This was going to be some sort of love letter, but my words have...

This was going to be some sort of love letter, but my words have already run out.

In Texas, we're under a drought advisory. Since the skies haven't rained down in full force since who-knows-when, we have to be careful not to run the wells dry.

But my well flies up in a cyclone of dust when the wind blows by. My reservoir of words ran dry long ago.

Sometimes when my soul is praising God with all that it can muster, I fall back in disappointment. "These words aren't enough. I've run out." No praise does Him justice. It's humbling when that one gift that won you good essay grades in school, amounts to nothing in the area that most counts. It's humbling when what you think is your greatest attribute ends up being useless when you try to describe God.

Like all the times in the Bible when angels appeared to men, and then had to convince the men not to worship them. "You think I'm God, but I'm just the guy that delivers His mail." All this mistaking-God-for-His-messengers business—it goes to show we have no concept of the glory of God. We fall to our knees at the sight of an angel. Just wait til when we see God Himself.

If I run out of ways to describe His glory while sitting on the corner of my bed at night, how much more when I stand in the cathedral of Heaven, where storeys of animals I've never seen will flutter around singing in notes I've never heard about the wonderfulness of God.

Just think—if the God who makes soul-shattering beauty here on earth, will be designing the buildings there Himself—those mansions in Heaven are going to make the mansions here look like gaudy plastic Barbie dollhouses.

My words will run out, even in describing those buildings; those seraphim; those heavenly praise-songs—-not to mention God Himself.

I won't have anything to say. Neither will any poet laureate, Dickinson or Shakespeare. The beauty of God will reduce us to the same condition as babes who haven't yet learned to speak.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. That doesn't mean that God can't sense that my praises are jumping to get off the ground, but just can't reach high enough. That doesn't mean He doesn't take delight in them. Fathers love when their kids draw them "I love you, Daddy" pictures, even if they're stick figures with purple marker hair. Not saying that to be cutesy, but to be accurate. God delights in the praises of His people, even though those praises must sound awfully cliche and unpoetic when compared to Him as He actually is. He knows our frame, and knows that this is the most we can do as we are now.

So I don't have anything to say. There is not a single sound left on my tongue that would do Him justice, not even if repeated for a thousand years.

But that doesn't mean I shouldn't still try until my heart collapses.

Until the earth dawns in its new-made form…

and forever plus-one-day after that.