The Inspirational Room by Fay Ann Swearing – The scripture is an excellent source of inspiration for those times when you are down. Scriptures not only change our attitude but can help to change the attitudes of those around us.

I Am A Staple

I am but a staple.
Life didn’t ask if I was ready.
It just loaded me into the gun
and fired.
I pierced through days I didn’t choose,
through nights that cut back,
through people who promised to hold me
then left me bent.

I am but a staple.
I was shaped by hands that never held me gently,
sharpened by necessity,
flattened by pressure I never complained about —
because complaining was a luxury
I couldn’t afford.

I am but a staple.
I’ve held together jobs that drained me,
relationships that split at the seams anyway,
a version of myself I didn’t recognize
but kept stapling shut
because falling apart felt like failure.

I am but a staple.
I’ve rusted in silence.
I’ve been pried out by people who said you’re not needed here —
and left holes in places
I’m still afraid to touch.
But I’m still here.
Still sharp at the edges.
Still holding something together
with nothing but grit and exhaustion.

I am but a staple.
Don’t tell me to be positive.
Don’t tell me every storm has a rainbow.
Some storms just leave you rusted
and bent
and somehow still standing.
That’s not beauty.
That’s not resilience.
That’s just life.

I am but a staple.
And I am tired of pretending
that holding everything together
is the same as being okay.
It’s not.
It’s survival.
Ugly. Quiet. Uncelebrated.
But don’t mistake my stillness for weakness.

I am but a staple.
Life has slammed me down more times than I can count.
I am bent in places I’ll never straighten.
I am rusted in ways no one sees.
But I am not broken.
Not yet.
And if you pull me out —
you’ll see the holes I leave behind
are the shape of everything I survived.

NB: If you feel like a staple today — feel it. Don’t fight it. But know this: staples don’t break. They bend. They rust. They hold. And they outlast almost everything they’re stuck into.

You’re still here. Still holding. That’s everything.

Thank you for stopping by and spending time here. Your presence truly means the world to me. If this piece resonated with you, feel free to like, share, comment, or reblog—I’d love to hear your heart. Until we meet again in this space, I’m sending you love and abundant blessings.

With grace and truth,
Fay Ann Swearing

Whom Shall I Fear

The Lord is my light so whom shall I fear?
The Lord is my stronghold, my fortress near.
When the wicked come to chew my flesh—
my enemies close, their breath hot and fresh—
they are the ones who stumble. They are the ones who fall.
I will not tremble. I will not crawl.

Though an army camps against my heart,
though war rises up with its poisoned dart,
my confidence stands like an iron rod:
One thing I ask, one thing I seek from God—
to dwell in His house all my breathing days,
to gaze on His beauty, to learn His ways.

In the day of trouble He’ll hide me deep,
in the shelter of His tent where the shadows creep.
He’ll lift me high on a rock’s cold face,
above the reach of the enemy’s chase.
My head will rise over the circling pack—
I’ll shout for joy, and I won’t look back.

Hear my voice, O Lord; be kind.
Your face, your face I seek to find.
Don’t hide from me in your holy fire.
Don’t turn me over to my fleshly desires.
When my father and mother cut and flee,
the Lord will gather what’s left of me.

Teach me your way through the narrow gut.
Lead me straight when the lie says “cut.”
Don’t give me up to the breath of my foes—
they rise like witnesses dressed in blows.
False witnesses. Their violence breathes.
But I would have fainted unless I believed:

I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living, not the sword,
not the grave, not the silent ash,
but here, while the wounds still leak and flash.

Wait.
Wait on the Lord.
Be strong.
Take heart.
Wait, I say, on the Lord.

Lord, Draw Me to the Secret Place

Lord, I confess I’ve lingered long
Where fear and failure sing their song.
I’ve stood on corners, chased the crowd,
And prayed amiss when pride was loud.

But Matthew 6:6 cuts through my shame:
“Go to your room, shut out the name
Of every eye that watches you —
Then pray to Me, and I will move.”

So here I am. The door is closed.
The world outside is decomposed.
No camera sees. No neighbour hears.
Just me, my sin, and salty tears.

Psalm 91:1 now calls my soul:
“Dwell in the secret, be made whole.
Abide beneath the Almighty’s shade —
No terror finds you, no plague invades.”

Lord, I believe. But help my doubt.
When terror knocks, please cast it out.
When plagues draw near and arrows fly,
Let me not run, let me not cry.

Let me remember: I am hid
With You, my God, just as You bid.
The closet door, the shadow deep —
There is no safer place to weep.

So lock me in. Throw away the key.
Let no one find me, only Thee.
Reward my faith, though weak and small.
And when I rise, let humility be my call.

Amen and amen, so let it be.
My secret place has set me free.

The Widow’s Oil

This poem is inspired by the widow and the oil (2 Kings 4:1–7)

The Widow’s Oil

The creditor arrived to take her two sons away,
Her husband was dead, and all his debts remained unpaid.
“What is left inside your house?” the prophet calmly asked.
“Only one small pot of oil,” she answered, hopeless and aghast.

She borrowed vessels from the neighbours, house to house, door to door—
Not a handful, but a multitude of jars across the floor.
She shut herself in with the little, that thin flicker of supply,
Then poured from the empty clay, and the oil multiplied.

The flow kept running, the little pot never dry,
Until every last vessel met the searching eye.
“Bring me another,” but there was none.
The oil stopped flowing—the miracle was done.

“Go, pay your debt,” the man of God cried,
“And live on what is left,” for the Lord supplied.
No storm of thunder, no armies in the field,
Just a widow’s faith and what the jar could yield.

So don’t despise the little that you hold inside,
A spoonful of oil can turn the turning tide.
Shut out the doubt, fill every empty space,
And watch the endless mercy of His grace.

The Valley of Dry Bones

The valley was empty, the bones were dry.
No breath, no whisper, no mournful cry.
Just scattered remains of what used to be,
A silent graveyard, God’s mystery.

Then God asked the prophet, “Can they live?”
“You know, Lord,” was all he could give.
So He said, “Speak to the bones, my son.
Tell them the word till thy will is done.”

The prophet spoke, and a rattling grew—
Bone to bone, like a dance breaking through.
Sinew and flesh, then skin on the frame,
But no breath yet—just a body, no name.

Then God said, “Call the wind from the four directions.
Breathe into these bones, my resurrection.”
The wind rushed in, and the lungs filled deep.
The dead stood up—not a whisper, a leap.

So here’s what the valley has always known:
What God says dry, He can make it groan.
What looks like ending, He turns to start.
He breathes on the bones and gives them a heart.

So don’t tell me God can’t raise what’s dead,
Ezekiel spoke, and the hollow skulls lifted their heads.

The Light That Was Before the Sun

Life is no aimless drift through empty space—
But a summons to behold the Maker’s face.
You search for origins, for fire and force,
But every effect must answer to its Source.

The Big Bang thundered—but who lit the match?
Who held the atoms, every feather’s catch?
Not chaos writhing in a random dance,
But God: the author of each circumstance.

You ask of planets scattered through the night—
Why does earth alone reveals eternal light?
Because not matter, but a man is key:
God walked this dust to set His children free.

