Daily I feel the gentle pressure, fingers of disappointment, hurt, sickness, lack pressing cracks into the surface of my soul until a chink is loosened.
Is this all that I have to give, Lord? My brokenness?
Tears sting my eyes and blur my vision.
Is this the widow's mite? I have naught much else.
Is the brokenness my gift to You or Your gift to me?
Like a vase with a chink, humble in its place among the others whole on a shelf. How can the broken things of this world glorify God?
But you call me beautiful and choose me, every time.