The Power of Vulnerability

I built my walls brick by brick,
stacked high with fears, laid firm with pride.
I told myself they kept me safe,
but all they did was lock me inside.

I wore my strength like iron armor,
so polished, yet so cold and bare.
I thought if no one saw my wounds,
then no one else would have to care.

But the weight was never meant to hold,
and the cracks began to show.
Not in defeat, but in surrender,
as the light fought through the stone.

Then softly, God’s voice whispered low—
not demanding, not condemning.
Not tearing down, but calling forth,
not forcing me, but bidding, “Come.”

His hands reached out—not wrapped in chains,
but filled with mercy wide and deep.
His presence stilled the trembling fear
that I had carried into sleep.

I spoke my sorrow, poured my heart,
expecting judgment, finding grace.
And in that space, exposed yet held,
I saw the Father’s loving face.

He didn’t ask for polished strength,
or perfect faith without a doubt.
He only asked me to be real,
to let Him in—to let Him out.

For love is not a fortress strong,
nor trust a battle to be won.
It’s opening hands that once clenched tight,
it’s choosing hope, though fear may come.

I learned that healing isn’t found
in silence or in standing tall.
It finds its place in broken things,
in whispered prayers, in hearts that fall.

So if your soul feels worn and weary,
if you have built a life of stone,
know this—God does not fear your weakness.
Your wounds are where His love is shown.