If alien worlds awoke and turned their gaze,
They’d see thrones bowing in unending praise—
Not to a system, not to force or fate,
But to the Lamb upon the slaughtered slate.

So stop demanding answers you won’t keep,
While unbelief still leaves your soul asleep.
Confess the limits of your mortal mind,
Yet find the truth that all your doubts designed.

Not theories—but a tomb that could not hold.
Not speculation—but a cross of gold.
Not wondering if the lights might turn on soon—
The Light has come. He’s rising like the moon.

Kneel now. The door is open. Enter in.
Your restless journey’s end can now begin.
Not Satan’s shadows, not the void’s dark breath—
But Jesus, who has conquered sin and death.

Cherith Season

There comes a season when the loudest thing you can do is disappear. Not from fear. Not from failure. From obedience. We live in a world that worships visibility—likes, shares, announcements, and platforms. But God still whispers the same words. He spoke to Elijah: “Go hide yourself.” This poem is for anyone in a Cherith season. You’re not backsliding. You’re being rebuilt.

Cherith Season

Sometimes disappearing is not giving up—
it’s rebuilding.

Even Elijah ran.
Not from cowardice, from command.
“Go hide yourself by the Brook Cherith.”
God said, “Be still before He said, “Go forward.”

So don’t tell me my silence is sin.
Don’t call my withdrawal weakness.
I’m not backsliding.
I’m being rebuilt in a place
your applause can not reach.

Let them talk.
Let them say I’ve lost my fire.
The same mouths that fed me crumbs
now wonder why I stopped begging.

I’ve tasted manna in the desert.
I’ve heard God louder in the quiet
than I ever did in the choir.
This disappearing?
It’s consecration.

I am pulling away from the noise
so I can hear the whisper again.
The same whisper that shut lions’ mouths
and walked on waves
and told Moses to take off his sandals
because even the ground was holy
when God showed up.

Sometimes disappearing is not giving up.
It’s entering the wilderness— not to die,
but to remember what manna tastes like
when no one else is feeding you.

And when I come back—
if God says come back—
don’t look for smoke machines and spotlights.
Look for the person who learned to stand alone with Him and came out
not perfect—but fire-tested and finally free.

Maybe you’re reading this in the middle of your own disappearance. Your phone is quiet. Your friends don’t understand. Your own mind keeps asking: “Am I running or am I being led?” Take heart. The brook didn’t last forever for Elijah—but the voice he heard in the hiding? That voice carried him to the mountain. You are not lost. You are in training. The ravens are coming. The water is still flowing. And when God says it’s time to stand again, you won’t need a stage. You’ll just need to show up fire-tested and finally free.

Have you ever experienced a Cherith season, a time when God asked you to step back and be rebuilt in secret?

If this poem spoke to you, share it with someone else who’s in a hidden season. And remember: sometimes disappearing is not giving up. It’s rebuilding.

I Celebrate Me

I celebrate me —
not the loud, polished version,
but the one who woke up again
when staying down made more sense.

I celebrate the mornings
I made tea for a family member with trembling hands,
and still said,
“Thank you, Lord she is still here.”

I celebrate the nights I lay in silence,
just me and the Hound of Heaven
keeping pace with my brokenness.

I celebrate the prayers that had no words —
only breath,
only tears,
only the Spirit’s groan
translating my ache into something holy.

I celebrate the things I survived:
the door that closed too hard,
the phone that didn’t ring,
the abandonment,
the letting go,
the long, strange wilderness
where manna still fell
though I didn’t feel fed.

I celebrate the scar tissue —
His craftsmanship in hiding.
Every wound He didn’t prevent,
but walked into with me,
nail-scarred feet on the same sharp ground.

I celebrate the becoming:
not what broke me,
but what the breaking made possible —
a softer heart,
a louder worship,
a soul that knows
survival is just another name
for grace with teeth in it.

So yes — I celebrate me.
Not because I am strong,
but because Someone stronger
refused to let me go.

And still — He calls me His own.

The Doors With No Handle

I don’t see a way,
not a crack, not a seam,
but I know the Way Maker —
He lives in the impossible dream.

Lord, open the doors that have no handle.
The ones that look like walls,
the ones history has abandoned,
the ones faith forgot to call.

You split the sea without a bridge.
You rained down bread without a farm.
You walked through death without a key —
so a door without a handle
cannot keep me from your arms.

I will not fear the silence of a shut door.
I will not beg the lock to turn.
I will whisper to the One who makes a way
where even hinges never learned.

So go ahead, impossible door.
Do your worst. Stay shut. Stay still.
My God doesn’t need an entrance —
He writes endings to bend His will.

And this one?
It’s already open.
I just can’t see it yet.

This Weakness

Lord, this weakness, I confess —
not the fall I saw coming,
but the fact that I stopped looking.

The way I’ve made a home
in what should have been a visitor.
The way my hand knows the path to sin
better than my lips know your name.

Lord, this weakness, I confess —
the habit older than my fear of hell,
the craving I’ve baptized
with smaller words:
struggle. tendency. just how I am.

But you see through the soft vocabulary.
You see the chain.
You see me choosing it again and again and again
like a dog returning to its vomit —
and still calling myself yours.

Lord, this weakness —
not the kind that makes me humble.
The kind that makes me a liar.
The flesh I feed while my spirit starves in the corner watching.

No more excuses dressed as honesty.
No more “I’m working on it”
while working on nothing.

So here: the old key.
the familiar door.
the shame that follows like a shadow
I’ve stopped trying to outrun.

The pleasure first —
sweet on the tongue,
a brief and burning yes,
the moment my blood runs hot
and I stop hearing your voice over my own pulse.

Then the shame after — the cold return,
the pillow over my face,
the prayer I can not finish because my lips still taste what I promised to spit out.

The slow walk to the mirror
where I cannot look myself in the eye.
The hour of silence
before I dare speak your name again.
The math I do:
how many times now?
how many more before you finally close the door?

Lord, this weakness, I confess.
Not to bargain.
Not to impress you with my self-awareness.
Just to stop pretending
there’s any part of this mess
you haven’t already seen.

Now do what only you can do
with a habit that has outlived
every promise I ever made to change.

Break the arm that feeds it.
Or break my heart wide open.
But do not —
please do not —
leave me here
with this weakness,
this pleasure,
this shame,
and the quiet lie
that I can manage it myself.

Lord, this weakness, I confess.
Now come find me in the very place
I keep hiding from you.

Way Maker

Still Standing

Love Beareth All Things

Love does not count.
It pours and pours, and the cup stays empty
and still it pours.
Love beareth all things—
the friend who turned at the crossroads
and did not wave back.
The inbox full of your reaching out
met with silence.
The party you weren’t invited to
and heard about anyway.

You gave.
Arms open, table full,
your last dollar folded into a palm
that closed and walked away.
You carried their secrets,
their early-morning unravelings,
their broken hours.
And when your own knees buckled?
The phone did not ring.

Bearing is loving the ones who left
and not becoming hard.
Is watching their back grow small on the horizon and still wishing them well.
Is giving the hundredth time
what was never returned the first ninety-nine.

This is not weakness.
This is the oak that loses branches
and grows thicker in the wound.
This is the field that was trampled
and still flowers.

