Tear Stained Alters

I lost count of the tears long ago.

They fell like rain upon an altar that had been worn smooth by weary knees and trembling prayers. 

Some tears carried grief. 

Some carried disappointment. 

Some carried questions that echoed through silent nights when God seemed distant and answers felt hidden…

Yet not one tear was wasted.

The psalmist had wrote that God keeps count of them all. He gathers them. He records them…

What beauty is it that what my eyes see as drops falling into dust, He sees as treasures collected in His hands.

The altar is a strange place.

It is where brokenness and beauty collide.
Where surrender and hope embrace.
Where the death of self becomes the birthplace of faith…

I came carrying fragments.

The fragments of dreams unmet and of certainty shattered by circumstances.
Fragments of expectations that could not survive the weight of reality.

And there, before the Lord, those fragments became a melody.

Not a polished song or a perfect anthem.

A broken melody.

A song that has been composed of tear stained prayers and whispered repentances..
A song sung between my doubting and my trusting.

The tears that blurred my vision, had somehow become the lenses through which I finally began to see.

Like shattered glass held to the light, every broken piece caught a different glimpse of His glory. 

What appeared ruined in my hands became a kaleidoscope in His. 

The very places that fractured me had become the places His light shone through most brilliantly.

The altar was never asking me for perfection.

It was asking for surrender.

For every tear surrendered became a seed.
Every wound surrendered became fertile ground.
Every disappointment buried beneath His presence became a promise waiting for resurrection.

And slowly, what began as a puddle of sorrow became a sea of His promises. 

The tears I thought marked the end became the waters through which God carried me forward.

A sea of promises stretching farther than fear could reach.
Farther than shame could follow.
Farther than doubt could speak.

The same God who bottled my tears was also watering the ground beneath my feet.

What I called weeping, He called planting.

What I called breaking, He called preparing.

So I return to the altar again and again.

Not because I am strong, but because I am known.

Because every tear that falls is counted.
Every burden laid down is seen.
Every broken fragment laid at His feet is gathered.

And in the hands of the Redeemer, nothing remains broken.

Our tears become our testimonies.

And alters become meeting places.

And it’s those alters that we ourselves become altered.

And the sorrow once held has been surrendered to God, and becomes an ocean of promises reflecting the faithfulness of the One who never let a single tear fall unseen.