I know who you are because I have been you. You are the one your mother calls when she does not know what to do about your father. You are the one the church calls when the pastor’s wife needs a meal. You are the one your friends text at midnight, the one your sister borrows money from, the one whose name everyone reaches for first when the room gets hard.
And you do it. You keep doing it. You have built an entire identity on being the woman who does not crumble. The strong one. The capable one. The one who can hold it.
I want to tell you something gently. The Lord did not call you to be the strongest woman in the room. He called you to be a daughter. And daughters get tired. Daughters get to lay their heads down. Daughters get carried.
There is a kind of strength that is, in fact, refusal. A refusal to need anyone. A refusal to be seen at less than your most competent. A refusal — and this is the heart of it — to let the Lord be God to you in the way a child needs a parent.
Come to me, He says. Not, become more impressive for me. Not, fix yourself first. Come.
If something in you flinches at that invitation, that is the very place I would love to sit with you a while.
with you in this,
Ceia