Love keeps no record of wrongs?
Maybe.
But love keeps a record of trying.
Of showing up to the empty chair.
Of laughing at your own joke
when no one else is left to hear it.

So you gave more than you took.
So the room got quiet.
So what?
You are still here.
Your hand is still open.
And somewhere,
someone is about to need exactly
what you have left to give.

Bear it.
Bear the walking away.
Bear the imbalance.
And when you have nothing left?
Bear that, too.
Because love is not a transaction.
Love is the thing that remains
after everyone has gone
and you are alone with your open hands
and you do not close them.

My Vision of Love

I thought love was grand.
Fireworks. Forevers. A hand that never lets go.

Now I know better.

Love is a text back.
Love is someone who notices you’re quiet.
Love is I’ll visit without being asked.
Love is sitting in the wreckage and not trying to fix it.

Love is not a vision.
It’s a verb.
It’s showing up. Again. Again and again.
Even when you’re tired.
Especially when you’re tired.

I have given love I never got back.
I have stayed for people who left before the door hit the frame.
I have watered gardens that grew nothing but weeds.
I have emptied myself into hands that were already letting go.
I have said it’s okay when it wasn’t.
I have swallowed my own needs so others could eat.

I have been the last to leave and the first to be forgotten.
I have held the door open for people who never intended to walk through.
I have called just to hear a voice that didn’t want to hear mine.
I have apologized even when I was the one who was hurt.
I have made myself small so someone else could feel large.

I have lit myself on fire to keep strangers warm.
And still — I am the one who ended up cold.

And still—
I leave the light on.

Not because I’m stupid.
Because I know what it’s like to be in the dark.
And no one came for me.

So I’ll be the one who comes.

That’s the vision.
Not someone saving me.
Me refusing to let the next person drown alone.

That’s love.
And it’s the only kind I still believe in.

A Prayer for Today

Gracious HeavenlyFather, before the noise begins, I pause and place this day in your hands.

Loosen my grip on my own plans. Teach me to hold this Saturday with open hands—ready to receive what you give, rather than clenching tight to what I demand.

Anchor me in the present moment. In ordinary chores and conversations, awaken my awareness of your presence. Let me notice hidden beauty, the sunlight, the unexpected laughter, and the quiet gift of listening.

When frustration or disappointment comes, meet me there. Replace my irritation with patience, and let your peace guard my heart.

Everything this day holds, I place in your hands, each glad moment an offering of thanks, each hard moment an act of trust. Weave it all together, Lord, into something beautiful for your glory. In the quiet confidence of your love, now and always, amen.

The Grip That Holds the Dust

I must have the Saviour with me,
not as a portrait on the wall,
nor a name stitched into Sunday’s fabric,
but as the breath that stirs the dust in me.

In the thin hour before dawn,
when the night’s long doubts grow honest,
let me not reach for answers,
but for the scarred hand that holds the dark.

Let the silence between my prayers
be filled, not with my own echo,
but with the quiet knowing that walks beside me,
a pillar of cloud within my chest.

For I do not walk to arrive,
I walk to find
that I am already accompanied,
a fragile branch grafted into the journeying vine,
and where I step,
the path is a promise.

A Prayer for Grace and Guidance

Gracious God, thank you for the gift of this new day. As the morning light breaks, open my eyes to see your goodness in every moment.

Grant me patience for the frustrations I may face, wisdom for the decisions before me, and kindness for every person I encounter. When I feel weary, be my strength. When I feel uncertain, be my peace. When I feel small, remind me that I am held in your love.

Guide my thoughts, my words, and my actions so that I may be a reflection of your grace to the world around me. Help me let go of yesterday’s worries and trust you with today. Anchor me in this present moment, where you are.

Whatever this day holds — joys or challenges, clarity or questions — may I move through it with a quiet trust that I do not walk alone. As the day fades, let gratitude rise gently in my heart, not just for what went well but simply because you were with me through it all. In Jesus’ name I oray, Amen.

The Tilt of My Heart

It’s me again, Lord.
Same fragile frame, same deep thirst,
slipping back to this sacred stillness
where grace already knows my name.

I bring nothing but the ache
I’ve carried like a secret stone,
and a longing so raw it has no words—
just the lean of my heart toward yours,
like a plant bending toward a window
it can not see but somehow knows it is there.

I am not here to ask for answers,
not here to list my losses or my lacks.
I am here because the distance
has grown too heavy to hold,
and I need to feel you close—
not in doctrine, not in promise,
but in presence.
The kind that settles warm on tired skin,
that stills the restless questions,
that wraps around my solitude
and calls it home.

Draw near, Lord.
Let the space between us thin
until I breathe what you breathe,
until the silence is not empty but full of you.
This is all I want.
This is all I’ve ever wanted.
You, closer than my own breath,
nearer than the ache I walked in with.

The Offering of One More Breath

I am just trying to survive.
But in all reality, I feel like I am failing every day.

How long, O Lord?
How long must I wake to this weight?
How long before the trying feels like living?

My strength drips away like water.
My prayers come out broken.
My hands tremble with the smallest tasks.

Those who watch me say,
“Where is your God now?”
And even I wonder the same.

But I will remember you —
not from the mountaintop,
but from the dust.

You held the Red Sea back.
You fed your people manna in the wilderness.
You did not abandon them when they grumbled.

And you have not abandoned me.

I am still here.
That is not my doing.
That is your mercy, clinging to my bones.

You do not require my strength.
You require my stay.

And I stay —
not because I am faithful,
but because you are.

So I will stop calling survival small.
I will stop calling failure final.

You make a way where there is no way.
You raise the dead.
And I —
I am just trying to survive.

But with you?
Even that is worship.

My Keeper

Of all the hills I climbed to find my gods,
of all the high places where I wore my knees to bone,
this I will tell you now, and write it in the dust
for those who come behind:

My help is the Maker—
the one who hammered the mountains flat,
who spoke the sun into its blinding furnace.
His hands, not the hill’s hard shoulder.

He will not let my foot be thrown down.
He will not let the dark swallow my ankle.
He who keeps me does not know the weight of closing eyes.
Sleep is a country He has never visited,
a foreign tongue He does not speak.
He who keeps me does not blink.
No sleep. No slow nodding off.
He who keeps me
does not doze in the heat of the afternoon.
The watchman of Israel
has eyelids of flint.
He does not dream while my enemies dig my grave.

The Lord is my keeper.
The Lord is my shade at my right hand—
a shadow welded to my skin,
a wall of coolness when the day-star rages to scorch me dead.

So I lift my head, a footsore pilgrim.
The road goes on, but the Keeping One goes with me.
My coming in, my going out—He holds them both.
From this time forth and even forevermore.

My Story, My Song

Before my eyes are open,
before the day begins,
this truth is already burning in my chest:
not a wish, not a fragile hope—
solid ground beneath my feet.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.

I did not earn this.
I cannot lose this.
He holds me, and His grip is sure.

Strip everything away—
health, wealth, the ones I love—
and still I rise with this confession:
I am heir of salvation, purchased by blood,
sealed by the Spirit, kept by grace.

This is my story. This is my song.

Not the story of my strength,
but the story of His relentless love.
Not the song of my worthiness,
but the anthem of mercy
that hunted me down and brought me home.

