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none of us are who we want others to think we are.
Who am I? And more importantly, whose am I? In my life, in my strange line of work, I’d discovered that we as people can’t answer the first until someone else answers the second. It’s a function of design. Belonging comes before identity. Ownership births purpose. Someone speaks whose we are, and out of that we become who we are. It’s just the way the heart works.
But out here, somewhere east or west of the Garden, beyond the shadow of the fiery walls, we have trouble hearing what He’s saying. And even when we do, we have trouble believing Him. So we wrestle and search.
‘Every heart is made to pour out. But sometimes we’re wounded and what we pour has soured and turned to poison. You get to choose. Poison or antidote? Life or death?
