Baby, for the record—I’m not bold this week. Not even a little.
This week’s been rough and tumble, and that left-behind, invisible feeling? Yeah. I don’t handle that well. I get quiet, I get sideways, I start looking around for something in this world to tell me who I am—and it never does. Not once. Not ever.
So that’s my tell.
When I start shrinking, it usually means I’ve stepped away from the Word. I’ve drifted just enough to forget where my feet go. Because every single time I go looking for identity out there, I come up empty.
But when I come back—when I readjust, resubmit, renew, and call myself what He calls me? Daughter of the Most High—everything shifts.
Suddenly it matters none percent that my conversations are a little tangled, that my brain skips beats, that I don’t always make sense to the average mid-size sedan. If I am rooted—really rooted—in His grace, then what exactly am I afraid of?
I know how this ends.
I will rest in glory one day.
I will fight the good fight—messy, small, a little ridiculous.
I am seen, fully, right down to my toes and back.
And I am loved. Completely. Even when I make Him sigh a little.
So no—I’m not bold on my own.
But I am bold in His love for me.
And He has surrounded me with people—placed them, moved them, kept them—on purpose. Between the sweetness of home and whatever’s waiting around the river bend, I’m getting back up.
I’m going to sing loud.
Hold my man’s hand.
And be a little ridiculous for Christ.
Because if He can love the absolute mess out of me,
then I can love the absolute mess out of you.
And baby—I’ve met you. You need it.