In the chaos, peace.
In the waiting, trust.
In the valley, a voice that whispers:
I am yours, and you are Mine.

Watching and waiting—
not to escape this life,
but to walk through it with heaven in my eyes.

This is my story. This is my song.
I’m praising my Saviour my whole life long.

Forgiveness Is Not Weakness

They told you to sharpen your teeth.
To salt the earth where your enemy walked.
To make him bleed what he bled from you.

Forgiveness is the muscle that remembers
how to kneel,
then rises—still bleeding—
to wash the feet that kicked it.

Do not call that cowardice.
Do not mistake the bowed head for a broken spine.
The cross was not weakness.
The nails were not surrender.

The strongest thing
is a heart that breaks
and chooses the nails again—
only this time,
for love.

It would be easier to strike back.
To let the hate grow fat.
But mercy is the blade that cuts your own arm free
from the chain of every wrong you ever answered with another wrong.

So watch me kneel.
Watch me rise with blood in my teeth and mud on my hands
and wash the feet that kicked me.
Then tell me again
I am weak.

The Dead Hears Nothing

Have you ever noticed how people become brave… only when it’s too late?
At funerals, love flows freely.
Apologies sound clearer.
Gratitude suddenly finds its voice.
But the person it was meant for…
can no longer hear it.

The Dead Hears Nothing

Say it now
Don’t say you love me when I’m dead. Say it now instead.
Don’t weep at my grave. Bleed at my table.
Say it now.
While I can still hear you over the television.
While I still have fingers to text you back.
While we’re both tired and not yet turned into memory.

I have hurt you.
You have hurt me.
That’s the part we leave out of eulogies.

So forgive me now—
raw, insufficient, still breathing.
I’ll forgive you now—
even if it tastes like broken glass.

Don’t save your apology for my obituary.
I won’t read it.
Don’t write me a song when I’m in a casket.
I won’t hear it.
Say it now—
ugly, unfinished, without a witness,
without the roses.

Don’t wait for the coffin to make you brave.
Don’t wait for the silence to make you honest.
The grave won’t break its silence.
Death doesn’t unmute—it just deepens the quiet left between us.
You don’t need a casket to be courageous.
You need a pulse and a mouth that still works.

These are the living years.
So do all you can now.
Because the dead hears nothing.

We delay the very things that could heal us.
We wait until time passes.
Until life forces perspective on us.
But by then, the moment is gone.

Don’t wait for silence to make you honest.
Say it now.

What I Know When I Don’t Feel Him: A Letter from the Empty Table

Some days, I don’t feel Him.
Some days, the provision feels like a joke
I’m not in on.
The math doesn’t work.
The fear is louder than the faith.
And I’ve sat at empty tables
wondering if you forgot my address.

But here is what I can not escape:
I am still here.

I’m still breathing.
Still waking up to a sky
I did not paint.
I’m still finding one more reason
when I swore, I was out of reasons.

I prayed just above a whisper.
I cried until my ribs ached.
I have told you I don’t see it.
I don’t feel it.

And yet.

The gas didn’t go out when it should have.
The phone rang, and it was the voice I needed.
The night ended, and the sun came up
again.

I don’t understand the economy of heaven.
I don’t know why some prayers seem to bounce off the ceiling
while others land soft and sure.

But I know this:
When I look back at the parts of my life
that should have broken me—
the cliff edges I walked right up to—
I did not fall.

And I did not catch myself.

Someone held me.
Someone fed me.
Someone saw me ugly and doubting
and still put bread in my hands.

I’m not writing this because I’m strong.
I’m writing this because I’m tired
and somehow still standing.

You will have enough.
Maybe not what you asked for.
Maybe not what makes sense.
But enough to take the next step.
Enough to shut up the liar in your head
for one more hour.

And you will know—
even when you hate knowing it—
it was Him.

Not your grit.
Not your plan.
Not your lucky break.

Him.

The One who stays when you’re too honest to be holy.
The One who feeds the version of you that doubts He’s even real.

I don’t have answers.
But I have a history.
And the history says:
I’m still here.
And He’s still good.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

The River Runs Red

I have found the River
whose source is a wounded side.
I stopped digging cisterns
in the shifting sand of others attention.

The River runs quiet.
It runs red.
It runs from His side
straight through the lowest place in me.

I do not chase it.
I am in it.
Not wading. Not ankle-deep.
Not testing the temperature with cautious toes.
I am under.
Lungs full of what spilled from His ribs.
Breathing water like I was born for it.
Like I was always meant to drown this way.

The River does not ask where I have been.
It does not ask who left.
It only runs.
Red from the side of God.
Straight through the lowest place in me.

And I am learning to float
without reaching for the shore.
I am learning to be carried
without needing to know where.

This is not survival.
This is salvation.
Not a sip, but a swallowing.
Not a rest, but a resurrection.

The River runs from His side
and does not run dry.
Neither will I.

No Breadcrumbs

I’m not begging for breadcrumbs of affection.
Because I eat at the table of the Lord
and I am full.

The feast is no famine dressed in gold—
no half-love served on splintered plates.
His wine runs red while I am dry,
His broken bread knows my name.

I do not cry over silent treatments, or lukewarm praise,
I do not desire love that checks its watch before it stays.
I am seated in the banqueting hall,
and His banner over me is not a question mark.

I do not crawl beneath a child’s high chair
for what falls from another’s hunger.
The Lamb prepares a table
even in the wasteland of their leaving.

And I—I rise from grace’s table,
still hungry for nothing but Him.

The Gardener

The hush before the stone rolled—
not silence, but waiting.
Three days, and the dark held its breath.
Then, not thunder,
but a whisper of linen,
folded and left like a promise.
He steps through the closed door of our grief,
still wearing the wounds,
because love keeps its scars.
Mary mistakes Him for the gardener—
and isn’t He?
Turning the hard clay of our hearts
into a place where something grows again.
Not a shout, but a question:
“Woman, why are you weeping?”
And the answer is always
the same empty tomb,
the same impossible green shoot
through the cracked earth.

His Grace My Sustaining Force

The pressure comes from every side,
but I am not crushed.
The questions tangle in my mind,
but I do not despair.
Persecuted — but not abandoned.
Struck down — but not destroyed.

I have this treasure in fragile clay,
a light held in cracked hands.
My outward strength fades,
but the inward man breathes again —
not by my resolve, but by His grace,
a sustaining force beneath every fall.

For this light affliction is a whisper,
a shadow passing over the sun.
Yet what it works is weighty, eternal —
a glory I cannot see but trust.

So, though I am cast down,
I am not forsaken.
His grace holds what I can not.
And in my breaking, He shines.

The Dirt Shows Equality

We are all standing on the same dirt that will one day cover our bodies.

The CEO and the street sweeper.
The bride in white and the widow in grey.
The child with full pockets and the child with empty hands.
Same dirt.
Same end.

The dirt does not ask for your resume.
It does not check your tax returns.
It does not care how many people knew your name
or how many forgot it before you were buried.

It opens for everyone.
Silently.
Fairly.
Finally.

So stop building walls that the ground will ignore.
Stop clutching things you cannot carry six feet down.
Stop measuring people by ceilings they were born under.

