We don’t have TIME for this struggle, too. It’s so isolating. It’s hard to find time to talk to coach about it—our schedules rarely sync enough for more than goodnight hugs and kisses. In the isolation our worries grow bigger.
I had parked myself right in front of a broken cistern. I'd fill it up, but all my joy and peace and compassion still seeped through the crevices and cracks, until it was once again empty. I would fill my tank up and only get a mile down the road before I was out of gas again. I wasn't filling it with living water; I was filling it with muck, sludge, and junk. It was broken. I was broken.