November 28, 2016. That morning, as I sat down for my quiet time, I noticed light splattering onto the wall like confetti—dancing flecks of pinks and blues and yellows—as if they had arrived for some kind of a celebration.
I found the source: three mosaic glass candle holders on the dining room table, refracting the sunlight pouring through the window. The sunlight had been there every morning; it was candle holders that were new to the room.
The scene spoke to me—of brokenness made beautiful, of the power in brokenness itself to bend and scatter light, and to draw the eye to something grander than itself.
There was kindness in its message, as I had never felt more broken than over the previous year.
I had recently come to the conclusion (a revelation really) that I had been living all wrong. I was a Christian, a devout one—a friend of God, and on mission with Him—but I had still been living all wrong. I had forfeited a thousand blessings that had been mine for the taking.
I had chosen a less-than-abundant life—because I lived with the crack of the whip in my ear.
I was driven to run ever faster, to accomplish more—for the glory of God, I thought.
But God was never the one cracking that whip.
I was driven to prove what I was never meant to prove—that I mattered, that I was not a nothing, that the air I breathed was not wasted on me. I was living to chink a thousand cracks in my broken identity.
But with Jesus’s robes of righteousness on my shoulders, there was nothing left to prove. Jesus had already proven it.
God had work for me to do for sure—He had blessed me to make me a blessing—but He was never going to let me miss out on planting with Him, experiencing the wonder of the farmer, or of participating in the mystery of fruitfulness.
None of the good works He planned in advance for me were at the end of a whip. I didn’t have to justify my own existence or even earn my own keep. None of us do.
The work He had for me, and for all of us, is stepping out of a boat, handing over our fish and loaves, dropping our mite into the plate, washing others’ feet, or just sitting at His feet. God’s work is not accomplished through drivenness, but from a place of rest in who we are, and especially, in whose we are.