Treat each other like the dirt treats you — indifferent to your status, but faithful to your footsteps.

The dirt does not favor the expensive shoe.
It holds the bare foot the same way.
It records every step —
the ones that climbed over others,
the ones that lifted others up,
the ones that walked away,
the ones that stayed.

It forgets nothing.
It returns everything.

So walk knowing that your footstep lands on the same ground that will one day hold your body next to every person you ever stood above or stood beneath.

The dirt makes no distinction. Not between kings and beggars. Not between saints and thieves. Not between the body loved by millions and the body buried alone. One handful covers all.

The dirt does not separate us.
We do that to ourselves.

And when we stop — the dirt will still be there.
Waiting.
Equal as always.

Still Climbing: A Birthday on Good Friday

I always look forward to writing a post on my birthday, but this time, it’s not so easy. I wanted to post something easy, something happy, but my heart is not at that place.

I know what it feels like to carry something too heavy. I know what it feels like to fall and have nobody pick you up. I know what it feels like to cry out “Why have you forsaken me?” even when you know deep down He hasn’t.

This has been the hardest year of my entire life. I am still climbing the fifth floor, and I am exhausted. Not tired—exhausted. The kind of tired that lives in your bones. The kind of tired that makes you want to stop breathing just so you can rest. Some nights, I lay in the dark and asked God, “Do you even see me down here?” I have screamed into my pillow. I cried until I had nothing left but dry heaves and a headache. I have questioned my purpose, my worth, my faith—everything.

And yet.

And yet, today—on Good Friday, of all days—I sat in church and realized something that wrecked me all over again: Jesus didn’t just die for the world. He died for this. For my hardest year. For my fifth floor. He stayed on that cross when He could have called ten thousand angels. He stayed because He knew I would have these days. He stayed because He knew I would need a Saviour who understands what it feels like to be abandoned, betrayed, and broken open.

I am not writing this post because I have it together. I am writing this post because I am barely holding on—and somehow, that is exactly where He meets me.

Every year, I try to write a birthday post expressing my gratitude to my Heavenly Father for His faithfulness and blessings. This year, my gratitude looks different. It’s not pretty. It’s not polished. It’s me on my knees with tears and a heart that is bruised but still beating.

I am grateful the way someone who almost drowned is grateful for air. I am grateful the way someone who almost gave up is grateful for one more reason to stay. And I am grateful for every person that God has placed in my life. You have no idea how many times your text, your call, or your silent prayer have helped me. I am loved. I am blessed.

Another birthday means another day of praising and giving God thanks—even when my praise sounds like crying. Even when my thanks come out as a whisper. Even when all I can do is show up and say, “I’m still here, Lord. That’s all I have.”

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for filling my life with countless blessings—including the ones that looked like curses at first. Thank you for bringing me to this new age. Thank you for family and friends who held me up when my legs gave out. And I am forever grateful—even when my heart is breaking.

Thank you for allowing me to set aside my agenda—the numbing, the scrolling, the working too much, the trying to escape my own skin. Thank you for dragging me into prayer when I didn’t want to pray. Thank you for feeding me your Word when I was starving for anything that made sense. Thank you for breaking me open so you could fill me with something real.

Heavenly Father, only you know the desires of my heart. I am too tired to pretend anymore. I am scared. I am hurting. I am still angry some days. But all I ask—all I beg—is that you give me the ability and strength to continue to love and serve you faithfully throughout all of my remaining years. Not because I am strong. Because I am weak. And that is when you are strong.

And here is the part I am afraid to write.

The part I have hidden from everyone—even myself – most days.

I am not okay. I have not been okay for a long time. I say “I’m fine” when people ask. I post verses and nod in church and tell everyone God is good. And yes, He is good. But that doesn’t mean I am not drowning.

I don’t have a polished ending. I don’t have a triumphant declaration that I’m healed and whole. I am still bleeding. I am still confused. I am still climbing the fifth floor with scraped knees and a bruised heart.

But I am still here.

And that is the most vulnerable thing I can say: I am still here. Not because I wanted to be, some days. But because He wouldn’t let me go.

So today, on my birthday, on the day we remember the cross—I am not celebrating because life is beautiful. I am celebrating because I am still breathing. And because the same Jesus who said “It is finished” from a place of agony is the same Jesus who is whispering over my life: “It is not over.”

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know if the fifth floor will ever feel easier. But I know this: I am going to keep showing up. Even when it hurts. Even when I’m angry. Even when I don’t feel like believing.

Because He never stopped believing in me.

And to anyone else who is not okay today—you are not alone. I am right there with you, still climbing, still crying, still holding on by a thread.

That thread is Him.

With grace and truth,
Fay Ann Swearing

THE WEIGHT OF GLORY

One strike for the back that healed lepers.
Two strikes for the hands that blessed bread.
Three strikes for the feet that walked on waves.
Iron meets bone.
Flesh splits.
The sound echoes across Golgotha’s skull.
He does not scream.
He groans.
A sound deeper than thunder.
They lift the cross.
It drops into its hole with a thud.
His shoulders dislocate.
His ribs rise against torn skin.
Breath becomes a war.

From noon until three.
The sun hides its face.
Not an eclipse.
Something worse.
The Father turns away.
My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?
No answer.
Only the weight of every curse.
Every lie.
Every murder.
Every lust.
Every whisper in the dark.
All of it.
On one set of lungs.

He cries out.
It is finished.
His head drops.
No bone broken.
But a soldier doubts.
He raises the spear.
Sinks it between the ribs.
Into the heart that loved without condition.
Out comes blood.
Out comes water.
The last drops of a God who refused to stay dead.

Then the earth trembles.
Rocks split.
Graves open.
And the veil —
that thick, woven curtain
keeping sinners from the Holy of Holies —
tears from top to bottom.
Not bottom to top.
Not man’s work.
God’s.
The way is open.
The throne is exposed.
The sacrifice is accepted.

The veil is torn.
You are welcome home.

THE CRY AND THE CROWN

The voices that lifted, “Hosanna!”
Soon echoed, “Crucify Him!”
Praise turned to piercing rejection—
Yet you did not turn from them.

If they had known who stood before them,
Glory wrapped in humble frame,
They would have trembled at your presence,
And worshipped at your name.

But for this purpose, you were given—
Not spared the nails, nor shame,
To carry sin upon your shoulders,
And bear my guilt and blame.

What kind of love endures such voices?
What mercy chooses still
To stretch out hands toward the very ones
Who cried to have you killed?

Now I lift my own “Hosanna,”
Not from fleeting, passing breath—
But from a heart forever rescued
By the triumph of your death.

I call you Father without trembling,
Your grace has made me whole—
The cross that once declared my ending
Now speaks life into my soul.

Your blood has sealed my freedom,
Your sacrifice, my plea—
The cry of “Crucify Him” behind me,
And “Hosanna” lives in me.

Still Climbing

No one prepared me for how many times I’d have to get back up.

I’m moving on to another step. Not a cliff, not a summit — just another landing. But the view is different.

I’ve climbed many flights already. Some steps were light, some I crawled, some I sat down on and cried. But I kept climbing.

Here’s what I know now that I didn’t at the ground floor:

• I don’t have to prove my pain anymore. What hurt, hurt. Full stop.

