I was the opposite — the most wretched of wretches. And yet… Easter keeps happening in me. The God who died and rose again has set His hands on my ruins. There is a chasm between who I was — the B.C. Joshua — and who I am becoming through His grace. Christ is risen, and He is raising this poor boy with Him.

Take the Judas in me and heal what fear has broken. Take the Peter in me and strengthen what weakness has undone. Take the longing in me for John’s nearness and draw me closer to Your heart than I dare to come on my own.

The God who made galaxies walked up to a fig tree looking for breakfast… God doesn’t need anything from me,
yet He chooses to hunger for what only I can give… And I want to be found fruitful when His eyes fall on me.

I’ve failed at Lent, failed at discipline, failed at becoming the man I’m supposed to be… God has been collaborating with my mess, not waiting for me to get it together… My failures haven’t disqualified me. They’ve made room for grace to do what I cannot.

I carry your words with me. I carry your loyalty. I carry the memory of that last day — the laughter, the music, the pain, the blessing. I carry the way you looked at me and told me who I was. And I’m trying, in my own imperfect way, to live up to the man you saw.

I’m a wretch from the bayou, but a wretch that belongs—held by a mercy that’s louder than wrongs… I’m a wretch, yes— but a wretch in His hands, a violin singing what His love commands.

I used to think God was disappointed in me.
Now I think He was patiently using all of this to heal me.
Maybe that’s how mercy works sometimes.

This is the rhythm of my life: stumble and fall, kneel, stand up, stumble and fall again. Yet it is here, in the painful ebb and flow of repentance, that I have encountered the inexhaustible love of the Father.