’t realize then was this: He was allowing me to break, too.
I am so broken. It’s taken me six months to put those words around my heart, like a banner and a binding up of wounds all at once.
I am this alabaster woman, broken beyond any barriers that kept me from Him. Barging in on a dinner party just to be with Him. Just to show my love for Him, because He has shown His love for me in brokenness, too.
And still. Still.
I find my tears tentative (should I really be crying, again?),
my hands shaking and weak (can I really do anything for Him, here?),
and my hair a mess of a make-shift towel (what I am actually supposed to be doing with all of this?).
But He calls it beautiful. He calls me beautiful. He calls all of us—beautiful.
And I know I’m not the only one needing to be noticed today. I’m not the only one who will sit in church today, in a room full of people, and feel alone. Silent as the grace, eyes avoiding all the others, fearful yet also the tiniest bit hopeful—in need of a word from Him.
And I’m definitely not the only one He’s whispering to. He meets our need. Every. single. time.
What’s He whispering to you?
He wants me to dream again. He wants us to be alive in Him. Truly, fully, abundantly alive.
India was a reality check for me; it did slap me in the face. And so a lot of dreams felt (and still feel) crushed and dead in the wake of the hell we’ve walked through here. And I’ve stopped dreaming. I’ve stopped believing for the bigger things of God. I’m just asking Him to keep me alive from day to day, not to show me how to truly live. The abundance He’s promised, I’ve made small. I’ve forgotten how He lavishes. I’ve forgotten how He Himself dreams, and dreams for me.
When I first got here, I kept saying, “It’s like a dream come true.” The Father fulfilled His little’s girl’s dream to come back to this place. Which is why my friend’s language last night struck me so much—He wants you to come back to this place of dreaming again.
A return. He’s always calling for us to return to Him. not merely to a place or a promise or a person. just to Him. always to Him.
Today, I’m resolving to return. Broken, but bound by Him. His banner over me is love, and I don’t have to take a single step to find Him. He’s right here, always right here. Whispering, singing, dreaming for us, with us, to us.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted,
and He saves those who are crushed in spirit.
The Lord heals the brokenhearted,
and He binds up their wounds.