• Some people won’t come with me to this step. That’s not rejection. That’s just different staircases.

• My body has carried me through everything. Talk to it kindly. It owes me nothing; I owe it care.

• The small joys are the real ones. A quiet morning. A good meal. A text that says “thinking of you.”

• I’ve survived every single “too much” so far. That’s not luck. That’s me.

The God of Daniel didn’t promise an easy staircase. Just that I wouldn’t climb alone.

I refuse to mourn the years behind me. They built the stairs I’m standing on.

All I Have

Lord, I have nothing to give you
except this heart that keeps breaking.
Take it.
It has always been yours.
It will always be yours.
This is my worship—
not just on Sundays,
but every day, I open my eyes.

And every night, I close them
with your name still unfinished on my lips.
Sleep does not silence me—
only shifts my praying from words to breathing.

You are all I have.
Lord, you are my everything.

My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.” — Psalm 73:26

God Did It

I needed an answer today.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today.

So I went to God—honest, raw, barely holding it together, and I told Him exactly what I needed. I didn’t have fancy words. I just had faith the size of a mustard seed and a heart that was tired of carrying the weight alone.

And you know what?

GOD DID IT.

I asked. God answered. End of discussion.

The same God who parted the Red Sea parted my impossible situation THIS MORNING.

‘I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.’ — Psalm 34:4

That’s my testimony today. It’s not a story from years ago. It’s not something I hope will happen. Something He did THIS MORNING.

If He did it for me, He will do it for you. STAND STILL AND WATCH HIM WORK! 🔥🙌🏾

Please, God

Blood in the streets.
Blood on the sheets.
A corpse behind the wheel.

God, please.

Count me among the desperate.
Count me among the begging.
Count me on my knees
with nothing left to offer
but this: please.

I’m not asking for answers.
I’m not asking for reasons.
I’m asking for now.
For today.
For this moment, while blood still runs,
while tears still fall,
while there’s still someone left to save.
While there is still time.

Please.
Intervene.
Step in.
Show up.

I don’t need to understand.
I don’t need to know why children die while murderers sleep.
I just need you to be what I was taught to call you.
Father.
Defender.
Living God.
Refuge.

Please.

I’m on the floor.
Hands out.
Empty.
Waiting.

Please.
Before another four-year-old falls.
Before another three-year-old doesn’t wake.
Before another daughter.
Another wife.
Another husband.
Please.

I believe.
Help my unbelief.
But more than that—
help them.
Help us.
Help.

Please! God, please.

The Exercise of Faith: First Priority

Lord, help me make the exercise of faith
my first priority—
not because the day demands it,
but because you are waiting in the quiet
with everything I will need for the day ahead.

Let the exercise of faith be my first priority—
not the thing I squeeze in
between the urgent and the necessary,
not the spare change of my devotion,
not the leftover of my energy
when everything else is spent.

But first.
Let it have the throne.
Let it wear the crown.
Let it hold the place
that nothing else dares touch.

Not just the manna for this morning,
but the sword I would forget to sharpen.
Not just the light for this step,
but the anchor for the storm
I cannot yet see forming

You know what awaits—
the ambush of memory,
the siege of temptation,
the long, slow bleed
of a thousand small surrenders.

Let faith be muscle memory—
not the last resort after I have already
bled alone in private.

Make faith my first movement,
not my emergency response.
Before fear speaks.
Before compromise negotiates.
Before I mistake survival for strength.

Let my hand reach for scripture
before it reaches for the screen.
Let my knees find the floor
before my feet find the fire.
Let my heart turn to you
before my mind turns to worry.

Make faith not my last resort
when every door has closed,
but my first response
while all doors still stand open.

For the day ahead holds more
than my eyes can see—
conversations I am not wise enough to navigate,
decisions I am not clever enough to make,
temptations I am not strong enough to resist,
sorrows I am not brave enough to bear.

But you hold everything.
And if I meet you first,
I meet the day already held.

So let the quiet have me.
Let your voice find me
before the world does.

Let me not arrive at noon
wondering where you went.
Let me not reach the evening
empty and desperate.
Let me not face the dark
without having first stood
in your light.

This is the exercise of faith—
not a single heroic gesture,
but a thousand small turnings back to you.
Not one great leap,
but a lifetime of first steps,
each morning,
each moment,
each breath
chosen again.

Help me choose.
Help me stay.

For you are first.
Always first.
And first is where I want to be—with you.

So today, tomorrow, and always—
before anything else— I will seek you first.

Hope Thou In God

Soul! Why are you cast down?
Why this dialogue with despair
like it pays your wages?

Stop it, Stop it now.

Hope thou in God.
Not in your feelings.
Not in your circumstances.
Not in your ability to figure it out.

Hope in God.
The God who laughs at impossibility
like it’s a joke the devil told.
The God who spoke galaxies into existence with a single breath.
The God who parted the Red Sea like a curtain so His children could walk through on dry ground.
The God who rained bread from heaven
for forty years and never missed a morning.

The God who walked with three boys
through a furnace so hot it killed the men who threw them in—and they didn’t even smell like smoke.
The God who looked at a corpse four days dead,
already stinking, already hopeless,
and said, “Lazarus, come forth”—
and decomposition reversed itself.

Hope in that God.

When your heart is overwhelmed, hope in God.
When the enemy roars like a lion, hope in God.
When the night is long and the morning feels like a myth, hope in God.

Because He is the same God who led Israel through the wilderness.
The same God who provided manna
in a place where nothing grew.
The same God who gave Sarah laughter
when her body was as good as dead.
The same God who raised Lazarus
four days after the funeral ended.

Hope, I say.
Hope thou in God.

Prayer: My Only Strength

I am past the polished words.
Past the tidy devotionals.
Past pretending I am strong.

Prayer is the only strength I have left—
and even that comes out broken.

It is not eloquent.
It is not brave.
It is a gasp.
Words whispered between sobs.

I don’t kneel because I am holy.
I kneel because I am cornered.
Because standing hurts.
Because holding it together is killing me.

And grace—not my goodness,
not my discipline—
grace is the key that lets me kneel without being crushed by the shame of needing to.

Grace unlocks the floor beneath me
and says, “You can fall here.”

So I do, not graceful.
Not composed.
Just undone.

And here, collapsed and empty—
I learned what Paul meant:
My grace is sufficient for you,
for my power is made perfect in weakness.

Not sufficient after I get it together.
Not sufficient when I’m strong enough.
But sufficient here.
In the undone.
In the gasping.
In the prayer that can’t find words.

His grace is not a reward for the strong.
It is a home for the broken.

Prayer is the only strength I have left.
And grace is the only reason I am still here.

Coming Home to Myself

Who am I now?

A question mark.
A blank page.
And no idea what comes next.

Who am I now?

Not enough for them.
That much is clear.
Not enough to make them stay.
Not enough to be remembered.
Not enough for a phone call
or a text “how are you doing?”

I was enough when I was useful.
When I gave.
When I showed up.
When I made their lives easier.
But the moment I needed something—
the moment the job ended
and the grief started
and the hands went empty—
empty of giving.

Who am I now?

