The morning light, thin and hesitant, seeped through the blinds of Zamariana's small apartment. It caught the dust motes dancing in the air, illuminating the quiet struggle that began anew with each sunrise. She lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the familiar weight of the day settling upon her chest before she even moved.
“Jesus, I am trying. Do you see me trying?” Her silent plea was a worn-out prayer, whispered so often it had become the rhythm of her waking breath.
The simple act of swinging her legs over the side of the bed felt like an act of monumental will. She wanted more than this constant state of trying. She wanted to be doing. Especially in His kingdom, she yearned to contribute, to move with purpose, to live a life that wasn't just an endless cycle of effort with little perceived reward.
It was hard, a gut-wrenching difficulty, to believe in herself when the ledger of her life seemed to be overwhelmingly marked in red. Most of my outcomes were and are and was always bad. That bitter truth echoed in the hollow spaces of her heart, a constant whisper of doubt that threatened to drown out any flicker of hope. God had truly blessed her – she knew that, intellectually. Food on her table, a roof over her head, the quiet miracle of breath in her lungs. Yet, so often, all she could see was the negative, the bad things she'd been through, the fear that there was nothing good left to look forward to.
She made her coffee, the automatic motions a small comfort. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured the hot liquid, a physical manifestation of the anxiety that buzzed beneath her skin. God, all I want is us. Not just an abstract faith, but a palpable connection, a communion that transcended her earthly failures. And she could promise Him, though she knew promises were best left unmade by such a fickle creature as herself, that she would keep getting up. Every single time she fell, when the weight crushed her, when the past haunted her, she would rise again.
The future stretched before her, a vast, murky landscape. She was unsure of it, terrified by its unknowns. Only You have the GPS to my life, she thought, a faint smile touching her lips. Please, God, show me the way.
She stared at her reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, a perpetual frown line etched between her brows. I want to be healed. I want to be different. I want to be changed—spiritually, physically, and mentally. She yearned for a purity of heart, a clarity of purpose. So sure this is what I want, no doubt about it. She wanted to shed the layers of regret and self-loathing. But then the mirror seemed to mock her, reminding her of her perceived flaws, her consistent missteps. But God, I am a sinful, stupid human who cannot seem to get anything right. The words, harsh and self-deprecating, tumbled through her mind unbidden.
She sank to her knees by her bed, the worn carpet a familiar comfort against her skin. The morning sun now seemed brighter, bolder. God, I am trying. Do you see me? Please let me know. Hot tears welled in her eyes, blurring the outlines of her tiny room. I love you for real. The words were honest, raw, a declaration from the deepest part of her being. And a new, tender truth was beginning to blossom within her, pushing through the hard ground of her self-doubt. I am starting to learn and see you really love me too. It was a revolutionary thought, a balm to wounds she hadn't even known were still weeping. No one really ever has loved me but You, God. Love me for real.
The ache in her chest wasn't just sorrow, it was a profound longing. Oh God, I am trying, do you see me? She wanted to make it back home to Him, to that ultimate embrace. She pictured her name, not etched in stone, but gently, lovingly written in the good book. To be accepted finally, in a world that would never have her second-guessing her reason for being here. This world, this life, felt like an endless audition, and she always felt like she was failing.
God, I am trying. Will you let me in? On that day, when her time was up, when the final curtain fell, she wanted to belong. She wanted to stand before Him, not with trembling fear, but with a quiet confidence that her efforts, however flawed, had been seen, had been counted. I want to make it end hearing those words: ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant.’
The words were a prayer, a yearning, a desperate hope. God, I am trying. Are you pleased with me? She knew she was imperfect, broken, constantly falling short. But she was trying. She truly was.
I love you, God, and I am still trying to understand too that you really love me. The understanding was a fragile seed, but it was growing. No one really ever has loved me but you, God, love me for real. The truth of His unwavering love was the only thing that kept her getting up, kept her trying.
God, I am trying. Can you hear me? I love you so much. Thank you for sending your Son, Jesus.
Zamariana rose from her knees, a quiet strength flowing through her. The day awaited, with its challenges and its small mercies. She still wouldn't be perfect, still wouldn't be "doing" everything she wanted to be, but she would keep trying. And in that relentless, clumsy effort, she hoped, she truly hoped, that He saw her. She hoped that in her trying, He saw her love.
