I keep discovering
how far I am from You.

Somewhere
stuck in the hidden chambers
of my own heart
where shadows still gather.

I reach for You
and somehow reach
for myself instead.

I speak of love
and then withhold it.
I speak of surrender
and end  up clinging to what I fear losing.

I am dust
trying to remember
the shape of heaven.

And still,
Jesus,

there is something in me
that turns toward You.

Even in my wandering,
some unseen thread
draws me home.

Perhaps You are there
beneath every failure,
waiting not for perfection
but for my turning.

Perhaps holiness
is not falling away
but the mystery
of falling toward
You.

I do not understand
this love.

I only know
that when I am quiet
and all my excuses
have silenced,

Your name remains.

And in the deepest place
where I cannot pretend
to be good,

I find myself whispering:

Jesus.
I love You.

Not enough.
Not perfectly.

But with all
that is left of me.

And perhaps,
somehow,

that is where
You have been
waiting all along.