On Monday, I sat with my phone next to an unfamiliar piano in an unfamiliar room and had a difficult but necessary conversation with someone I love dearly. Though truth is precious, this truth proved difficult to bring forward and difficult to hear.

“This is the application of everything I believed in theory,” I told her. “I think this is praxis. The hard part of praxis.”

How much harder it is to apply than to simply know.
Why are love and pain, sweetness and bitterness, so closely bound?

If only truth and love were constant companions. If only words were easily harnessed. If only tears didn’t pool on the pages typed in my mind. If only there were no need to say vague, uncertain things like I wish I could explain the specifics, but I can’t right now. If only pain were sequestered somewhere deep instead of lingering just beneath the surface. If only one virtue did not conflict with another. If only the heart could reconcile with the head.

And yet … the Author of Love is unfailing. Before Him empty hands are filled with grace.

The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance…
You make known to me the path of life;
in Your presence there is fullness of joy;
at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.

Psalm 16: 4, 11


2 thoughts on “Empty-handed.

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