I’ll tell you who I am:

I’m the one who stayed.
I’m the one who loved.
I’m the one who showed up
even when no one showed up for me.

I’m the one still standing in the rubble
of a life I didn’t choose with empty hands raised not in surrender but in survival.

That’s who I am now.

Not enough for them.
But still here.
Still breathing.
Still standing.
Still surviving.

I’m finished with the transaction.
Finished with giving gallons and accepting teaspoons in return.
Finished with bleeding out and calling it love.

And if that’s not who I wanted to be—
it’s who I am.
And I’m starting to think that might be enough.

Not for them.
For me.
For the first time.
For me.

I am not who I was.
I am not yet who I will be.
But I am finally someone
who is no longer overextending myself to earn crumbs.

The Scent of Sin

Pews empty.
Beds full.
Your name on lips still wet from sin.

God, please.

She sits in the pew worshiping while his scent still clings to her skin from last night.
From his car.
From the text he sent after saying “don’t feel guilty” like guilt isn’t the only holy thing left in her.

But this morning?
This morning he preaches.
Voice like thunder.
Eyes burning with conviction.
The same mouth that whispered lies in the dark now declaring truth from the pulpit.
The same hands that traced her body now raised in blessing.
The same lungs that gasped in sin now breathing out “thus saith the Lord.”

And she watches.
She leads worship.
Hands raised.
Eyes closed.
Voice trembling with devotion.
The same hands that a few hours ago traced someone else’s body in a room that wasn’t hers, with someone who wasn’t her husband.
This morning, she stands before us declaring His goodness with lips still swollen from sin.

But they preach anyway.
They sing anyway.
Because no one knows.

They pass the offering plate with fingers still laced with lust.
They take communion with tongues still stained with what they did in the dark and called it connection.
Called it love.
Called it nothing.

Fornication in the church.
Not outside.
Not out there.
In here.
In the choir.
In the pulpit.
In the pew behind you wearing that smile, carrying that Bible, holding that hand that belongs to someone else’s bed.

We have made peace with it.
Named it weakness.
Named it grace.
Named it between me and God as if between me and God doesn’t mean I never told a soul because the soul I should tell is doing the same thing.

God, please.

We are sleeping our way to Sunday.
Confessing our way to empty.
Praying our way to Monday night when we do it all again and call it human.
Call it broken, call it anything but what you call it.

We are not clean.
I know.
Our hearts have stains we scrub at with worship songs and offerings and pretending.

But God—if your house is supposed to be holy, then why does it smell like last night?
Why do we raise hands that just held what we shouldn’t?
Why do we sing “cleanse me” while planning who’s next?
Why do preachers preach with lips still wet?
Why do worship leaders lead with stained hands?

God, please.
Burn the beds.
Burn the lies.
Burn the comfort that lets us sin and still show up like nothing happened.

Break us open.
Break us honest.
Break us until the only place we dare to touch is your feet.

Call us back.
Call us out.

Please! God, please.

The Meal That Matters

You can have a full stomach
and an empty heart.
You can have a full house
and a hollow chest.
You can have a full wallet
and a starving spirit.

Don’t mistake a full stomach
for a fed soul.

The richest man sometimes eats alone.
The most beautiful woman starves for approval.
The busiest people haven’t sat still long enough to taste a single breath.

Food fills the belly.
Only God fills the void.

You can eat three meals a day
and still starve to death
if you’re not eating
what He’s serving.

So ask yourself
before you take that next bite—
am I feeding the body
or am I feeding the soul?
And if the answer
is only the first,
push back from the table.
Get on your knees.
And let the real meal begin.

Because man does not live by bread alone.
And a full stomach never saved anyone.

You were made for more than three meals a day.
You were made for Him.
He doesn’t just serve the food.
He is the food. Come hungry.

My Lack Does Not Limit His Supply

Do you think emptiness is a problem?
Do you think your nothing frightens me?

I am the God who makes a way
where there is no way.
I am the God who provides the ram
when you are bound to the altar.
I am the God who parts the sea
with your enemy screaming at your back.

And you think your lack limits me?

Your bank account says impossible.
I say loaves and fishes.
Your doctor says incurable.
I say rise and walk.
Your heart says too late.
I say Lazarus, come forth.
Your shame says unworthy.
I say it is finished.

Do you not know me yet?
Have you not learned?

I fed thousands with a boy’s lunch.
I healed the woman with a garment’s hem.
I conquered death with a cross.

And you think your little is too little for me?

Your lack is not a wall.
It is an invitation.
Your lack is not an ending.
It is a beginning.
Your lack is not a prison.
It is the door swinging open
for me to walk through
and show you what I can do
with nothing.

Because I am the God who creates from nothing.
I am the God who speaks to nothing.
I am the God who raises the dead—

And you think your dying dream
is beyond my reach?

Bring me your empty.
Bring me your barren.
Bring me your last meal
and watch me multiply.

My supply does not depend on your supply.
My power is perfected in your weakness.
My grace is sufficient—
not when you have enough,
but when you have nothing left.

So stop counting your coins.
Stop measuring your oil.
Stop calculating your worth.

I am not limited by your lack.
I am glorified by it.

Now step aside.
And watch your nothing
become my miracle.

Thank you so much for taking the time to visit and read. Your presence here means the world to me. Feel free to like, share, comment, or reblog this post—I’d love to hear your thoughts! Until we connect again in this space, sending you much love and abundant blessings.

With grace and truth,
Fay Ann Swearing

The Purest Kind of Love

Sometimes, we don’t need answers.
Sometimes, we just need someone to stop, turn, and truly hear what our soul is trying to say.

This is the purest kind of love—
the kind that doesn’t rush to fix,
doesn’t scramble for words,
doesn’t panic in the face of someone else’s pain.

It just stays.

It turns toward you when the world turns away.
It listens with the heart, not just the ears.
It holds space for the tears you haven’t even cried yet.

Sometimes, the deepest ministry
is simply saying:
“I’m here. I’m listening.
And what you’re feeling matters.”

Before the world taught us to perform, to pretend, to hide—
Love had already bent low.

Before we learned to shame the broken
and silence the suffering,
Jesus had already knelt in the dust
with a woman no one else would look at.

Jesus bent down to the woman at the well—
not with a sermon, but with presence,
not towering over her shame,
but meeting her thirst.

He asked.
He listened.
He saw her.

That’s what souls crave.
Not answers.
But being seen.

“But whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst.” John 4:14

“He looked at her and asked…” John 4:7

Lord, I Thirst

Lord, I thirst, not for a song
that only brushes my ears.
Not for a sermon
I can neatly file away.
Not for the nod of a neighbour
or the comfort of a crowded row.

Lord, I thirst
for the kind of encounter
that ruins me for routine.

This is not a polite request, Lord.
This is a scream dressed up as a prayer.

I am parched.
I am cracked earth.
I am the desert
pretending to be a garden.

Come like water
to the driest part of me.

If you don’t come,
I am just a person
in a pew
wearing Sunday clothes
over a Saturday grave.

Lord, I thirst for an encounter—
not with religion,
but with the living God.

Come like a flood
that doesn’t ask permission.
Come like fire
to the cold altar I’ve become.

Break the dam.
Drown the drought.
Let them find me
washed up on the altar
gasping Your name.

