 Perhaps the only question
God will ask us when we die is this: Did you believe I loved you? Not did you try hard enough? Did you get everything right? Did you live without doubt or fear? But simply, Did you believe I loved you? Did you let in that lovelike sunlight through a cracked window blind
warming the room of your heart,
the place where you thought love could never reach? Did you let my love flow within you
like a hidden river,
quiet and steady,
through days of laughter and seasons of sorrow? Did you know my love was with you when
you thought you were alone—
did you know I was there
in the spaces between breaths,
in the stillness beneath your racing mind? And if you were unsure,
if you felt unworthy or too broken,
did you keep searching for my love,
like a wanderer who refuses to give up
when the road grows dark? It takes courage to admit you don’t believe I love you. It takes an honest heart to stop giving me lip service,
to tell me you can’t grasp my love with your mind. And that’s okay. That’s what makes you human.
I just ask that you open your heart to something,
someone, bigger than you. You see, the strong ones don’t run from their brokenness.
The real ones hold their broken hearts,
crawl into Abba’s lap,
and let me love you into wholeness. For in the end, that’s all that really matters. Not perfection or certainty,
but that you held onto a thread of hope,
even the smallest whisper of belief,
that you were loved beyond measure. You have always been loved beyond measure. —brian j plachta
brianplachta.com | 
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