I've been waiting for God to come for me. I've been waiting for Him to rise up like some storybook book hero and sweep me up in His beautiful, righteous wrath. But instead, my mysterious saviour has been a quiet worker. He has moved in whispers. When I came to the end of myself, when my grief choked me and when I found myself broken and shivering, the only sound in the world I could hear was His breath. These weeks of my coldness towards Him have not made Him move an inch. Rather than fleeing from my anger and disappointment, God rested Himself right at the centre of me. Rather than rushing in to overcome my doubt, He has had faith in my faith.
I am not enough. I am not worthy.
My faith is so small and breakable.
My love is fleeting, my heart is rotten.
But this God is big and He is stubborn.
His grace clings to me, I cannot shake it off even with hate and abuse.
How strange, how glorious is He.
He remains my one and only hero.
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