PHILOKALIA MINISTRIES

The hand of God is on me, heavy, unyielding. Not cruel, but crushing in its love. He has opened something in me I cannot close. A wound that bleeds longing. A wound that makes every breath ache for Him. I feel my poverty like exposed nerve, raw, throbbing, alive. And in this cracked-open place, when I am soft and trembling before Him, the demons come like dogs to blood. They know where He touched me. They smell grace like a wound. They circle, patient, hungry. I do not fear t