Women stood in worship and raised their voices to God. The song spoke of upstretched hands, and I raised mine high. But I couldn’t keep them elevated. Weakness pulled stronger than my desire and the weight drew downward. How much longer could I keep my arms up in praise?
You may not know this, but I’m a writer. Creating stories in my mind occupied much of my time as a child. Over the years, I’ve scribbled ideas on napkins (though that will stop considering the state of affairs with paper products—smile), notepads, corners of newspapers, and any tidbit of paper I could grab.
Thoughts swirled like dust bunnies released from captivity. Self-talk pulled me farther down with each ticking moment.
“You’re not good enough.”
“No one wants to pick you.”
“What makes you think anyone would hire you.”
“Your words don’t flow well enough.”
And the darkness tugged harder.
Another line of accusation joined.
After years of living under lies and fear, I have found truth and victory in God.