The kitchen was quiet, early morning light dancing through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the floor. Coffee brewed, but her soul felt parched. She sat in silence, journal open, pen in hand, eyes lingering on a prayer she had written the night before:
“Lord, fill me. Use me for Your good.”
It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t lengthy. But it was honest. She had spent too many days lately running on empty—giving, fixing, serving—until even her strength felt borrowed. Her spirit felt hollow, like a vessel poured out one too many times without being refilled. And then the whisper came.
Not from the room. Not from her thoughts. But from deep within her spirit. “You were never meant to pour from your own strength.”
Tears welled up. That was it. That was the ache she couldn’t quite name. She had been trying to live for God… without sitting with God. In that moment, she looked out the window, where a gentle breeze stirred the trees. Nature never rushed. It moved in rhythm—with the Source of life itself. And she realized, the same Spirit that moved across the waters in Genesis was still moving now.
Filling. Restoring. Overflowing.
So she whispered again, not out of duty, but from desire: “Fill me, Lord… not just to full, but to overflow.”
Because she no longer wanted to live for herself. She wanted to walk into rooms not carrying her own wisdom, but God’s. She wanted to speak not from her emotions, but from His grace. She wanted to love not just the easy ones, but even the hard ones—with a love that clearly wasn’t hers alone. And in that surrendered moment, she remembered the words of Jesus:
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” — Matthew 5:6
She closed her eyes, hands open in her lap.
Not striving.
Not fixing.
Just receiving.
Because the God who fills… still fills.
And when He does—it’s always to overflow.
