What Do You Want From Me?
(A letter to the Divine)
It’s early again.
The world is quiet.
And I’m here — a man with dirt on his hands, a few scars on his heart, and a question I can’t shake:
What do You want from me?
Because I look around, and it seems You’ve already said it all.
The books are written.
The gurus have spoken.
The formulas, frameworks, and breathwork protocols — all there, all complete.
So what could You possibly need from me?
And then there’s that pause — that sacred stillness You love to use — and I feel it…
That pulse behind the words.
That knowing that You don’t want repetition.
You want embodiment, incarnation, a good story.
You didn’t give me these experiences so I could quote someone else.
You gave me fire and failure, death and devotion,
so I could translate You through my own scars,
through my own language of sweat, love, sex, and silence.
You want me to speak from within the wound, not about it.
To write from the inside of the storm, not the shore.
To show that polarity isn’t an idea — it’s a way of surviving the night and sanctifying the morning.
You want me to remember that no one else lived this version.
No one else buried a wife, raised three kids alone, left a church,
and then found You again in the silent space inside my heart.
You want me to write the story from inside,
to teach from the place that nearly broke me.
Because the world doesn’t need another teacher.
It needs another witness. It needs another incarnated one.
Maybe that’s what You want.
Not perfection.
Not a system.
But a voice that says,
“I have walked through hell with my eyes open, and God was there too.”
So… here I am.
Still learning how to listen.
Still willing to speak when You say, “Now.”
Still asking, softly —
What do You want from me next?
—Jason