Tonight I feel nothing short of wildly misunderstood, terribly alone, and desperately empty.
I’m counting up the cost again to see if all this pain is really worth it.
And I’ve concluded: yes.
Jesus is still worthy.
Even on the nights when even a dog cannot cheer me up, he’s worthy of me laying my life down to proclaim the Gospel where he is not known.
Even when I think I’m one million percent inadequate for the task at hand because how can someone with a chemical imbalance do this thing, he’s worthy of me dying to myself in order for him to be glorified.
Even when I’m single and questioning if any man will ever love me, he’s worthy of these longings of my heart to find him and know him and to give everything up in this pursuit.
Because there are millions of people who will feel worse than I feel right now for the rest of eternity, simply because they don’t have access to the Gospel.
I, at least, have hope. Hope that, if not tomorrow, next week, next month, or next year, I will live an eternity of joy with my Creator. He will wipe every single one of these tears from my eyes. This drudgery and sadness doesn’t last forever for me.
I mourn for only a brief moment, but others will mourn for an eternity.
That’s why he’s worthy.
I know. They don’t.