My heart is weak in the sense that I am weak and frail flesh. My prayers are weak and small, my supplications; faint and at times, incoherent even. In moments like these, I am prone to condemn myself and believe that my weak comings and goings before the Throne make no difference, that I am unheard and unseen. I hide my head in shame because of my weakness. It is easy to believe that I am pleasing to Him when my soul is ablaze with passion. It is easy to believe also that I am unworthy of Him when my soul is faint with burden and heavy with the cloak of dullness. I think to myself, “Surely He, someOne so beautiful, is deserving of a better love! What does He want with me when I am weak?”
But far is that from the truth. He hears the weak breath of a babe as much as He hears the eloquent prayers of fervent saints. He beckons me to boldly come, even in my weakness. Even when I have nothing to offer but pitiful cries, He wants me to come. I do not understand this, but I am glad for it. If it depended on me and my risings and fallings, I could never hope to draw close to God. But as it is, He beckons me to draw close, not because of who I am but because of who He is. I am not constant, but He is. I am weak, but He is glad to receive me even in my weakness.