I used to think healing was a one and done scenario. I scrape my knee, I slap a band-aid on it. Someone breaks my heart, I decide to never let them in again. That’s it, end of story. While most of my life was systematic in this sense, I was woken up to an agonizing truth when I came to realize what I thought to be finalized, was really just the beginning. Healing, the act of it and the pain and peace in it, is a much longer process than I originally believed. Healing is recursive. It must happen over and over and over again.

I’m giving my first club talk with Borah High School Young Life tomorrow night and while I’m anxious and fumbling to find the right transitions for fluency and the right scripture for relatability, the truth of what I’m being trampled by can not be found in the structure or content of my talk. It’s in me.

The only part of my speech I know all too well is my own bumps and bruises. My pains. My failures. And those still hurt. Those pieces have been refined and redeemed and restored, but they still pulse and ache and bleed. I still need to be healed there.

The fear of failing is omnipresent, but the disappointment that follows and persists, is paralyzing. The story I’m sharing sits at the bottom of everything I was and everything I am, staring up at me and reminding me how powerless I was under the weight of messing up. I was never able to carry the weight alone.

Luckily I don’t have to, and I never have needed to.

“But if Jesus gives you the power to rise, Jesus is the One who can give you the power to walk every day, to keep going”



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