It’s not as high as it was a week ago.
Falling like confetti,
The big talk
The hopeful claims for the next step get a lot quieter. But still your voice shakes out:
“This is the year.”
But resolution will tarnish cause 5am is awfully early and my bed is warm.
And the weight is heavy.
Fail and repeat.
Resolve and relapse.
A week into the year now, how many goals dissolved into the memory hole of shame.
I hope you drag it back out. Crucify your shame.
Claw for it.
Put a knife in the back of the voice that says you’ll never make it out.
Embrace the taste of blood and bile in your mouth.
Keep moving forward, toward God, toward glory, toward life.
Wrestle until morning, every morning, every week
broken hip and bruised pride.
But please don’t stop wrestling.
Kill the fear,
the blessing is inbound.
"For the righteous falls seven times and rises again, but the wicked stumble in times of calamity."