Staring out the window at the clouds and the grass, a war is going on within me. I feel like I need to get words out, but I’m not even sure what those words need to be. I feel compelled to write, but I don’t feel I deserve to write. At least, I don’t deserve to write about Jesus.
That’s the funny thing, though. Jesus is exactly who I feel compelled to write about. But how could I?
I’m not a theologian, and despite my deepest desire, I’m no prayer warrior. I love the word, but I’m far from an expert. But still… I’m compelled to write about Jesus.