Tag: dying to self

  • The Small Deaths

    Each breath will mirror the last,
    exhaled into nothing—
    into death like the past,
    sacrificed to become
    what alone could last.

    And many more to come—
    little last gasps for air,
    for control.
    They sacrifice every care—
    leeches of life
    that cling to the soul.
    They take until
    they swallow me whole.

    They follow me everywhere;
    I run away,
    yet still find them there.

    What falls away
    was never fit for the task.
    And good riddance—be gone,
    you lingered far too long,
    stealing my focus
    from the important tasks.
    For what now is right,
    you would have kept wrong.
    So I surrendered my fight
    for a worship song.

    Search my heart,
    and remove what doesn’t serve You.
    Tear it away—
    run a spear straight through.
    Do not leave behind
    what cannot be reproved,
    nor anything that keeps
    me from what
    You’d call me to do.

    When my eyes close
    for the final rest,
    may my life return
    to Your precious breath.
    When my soul departs,
    may all the small deaths
    that came before
    have prepared me
    to praise You more—

    to strive after holiness,
    as only You can be;
    to be raised up,
    and to know You
    as the waves
    know the sea;

    to be made whole,
    now and for eternity.

  • When I Forget Why I’m Here

    What am I here for?
    I know the answer—yet I forget it almost instantly the moment another question takes over: “What do I want?”

    When I’m running on little sleep and my son wakes in the middle of the night for a bottle, my first thought is rarely that I was created to serve Christ… or that my wants don’t define me anymore. Instead, it’s usually a quiet groaning inside—sometimes loud enough for others to hear. And depending on who is nearby, I’m quick to shift some (or all) of the blame onto them.

    Maybe my spouse doesn’t wake up, or doesn’t notice our son’s cries fast enough—maybe two nights in a row—and my mind seizes on it. It takes a molehill and builds a mountain out of it, then tries to tip that mountain onto her as if covering her in it would somehow excuse me.

    The worst part is how natural it feels in the moment. Pushing frustration toward her feels like pushing responsibility away from myself… as if I’m clean because she’s covered. But that lie doesn’t survive the light of Christ.

    My heart is deceitful and wicked, and too easily I forget why I am here.
    He didn’t save me so I could complain.
    He didn’t redeem me so I could assign blame.
    He saved me to serve—because He served.

    Lord, change my heart to be more like Yours.
    Teach me patience.
    And even when I’m uncomfortable, teach me to serve anyway.