14But He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
2 Corinthians 12: 9-10
I believe in my own weakness.
Most of the time it's an easy thing to do. I will see bruises on my legs that seem to appear of their own volition, or I will tweak my hip at practice, or I will wake up late with a headache, or I will ignore my mom, or I will argue with the sole purpose of hurting—winning, I used to call it winning—or I will call my little brother stupid; and after the pain in my head or the anger in my heart has mostly subsided, I will suddenly feel very weak.
And then there are times when I feel very strong. This doesn't last long, usually. You can't have good races all the time, and you can't always be good enough to lose every argument. It doesn't last very long, but I try to convince myself it does. That's the worst. Thinking you're strong when you're not. Lifting some weights and feeling them slipping, slipping—having them crush your toes.
And that's why I believe in weakness. Not because I am afraid of a challenge, not because I don't think I can handle it—but because I'm terrified of facing anything without Him by my side, because I know I can't handle it. I believe in my weakness because I believe even more fervently in His strength.
It seems pretty easy, writing it. It seems like I don't have to do anything but sit back and trust in someone a lot stronger than me, and I guess that's why it's so hard. Because what it implies is sacrificing my pride and casting aside my self-reliance, and this, I think, is the hardest thing in the world. I guess that's the point. I guess He wants you to use His strength to gain His strength. It's funny. You'd think you'd feel so helpless, so vulnerable, surrendering control. But it is in those moments (for they are only moments; I am not so humble, or ready, or unafraid) in which I step back that I feel most at peace, most confident, most totally and absolutely sure that everything will work out. It's like David slaying Goliath. That's exactly what it is. Some scrawny kid with a slingshot, a couple stones, and an unwavering faith standing up to a giant. That's my hope. The hope of a beautiful ending for a weak little kid: the imprint of a stone on old Goliath's forehead.