Broken offering

I don’t come with anything polished today, Lord.

No grand words, nothing for a King—

Nothing gilded in beauty or wrapped in eloquence.

Only what I have.

And what I have is raw.

So I lay it all before You—

Not just the good, but the broken.

The jagged remnants of dreams I once held close.

The fragile shards of a heart that’s been wounded more times than I can count.

The quiet ache I’ve carried too long in silence.

Here, God—

Every sliver of sorrow, every unspoken cry, every threadbare hope.

The mess of me.

The me that feels too much. The me that wonders if it’s enough.

You are not repelled by the ruins.

You do not turn away from the trembling.

You are the Healer of shattered things—

the One who gathers every splinter,

presses them into Your palms,

and makes art out of ashes.

So I give You this offering:

Imperfect, but honest.

Torn, but surrendered.

This is worship, too.

And I trust—deep down in the hollows of my soul—

that You will meet me here.

Right in the middle of the mess.

Right where mercy pours like oil into wounds.

Right where beauty begins again.