You Are Not A Fraud, Just A Vessel

The sun is setting, and the armor of the day is finally heavy enough to put down. You read your own words back to yourself, and instead of relief, you feel like a thief.

As if you stole the voice of someone smarter, someone real, and passed it off as your own. But notice how the light works: it does not demand you invent the fire.

It only asks that you carry the spark you were given. When Jesus saw the paralyzed man lowered through the roof, he did not scold the friends for borrowing a stretcher or breaking a ceiling.

He saw their faith—their desperate, cobbled-together effort to reach him—and he said, 'Son, your sins are forgiven.' He did not require originality. He required presence.

You are not a fraud for using the words that found you. You are a vessel.

The light shines through the cracks in your certainty, not the polish of your performance. The words you wrote were not stolen; they were surrendered to you because you were the one holding the door open when they arrived.