I’m afraid I’ll break down, God.
I’m afraid I’ll cry so hard. And I don’t want to.
I’m going to see little children who want to see Your love. In two days, I’m stepping on an airplane to fly to a foreign country on wings whose bones have just been set. The ink of my own journey to heal from painful childhood memories has hardly had time to dry. The last panic attack I had was last March.
Yet, You’re inviting me to go where I haven’t been, to look into the eyes who long to know they have a voice.
I’m afraid I can’t bear the weight of their stories. Of my own story, when I’m just learning to gather the courage to speak — in the voice of the little girl who is still alive in me.
I’m scared it will be messy, and I won’t know how to hold in my heart all my eyes will see — and the memories it might trigger.
What if I break down and the children end up seeing my cry? When I ought to be Your ambassador to shine Your light and offer cups of soul refreshment?
Maybe what I’m really afraid of is who I am when I touch the hand of someone who suffers the pain of not having a voice.
Maybe when I stand in the presence of such quiet strength and bravery of the little children You love — and the courageous families who hold onto hope like morning dew clings to clover — with tender beauty — the me who is vulnerable, needy, and feels so inadequate will emerge.
What if I’m not enough?
Then, I found a letter.
It was left in the quiet places of my heart, whispered in the most tender Voice.
A love note from God. As I read it, I realized it was meant for you too.
Because aren’t each of us journeying through our own stories — walking into foreign territory in our hearts — parts we’ve hidden that are vulnerable, needy, and feeling inadequate?
In two days, we will wake up to Valentine’s Day — and the stories of love that have broken us, healed us, and even the ones that have shamed us, with words we wish we never heard or heartbreaks we longed to never taste — will surface.
Before I travel with Compassion International to meet children of special needs in the Dominican Republic to write about how their stories will irrevocably shape mine — and ours — I want to share God’s love note with you.
May this letter tenderly nurture the One thing God longs to love: you.
I want you to know. You’ll never be unloved.
You’ll never face a lonely night alone again. Because I will be there.
I always have. And it breaks My heart in a thousand pieces for all the times I couldn’t take you away from all that has broken your heart, made you cry, and caused you pain.
I’ve collected all your tears in a bottle, and I hold all your sorrows, so that you can be loved anew again.
I wish you could look into My eyes and see how much I love you, from the very beginning, as I gently and beautifully made you — deep within. How I traced every part of myself onto your heart and hid it as treasure inside your soul. So that no matter what the journey through this life would take you through — your heart would always be next to mine.
My love makes you beloved. My beloved.
Will you make some space in your moments. In your days — to let Me in?
Will you let Me love you?
I want you to come close — closer than you’ve ever been before. Don’t be afraid. I long to be with you. As is. Your heart is My home.
I love you. Simply. Truly.
Meet me in the quiet. Be the beloved. Just rest.
Forever Yours, Jesus.
As I read this letter, I realized, maybe I don’t have to be afraid of breaking down.
I’ll be able to say “Jesus loves you” in a language that reaches soul deep.
I will speak in a voice that recognizes the little child who longs to be heard.
I will be able to see all the beauty, joy, light, and goodness Jesus carries in His heart for each child He unconditionally cherishes.
Simply as His Beloved.
Maybe what I really need is to break down. Then, I’ll really be present with Jesus and those He loves.
How is God calling you to rest — and be His Beloved?
Be the Beloved. Just rest.