Dee Grachek

Jesus,

I have known You for a long time.

Or at least, I thought I did.

I learned Your name early. Learned how to speak it with reverence, how to pray it at the end of sentences, how to carry it into rooms like something sacred and certain. I learned the stories. I learned the posture. I learned how to describe You in ways that made sense to the people around me.

Gentle.
Loving.
Kind.
Close.

And all of that is true.

But it is not all of You.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that the version of You I carried… was manageable.

You fit inside my understanding.
You stayed within the boundaries I was comfortable with.
You didn’t interrupt too much.
You didn’t overwhelm.

You were near… but not too near.
Powerful… but not too powerful.
Present… but not undeniable.

And I didn’t even notice I had done it.

I didn’t notice that I had shaped You into someone I could hold without trembling.

Until I saw You again.

Not as I remembered.
But as You revealed Yourself.

Eyes like fire.
A voice that does not ask for permission.
A presence that does not wait quietly in the background of my life, hoping to be acknowledged.

You were not smaller.

I had just made You so.

And when I saw You like that… I didn’t feel clarity first.

I felt undone.

Because this version of You—this true version of You—does not fit neatly into the spaces I built.

You don’t stay contained.
You don’t stay predictable.
You don’t stay silent.

You stand.

You speak.

You see.

And if I’m honest, part of me wanted to step back.

Not because You were wrong.
But because You were real in a way I hadn’t allowed.

There is something unsettling about realizing that the God you thought you understood… is not limited by your understanding.

There is something humbling about recognizing that I had grown comfortable with a version of You that didn’t require me to change very much.

But You don’t leave me there.

You didn’t leave John on the ground in fear.
You didn’t let the weight of Your presence crush him.

You reached out.

You spoke.

“Do not be afraid.”

Not because there was nothing to fear.
But because fear is not what You came to leave behind.

You came with truth.

And presence.

And something stronger than both.

You came with Yourself.

And now I find myself in this quiet place of re-seeing.

Not starting over.
But seeing more clearly.

You are still the One who sits with the broken.
Still the One who touches what others avoid.
Still the One who speaks gently into wounds no one else sees.

But You are also the One who stands in the middle of everything…
unshaken, unhidden, fully alive.

You are not distant.

You are not passive.

You are not waiting for me to figure everything out before You step closer.

You are already here.

Already speaking.

Already present in ways I am still learning to recognize.

And I don’t want a smaller version of You anymore.

Even if it was easier.

Even if it felt safer.

Because a smaller Jesus cannot hold the weight of a real life.

Cannot carry the questions.
Cannot stand in the middle of fear.
Cannot meet me in the places where everything feels uncertain.

But You can.

Not the version I created.

The One who is.

So I am letting go.

Slowly.

Of the version of You that fit neatly inside my expectations.

And I am learning to stand in the presence of who You actually are.

Not fully understanding.
Not fully comfortable.
But open.

Because if You are who You revealed Yourself to be…

Then I don’t need to reduce You to feel safe.

I need to trust You to be enough.

Enough in Your power.
Enough in Your presence.
Enough in Your nearness.

Enough to hold me…
even when I don’t fully understand what I see.

So here I am.

Not with certainty.

But with willingness.

Not with answers.

But with openness.

Teach me to see You as You are.

Not as I have made You.

And in that seeing…

Teach me not to be afraid.

— Ava