I sit in last light on a Thursday, comforted that it’s our Publican weaknesses that unlock the God-chamber, not strength, Pharisee brawn at the door.
The God bowed in the thorns perfects power in imperfect weakness, inverted strength that dies to rise, so He takes us in, the lame and unlikely. The strong soul-limp and the weak beggars straighten and fill. Healing happens in the splintered places.
Blessed are the meek and I laugh, relieved.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness”
~2 Cor. 12:9
Photo: wildflower bouquet by Hope-girl, restoration by God
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