• Dana L. Butler


It’s Monday night, and I open my laptop to write for the second time today. Plop down on my couch with a heartful of longing, of the fire of awareness that Jesus is doing something tender and precise on my insides. Some kind of carving, hollowing me out more deeply, preparing me to somehow receive more. Holiness. Longing. Desire.

But not just to receive it — to let it flow forth from me.

I may have said it already this month, but I long — yearn with everything in me  to impart to others the fiery desire for the Holy One that burns so fiercely in my heart. Over and over, I implore Him that my life, my friendship, my worship, and my words — whether written or spoken — would be catalytic. Would start fires. Would awaken and call forth the deep places of those touched by my presence in any form or fashion.

Yet I continually feel utterly inadequate to impart this desire — to wrangle and wrap words, to give accurate expression to how I love Him, and how I long to love Him still more, how to whisper or shout or breathe this fire into the depths of those He puts before me.

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