"You must present as the Lord's portion the best and holiest part of everything given to you." (Numbers 18:29)
I read in the morning light, my eyes still trying to stay open. The fire flickers (I'm thankful for the effortless gas fireplace) as I pull my robe tight and curl my legs up on the couch. The verse jumps from the text. Yes, it's a message for the Levites. But isn't it a message for me, too? To present the best and holiest of everything that has been given to me?
I've been given so much. So, so much. Yet I hoard it. I want to stay comfortable. I want it all to be predictable. I don't want to hurt, I don't want to do anything that might prove that I'm not capable or knowledgeable or . . . perfect.
So I hold on and keep it all neat and tidy and manageable. With clenched fists, I timidly raise it to God (because that's what I'm supposed to do) and say, "Here! I love you! Oh, and thanks for not asking too much of me!" And I go back to my comfortable routine.
This I call my "best and holiest."
But what if the best and holiest part of me is actually the most broken part of me? What if, by offering my vulnerability and my inadequacy and my insecurity to the Lord, what if in that I am giving Him my best? Isn't that where Christ does His most amazing work? In the brokenness? In the deepest part of my ugliness?
I can't offer one single holy thing. But I can offer brokenness. Boy, can I. I can offer open-handed, transparent, honest brokenness. And He covers it with the ultimate sacrifice and calls me clean and yes, He calls me holy. Set apart. Sanctified.
I offer Him my best and holiest. It's ugly, but it's just what He wants. I lift my hands and give.