Low feels like being curled on your bathroom floor, hugging the toilet as if it’s your new best friend.
Low feels like explaining to your doctor all the embarrassing, gory details.
Low feels like lying awake at 2am, knowing you’ll be even more exhausted come morning.
Low feels like snapping at your husband, just after he gives you a kiss.
I want to walk with a can-do swagger, slinging a purse on my shoulder while I hike a baby up on my hip because I don’t need any help thankyouverymuch.
At least, I don’t need any help until I faceplant like a fool.
Y’all, I am so quick to rely on my own strength. I’ll beg and plead and pray and ask the Lord to put me back together. And He does. Then I pretend like I’m the one who did all the work. I won’t say it out loud (because that would be uncomfortably honest), but I give myself silent pats on the back. “Well done, Victoria! You’re really nailing this Christian/wife/mom/writer thing. You’re a rockstar!”
Why do I act immune to the grace that saved me?
Low is my own personal reality check.
It’s not pretty, but it is necessary.
It’s not enjoyable, but it is sanctifying.
When you’re brought low you can see matters without the filter of “I’m fine.”
Will I ever stop needing to be brought low before I look up? To gaze at the God whose grace saved me and sustains me. To “know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints.” (Ephesians 1:18)
If low is what it takes to keep me clinging to Christ, then I say, “Bring me lower, Lord.”