There were only five of us in the room. I sang my heart out. Worshipped. Prophesied. Until my voice broke. Until praise had gushed forth from within, like when a fountain overflows into a river that overtakes anything that’s in the way of faith and answered prayers.

Rivers. We need rivers. And voices that do not hold back. Hearts that don’t just knock but barges in. Secure in the assurance of intimacy. I can ask anything. I can scream or I can whisper. But I will pour out every drop of heaviness out of my being. I will pour out every ounce of strength that spurs me on to worship. Or groan. Or cry.

It is Bartimaeus. The sponge that had been squeezed of every drop. The voice that cries louder as the surrounding voices try to intimidate it into silence. Finiteness disappearing as hope is multiplied in surrendering to the expression of desperation. I have no other weapon but this. My capacity to ask and believe it will be given. I have no power but this. That I can make my cry heard by being real. As real as the last squeak from my vocal chords. As real as the faint breathe  after all strength is consumed in prayer.

I have no other power but this. That when God stirs up a faint cry from within me, it becomes the seed for praise. And praise tears the heavens. Crumbles down massive city walls. Awakens the dead. Awakens me, and the different portions of my dying self.


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