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.