Confession

I hold my breath as I write, for in here is confession.  In here is a need from my heart  pressing through to my fingers to pour out what is inside.  Fear is with me, for I feel vulnerable, but the confession grows stronger.  It needs release.

I am hungry.

I am hungry and searching.  Searching to figure out why I am hungry . . . but even as I write, the knowing comes.  If I admit it, the hunger is for the same things I have always craved.  Approval.  Admiration.  Appreciation.  Acceptance.   

And I am Esau.  I come hungry to the bowl.  The compliments smell good to me.  And I ask Jacob for some with my pen . . . with pretty clothes . . . with my perfectionism . . .with my service.  I fill myself with the praise of others, and it tastes good at the time. 

But eventually, I empty.  The feeling in the pit of my stomach is no longer hunger, but conviction.  I make excuses and accuse, "But I don't feel Your approval!  I don't hear Your admiration!  I don't experience Your delight in me!"

And then, the Whisper, "You did not sit still with Me long enough to hear.  You achieved acceptance at your Birth, but to know it, you must be still.  Be with Me."

And the tears fall from my eyes and the confession from my lips.  "Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God?  Or am I trying to please men?"  (Galatians 1:10)

And I know the answer. 

"Satisfy (me) in the morning with Your unfailing love, that (I) may sing for joy and be glad all (my) days."  (Psalm 90:14)

You satisfy me. 
You satisfy me. 
You. Satisfy. Me. 

Confession