Upon His Breast

I do feel Him near.

When I pray with stillness, when the incense of silence rises, when my soul is clean and my heart is soft—I feel Him. I feel Him when our conversation flows like sweet wine. In the beauty of obedience, I know His nearness. And there is always joy. And a peace that is thick and unshaken.

But that is not the only place I find Him.

There are other moments—less graceful—when I feel Him. Maybe even closer.

Where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more.

It is when I have fallen again. When shame sticks to me like second skin. When I hesitate at the threshold of prayer, unsure if I’m still welcome.

Even now. Despite all our time together.

I still doubt.

And still. He comes.

Soft.

And—

certain.

He comes like mercy wrapped in quiet.

He presses past my hiding place.

And I, like John the Beloved—am permitted to draw near. So near that my head finds rest upon His chest. So near that I feel the rhythm of a Heart other than mine.

And then—there is an exhale. Deeper than a breath. The kind that comes before weeping.

The kind that carries a bittersweetness—

Sorrow and surrender and repentance.

It escapes without permission—a sigh more meaningful than language. The sound of a soul turning.

The sigh before the sob.

The sigh that says: I didn’t know I could still be held like this.

He doesn’t speak. He lets the silence speak for us. He lets the tears arrive, burning quietly in the dark.

That is how I know Jesus is close. Not only when I shine, but when I shatter.

He does not wait for perfection. He waits for honesty.

And when I have no strength to climb into His arms, He descends and cradles me wherever He finds me.

Upon His breast.

Where all striving ends.

Where love breathes first. Where even my worst is not too much for Him.

There—

among His heartbeats—

I learn the most astonishing truth:

He draws near— Not because I am whole, but to make me whole by drawing near.