May my life be a psalm

I have been thinking lately about the Psalms—and the men who bled their prayers into them.

I am grateful for what the Psalmists went through.

That sounds almost cruel when I say it aloud, as if I would wish upon them the crushing valleys, the lonely nights, the tears soaked into the soil. But my gratitude is not for their pain in itself—it’s for the way God met them there. For the way their raw laments, their aching questions, and their halting praise have become my lifeline. Their wounds are ink on holy pages, and somehow, their sorrows have carried my soul into peace.

I wonder—could my wounds be the same for someone else?

Could this ache in my chest, this shattering I feel, one day be the very thing someone else clings to when their own world collapses?

Could the scars I am gathering now become the proof someone needs that God does not abandon, even in the midnight hour?

If that is so, then I will not hide them.

I will not pull my sleeves down over the bruises of my faith, pretending I am whole when I am still bleeding.

I will not speak only of victories and skip over the valleys, as if God only shows up on mountaintops.

No—if I cover my wounds, I might conceal His glory.

If I hide the darkness I’ve walked through, I might block the light that only shines brightest there.

So I will show them.

I will tell my story—not because it is beautiful in itself, but because He has been beautiful to me in the ugliest places.

And maybe someday, someone will be grateful for the cracks in me.

Not because they celebrate my breaking,

but because through those cracks, they caught a glimpse of His hand.