In 2016 I was asked to write a poem for a gathering of 20,000 high school students in New Orleans.
It was the first commissioned piece I had ever written.
And I was terrified.
Like most poems from the past there is much I would change about the following piece, but writing this poem allowed me to write the next one and next one and next one and …

And sometimes you just have to take the next right step forward.

At the time of writing this poem I struggled to call myself a writer.
I desperately wanted to confidently call myself a writer, but I didn’t feel like I was one.
I felt like a fake.
Like a poser.
Like a hypocrite.
Like a fraud.
(Apparently this is common for most writers and creatives.)

At the time of writing the poem I wasn’t working as a writer.
(For what it’s worth, you can be a writer and not work as a writer.)
5 days a week I woke up at 3:30 in the morning to go work at Chick-fil-A.
Beneath the florescent lights and with a tie covered in cows around my neck, I wrestled with my dreams and identity as I worked to pay off student debt.
Writing felt more like an uphill hobby that produced anxiety and questions, rather than joy and freedom.
And when I would sit down to write I would often drift off and begin comparing myself to other writers and creatives.
This only left me feeling empty and conflicted.

But this was only a chapter in the story.
A hard chapter, but a needed one.
This was part of the growing and creative process.

Yesterday, the same person who asked me to write this poem sent me a quote that said …
doubt is part of the creative process.

And if that is true, I must have been doing something right.
I must still be doing something right.

Some days it’s easy to doubt your dreams and the person you hope to become.
As a 26-year-old I found it difficult embrace the person God created me to be with joy and hope.

Occasionally, while driving home from a long shift at Chick-fil-A, God and I would have it out.
I’d ask Him why He didn’t make me good at math or science.
I’d ask Him why He made me afraid of blood and people wearing suits and ties.
There is no chance I would ever be a doctor or lawyer.

Perhaps I wanted the easier route to where I am now.
Or maybe I wanted to know how the story ended.

But God, in His kindness kept the answers from me.
It was almost as if God continued to remind me to be patient and trust.
Be patient and trust.
Be patient and trust.

He kept the dream of being a writer alive in my heart.
And slowly I came to realize and accept that this is who I am.
I am a writer.
I am not this writer.
I am not that writer.
But I am a writer.

More than that, I am His.
How freeing it is to be His.
How beautiful it is to be His.
By grace, through faith, I am His.

Enjoy.

You can find this poem in the rereleased edition of I’m All Over the Place.
Grab it from my store or on Amazon.
Scroll to the bottom to see the video.

Who am I?
It’s the question I can't find the answer to that keeps me wondering.

I've been walking hallways, driving freeways, looking for the way,

But loneliness and brokenness wrapped their hands around me tight and led astray.

I’m tied up with insecurities, bound to blindness; I’ve been given over to silence.

And it's our differences that grew me to be a wallflower; an outsider on the inside.

And I can't let them in.
I can't let them see my sin, the trash I hide from the light,

So I'll keep pretending all is alright as I pray I make it through this uphill fight.

It's my shame that screams like an empty home.
My deepest wound grew from my being alone,

And last Sunday, we sang in Christ Alone, but I don’t know.
I don’t.

They tell me we've been created for more, and God, help my unbelief.
I want to believe I was made for more than alone,

And that this heart You set to beat wasn't created to be stolen by the thief.

I want to believe I am enough, and right now, I am struggling to see I am.

I'm stuck living between the blank spaces on the page,

Hiding above and below lines.

And I want so badly to honestly believe I can write my own story,

But every word my life scribbles stains the page like blood on His wooden grave.

My mind is packed with the trash of my past,

And I am weighed down by the garbage packed on my breaking back.

I’ve distanced myself from His good graces,

And placed my worthiness in all the wrong places.

My trash isn’t my pile of wrongs, it's my wanting to be enough on my own,

To gain favor apart from the love I've known,

It’s everything and anything in comparison to the King.

And everything and anything compared to Him cannot stand,

It cannot make me worthy of the love found freely in His hand.

I still write with hands tied tight, a prisoner to my own fight,

And I can't even tell you when all of this turned to wrong from right.

It's my own garage that has given my questions life and I keep asking,
“Who am I?”

Well, I am a writer, a son, a friend, a follower.

I am forgiven and falling,

Confused and calling.

And some days, I am fearless.

And other days, I wish I felt less.

Some days, I wish I could live inside my answers instead of sink beneath my questions.

Most days I am the guy asking, “Am I good enough?”

Because I feel like I'm not enough.

I’m broken at best, and truth be told,

The lies are easier to buy than the love given freely from His throne.

Every step I take becomes a dark dead end,

And everywhere I turn is the wrong place to begin.

The mirror holds my fears and tomorrow my nightmare,

And today frustration begins with who, why, what, when, and where.

And I thought I'd feel something after Sunday's confession,

But I'm shackled to transgressions, my thoughts a misleading deception,

But I know I believe in His life, death and resurrection,

So why the strangling suppression?

I am hard pressed between questions and confessions.

I’m lost inside uncertainty, but certainly there is peace beyond the deep.

Certainly You’ll again scrub the dirt from my feet.
And certainly everything and anything in comparison to You is nothing.
But You died for something, and I know Paul says,

“But for Christ’s sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as garbage,”

That I may be lost and found in Him who found me.
For when everything is lost, I still have all I need.

When I am at the feet of He who found me, who placed faith in me.

You found me.

Your love replaced my shame with joy,

Bearing the lies with your life, so truth could rise,

And the truth has allowed me to identify,

With hope on high, to be righteous in God’s eyes.

You stitched me to Your side, intertwining hope and life,

Woke me alive, removed the garbage from within,

And gave purpose to my being, my breathing.

God, hold me as I come to believe in Christ alone I am not alone.
In Christ alone, I am found on His solid ground.

In Christ alone, I am enough as Yours and Yours alone.
And there is nothing that can take away Your blood that washed me clean.
Nothing can replace the grace that led me to believe the truth of my identity;
The joy of eternity.
In Christ Alone, I am Yours.
Forever Lord, I am Yours.
By grace, through faith, I am Yours.

For more of my poetry, check out my books!

Who Am I?