This year I tried to be David. I picked up my slingshot and stones and then aimed at my giants. My slingshot broke apart. The giants kept standing, taunting, confronting me. I backed away... slowly and then all at once. I am not David.

This year I tried to be Noah. I bought the wood and started building my ark. Please, God. Am I doing this right? I don’t want to face the floods. I don’t want to drown. But I threw away my hammer. I am no carpenter.

Then I found myself in the lion’s den, so I tried to be Daniel. Be brave, I thought. Be strong. But I was so scared. I ran away before the lions could attack. I am not Daniel.

...

Finally, I decided to wear my own heart. I carried it around on my sleeve like a badge of honor, like a beautiful broken trinket I kept bringing to show and tell. It felt strange and wonderful and free.

At some point along the way, an exposed heart becomes even more broken. And all broken hearts need a remedy.

This year I gained a few more scars. I lost a few battles I never even knew I was fighting. I found myself crying to God more than I’d care to admit.

I suppose when He asks us to walk through fire, some of us are bound to come out burned.

But don't scars have the best stories?

...

I lived in the middle of the ocean this year. Waves pounding. Sea roaring. I lost sight of the lighthouse a few times. But no matter how severe the storms, I never drowned. There was always another breath to take, another glimpse of the light.

It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Him, holding out a lifesaver when I grew desperate. He has saved me so many times.

He keeps saving me when I stand there stubbornly saying I can fight the waves myself. He waits, patiently, faithfully—because He knows. We are never able to save ourselves.

Thank God. I would make a terrible savior.

I am staring at 2017 in the rearview mirror now. And the truth flashes across the highway pretty obviously: I was never meant to be David or Noah or Daniel. But we do have one thing in common: we are not the heroes in our stories. God is. He keeps saving all of us. No matter how small or insignificant or broken we are. No matter how many times we try to run away.

So I may not consider myself

a poet, a prophet, a king or a priest.

But I will forever attempt to describe

this radical, wonderful grace.

For He keeps rescuing me—

A sinner, offender, the very least.