This morning, Psalm 24 (NIV) stopped me in my tracks—
“Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place? The one who has clean hands and a pure heart…”
And just like that, I was reminded of the magnitude of God’s holiness—and in contrast, the truth of my humanness.
I thought about the dirt under my nails.
The rebellious desires. The pride. The entitlement. The many times I’ve prayed with unclean hands and an impure heart.
And yet… somehow, even then—God heard me.
So much of what I have now came from prayers I whispered in states of spiritual disarray. My hands weren’t clean. My intentions weren’t always pure. But the blood still covered me. Grace still found me. And God still answered.
That realization brought me straight to repentance.
It reminded me why we pray, “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” Why transformation matters. Why blooming is my commitment—not to impress, but to honor the privilege of God’s presence.
There’s a verse—maybe you’ve heard it too—that says thanksgiving is the password into the presence of God (Psalm 100:4, MSG). That alone humbles me. Gratitude becomes the sacred access point—not because we’ve earned entry, but because we’ve acknowledged our need for Him with a thankful heart.
Later, I found myself re-reading familiar scripture with new eyes. Psalm 23—the passage even nonbelievers know. But verse 3b jumped out today:
“He guides me along the right paths for His name’s sake.”
His name is on the line.
God’s reputation as a Good Shepherd is illustrated in the way He guides me. If I say I belong to Him, if I say I am His, then I believe He won’t steer me wrong—not just for my benefit, but because His character depends on it.
And that kind of love? That kind of holy accountability? It’s overwhelming.
Then I went back to some old notes I once wrote while studying Mark 5—the woman with the issue of blood:
“If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.”
She didn’t wait for Jesus to speak. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She believed wildly, irrationally, even delusionally—that a touch would be enough. And it was.
She touched Him—and He felt it.
That still blows my mind. Not just that she was changed—but that the Divine noticed.
I want that.
I want to press through the crowd—through doubt, fear, noise, distraction—with a faith so bold that when I reach for God, They turn and say, “Who touched me?”
I want my determination, my belief, my very being to move heaven.
I want to draw from the deep of God in such a way that the heavens pause. Not out of obligation, not out of pity—but because the reach of my faith is magnetic.
I want to live a life that reminds God why They chose me.
Not because They need the reminder—but because the words of my mouth, the meditations of my heart, the decisions I make—make Them proud.
I know I’ll always need grace. I’ll always need forgiveness.
But I’m delusional enough to believe that both can be true:
That I can need God and delight Them.
That I can be both a work in progress and a vessel of glory.
That I can bloom in the dirt and ascend the mountain.
Because I am—forever and always—God’s beloved rebel.
Still reaching. Still repenting. Still wildly, irrationally believing.
And still being met with love every time I do.
Not either-or, but both.
Human and divine.
Flawed and favored.
Needing grace and carrying glory.
Held by God—not in spite of all I am,
but because of it.