Lord, I thirst—
and I will not leave
until I am wet
with the weight of You.

“My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.”— Psalm 42:2

“If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.”— John 7:37

With grace and truth,
Fay Ann Swearing

Overcomer

You don’t know what it took to get me here.
The nights I screamed into my pillow
so no one would hear.
The mornings I prayed for strength
just to lift my head.
The wars I fought in silence while the world thought I was fine.

I am not fine.
I am fighting.
And that is different.

I have been betrayed, bruised, and broken.
Left to die by circumstances that should have destroyed me.
I have tasted the dirt,
Felt the boot of despair on my throat,
Heard the enemy laughing while I struggled to breathe.

But I am still breathing.
Still struggling.
And here is not where I stay — it’s where I rise from.

I have overcome because I had to.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Because the blood on the cross
didn’t spill so I could stay defeated.
Because the same power that rolled the stone lives in these broken bones.

I did not survive by accident.
Every scar is proof
that I refused to quit.
Not carried —
strengthened.

So here I stand.
Not perfect.
But standing.
Still standing.
Always standing.

And when I fall again —
because I will —
I will get up again.
Because that’s what overcomers do.
We get up.
Every time.
Until the day we don’t have to anymore.

That day is coming.
But it’s not today.
Today, I fight.
Today, I overcome.
Today, I win.

The Voice Before the Dawn

My beloved, before you ever knew you needed saving, there was a voice.

There is a voice that speaks before the dawn,
a whisper softer than the waking light,
and it calls your name—
not the name the world gave you,
not the name your failures carved into your chest,
but the name spoken before the foundations of the earth.

You have heard the other voice.
The one that comes like smoke beneath the door,
that coils around your thoughts and calls it truth.
It tells you that you are what you have done,
that the past is a locked room with no window,
that shame is the only garment that still fits.

But listen—

There is no chain that mercy cannot loosen,
No accusation that love cannot outshout.
The voice that speaks over the chaos,
The voice that called light from the dark,
The voice that said, “It is finished,” speaks now over you.

You are not the sum of your worst moments.
You are not the echo of what they said about you.
You are not the shadow that self awareness casts when it forgets who made you.

The fog will lift.
It always does when the Son rises.
The noise will fade.
It has to, before the Shepherd’s call.

And the fear that keeps you from His arms—that ancient, trembling liar will find itself outside the door of a heart that finally believes it is welcome home.

So come.
The arms are open.
They were reaching before you drew your first breath,
before the wounds came,
before the lies ever had a chance to speak.

Allegiance at Daybreak

Father, before my feet hit the floor,
before my phone lights up with demands,
before the world rushes in —
help me to find your presence.

Morning after morning
I choose scrolling over prayer.
Panic over peace.

Before the notifications scream.
Before the anxiety pounces.
Before the day devours me whole —hold me.
Draw me out of this fog.
Pull me into your Word whether I want to or not.

I don’t have words.
I don’t have strength.
I don’t have anything
but this raw, bleeding need to know you.

So help me find your presence.

Stamp yourself on my consciousness
before anything else stamps itself there.
Brand me with your peace before the chaos brands me with its fire.

I need to find you before I lose myself.
I will lose myself unless you hold me first.

So hold me close.
Help me find your presence
and once I find it —don’t ever let me go.

I’m reaching through the dark.
I’m screaming in silence.
I’m here, Father, barely.
But here.

Give me more than discipline —give me desperation.
More than routine —more than ritual
Wake me with hunger for your word before the sun does.
Hunger for your voice louder than any notification.
Hunger for your presence that nothing else can satisfy.

I don’t want to just start my day with you.
I want to crave your Word like my next breath depends on it —because it does.

Make me a woman who runs to you first.
Not guilt-driven.
Not duty-driven.
But love-driven.
Desperate.
Committed.
Persistent.

Until morning devotion is not a goal —
it is just who I am.

Only Thee

Whom have I on earth beside Thee?

I tested them.
Watched them leave
when I stopped being useful.
Listened to their silence
when I stopped being convenient.
Felt their distance
when I stopped being whole.

They went.
One by one.
Slow then fast.
Quiet then gone.

Whom have I on earth beside Thee?

I looked at my hands.
These hands that worked.
These hands that reached
and grabbed and held on tight.

Empty.
Calloused from clinging
to things that crumbled
while I watched.

Whom have I on earth beside Thee?

Not my health—it fails.
Not my mind—it forgets.
Not my future—it’s borrowed.
Not my past—it haunts.

Whom have I on earth beside Thee?

No one.
Absolutely no one.
And I screamed it into the void
that used to be my life—NO ONE!

So here I stand.
Stripped.
Empty.
Bleeding.
Alone of everyone and everything.

And I still say—
whom have I on earth beside Thee?

No one. Nothing. Only Thee.

Not because I chose Thee.
But because everything else chose to leave.

All I held—gone.
All I leaned on—dust.

But stripped and empty,
I finally see: it was always, only, ever, Thee.

And still, only Thee is enough.

This Is Love

Love isn’t easy.
It’s effort and forgiveness and showing up anyway.

It’s waking up on days you don’t feel up to it
and choosing to stay loving anyway.
It’s saying sorry first
when pride screams to wait.
It’s extending grace
before the other person earns it.

It isn’t always comfortable.
But it’s always safe.

Safe enough to be wrong.
Safe enough to struggle.
Safe enough to say, “I’m not okay,”
without fear of being judged.

It isn’t always perfect.
But it’s always growing.

Growing through the hard conversations.
Growing through the quiet seasons.
Growing through the moments
when love looks less like a feeling
and more like a choice
made again and again.

This is love: not a fairy tale,
not a fever,
not a finish line.

It’s a garden.
It takes work.
It takes patience.
It takes rain.

And when you tend it together —
when you pull the weeds of pride,
when you water it with prayer,
when you protect it with grace —it grows.
Slowly.
Steadily.
Into something beautiful.

Not easy.
But worth it.
Always worth it.

Forty Years in Christ: A New Creation Still Singing

Today, I celebrate the 40th anniversary of my baptism. Four decades. A milestone that takes my breath away when I stop to consider the faithfulness of God.

It is a day of reflection and gratitude—a day to remember when I made a public declaration of my faith, going down into the waters as an old self and rising to walk in newness of life. I am reminded again of the apostle Paul’s words: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” (2 Corinthians 5:17, NIV). In Him, I am still that new creation—not because of my perfection, but because of His perfect grace. Washed clean by His blood. Filled with His Spirit. Held fast for forty years and counting.

So many things have changed since that day. But He has not. His love has never failed. His mercy has met me in my lowest valleys. His joy has been my strength in seasons I thought would break me.

As the psalmist wrote, “I will sing of your love and justice; to you, Lord, I will sing praise” (Psalm 101:1, NIV). Today, I sing. Not because life has been easy, but because He has been good. I praise the One who saved me, redeemed me, and gave me new life—and who is still writing my story.

Baptism light, then—
Forty years of grace still fresh,
His promise remains.

As I commemorate four decades since my baptism, I am overwhelmed by God’s faithfulness and sustaining grace. May His love continue to guide me. May I walk humbly, love boldly, and remain in the light of His presence for all my days.

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