#56: “What do you desire?”

I have worn selflessness like armour, and now the metal has begun to rust into my skin. So how do I desire rest when I’ve always been encouraged to “be strong and courageous”?

I don’t think I ever learnt how to desire things not because I don’t need it, but because early on in life I thought dying to self meant I shouldn’t. Scripture says, “He who wants to follow Me must deny himself.” So I did. I buried the parts of me that wanted, that desired to be seen, tended to, and cared for because for some reason I thought it was selfish to think of my flesh, to want something. When you do that for decades, your desire for anything other than the cross soon becomes foreign. Somewhere between the verses about dying to self and loving like Christ, I subconsciously decided that ‘desire’ was a kind of weakness… even wanting help was the opposite of faith. That if I just endured long enough, if I sought the Kingdom only, His grace would always be sufficient and meet me halfway.

After all, “is this life not more than food, cloth or place?”Thankfully, I have never known lack so it has never been a problem.

I thought I was learning to love like Jesus; to show up, to give, to carry, to wash feet, to pour but somewhere in that devotion, I forgot that even he paused at a well and simply said, ‘give me water.’ So when you ask me, “What do I desire?” I don’t know. I don’t even know how to care for a body I’ve trained to exist for sacrifice — a body that now moves out of habit more than hope. Every muscle remembers service. Every scar remembers duty. I have worn selflessness like armour, and now the metal has begun to rust into my skin. So how do I desire rest when my shoulders are always heavy? How do I admit that the load is too much when I’ve always been encouraged with “be strong and courageous”?

What does it mean to draw a line between me and you when I’ve been taught there’s no me without you? That love looks like carrying the cross, even when my hands are shaking? Just like you did. That my palms, scarred from service, still ache to hold onto you even when I can barely lift myself? Because you did and will do the same.

I learned to stand like a tree in a storm; bending, creaking, splitting but never falling, because people like me don’t fall. We become shade. Shelter. We let the rain break us quietly so others can find comfort beneath our ache.

But now I’m standing in the ruins of all that strength, wondering who tends to the tree when the soil beneath it starts to fade. Who waters the roots when the hands that used to lift buckets are trembling? Who prays for the intercessor when she’s forgotten the sound of her own voice?

What does it sound like to need, when you’ve only ever been needed?

My palms are scarred from holding too much, and they tremble at the thought of holding myself. Yet, even in the shaking, I want to reach for you — because service has become second nature, and need feels foreign. Because what do you mean by “what do I desire?” when you’ve been my only desire? How do I begin to understand that command when I’ve spent years rehearsing surrender? I have mastered the choreography of dying to self — bowing low, giving without keeping score and loving without the safety of return.

So if I am honest… I am afraid.

Afraid that if I let myself want, I will want too much. Afraid that if I name a desire, it will begin to name me back. Afraid that my hands, once opened, will cling to the gift and forget the Giver. So I have kept them empty. Closed, even. Just to be safe. Because what if the thing I desire becomes an altar I kneel at? What if I reach for something and, in holding it, loosen my grip on you?

…What if I replace you?

And then, quietly, you ask again—”What do you desire?”

Not as a test. Not as a trap. But like a door I have refused to open. And I realise… I do not know how to answer you without fear in my mouth. So I say the only thing I know to say—“Teach me”.

Teach me how to want without worshipping the want. Teach me how to receive without losing reverence. Teach me how to hold things lightly, without losing my grip on you.

If desire is not the enemy, then disciple it in me. If longing is not weakness, then anchor it in you because I have learnt how to die—but I do not know how to live. So stay with me… stay here, in this unfamiliar place where I am not pouring, not performing, not pretending. And if you must ask again, then sit with me until I can answer without trembling. Until desire no longer feels like betrayal but like something that can still lead me back to you. Because I want you more than the safety of wanting nothing at all.

Until next Thursday,

Know you are loved.

Pherkeh.