By Hannah Brencher
Recently, I attended a conference at my church and showed up a few days early to pray with other leaders. We
prayed over seats and spaces and asked God to be big and vibrant.
At one point in the evening, we shared what we'd been praying about leading up to the conference. One of my friends mentioned to the group that she was feeling– in a single word– empty. It was an honest confession and a word I'd heard dozens of times. But, for some reason, it struck me differently this time, and I've been pondering it ever since.
Empty.
Nothing left.
Nothing to give.
Barren.
Poured out.
Maybe that's the word you're feeling too right now. In your bones. You haven't been able to express it until just this very moment. You feel tired. More than tired– exhausted.
You're at the end of your rope. You're still holding on, but you have no idea how you will face the next day. Scratch that, the next moment.
I know it's not a comfortable feeling. There are so many other words you'd instead use to describe yourself than “empty.”
But let's just be so honest—sometimes that's the word. As hollow as it seems– sometimes that's the feeling. The feeling that
you have nothing left to give of yourself.
I've stood in those shoes before. I don't write that to explain what you're feeling– I just think it helps to know someone has worn the same size shoes as you and is still living to tell the stories of breakthrough.
Empty.
The time was early 2015. It was in the midst of the severe depression I often write about. That life-shaking depression shaped and reshaped a lot of things in my life.
I had a speaking engagement in Kalamazoo, Michigan (It's magical there– the people are amazing). It's a God-honest miracle I even showed up. Friends at every angle of my life held my arms for me, helping me
do the hard things that made up my livelihood. I could have very quickly canceled everything on the calendar during that time, but there was a sense in me that depression had already stolen so much. I would not allow it to steal my willingness to show up.
I arrived at that speaking engagement at the lowest point in my life, and also physically unable to see in one eye because of a corneal ulcer that had manifested from all the trauma my body was
experiencing through that dark time.
It was one of the biggest crowds I'd ever spoken to—a packed hockey stadium. And yes, for that reason, it was freezing.
In a word, I felt empty. Unsure of what the next move would be. Uncertain of how I could ever reach a crowd from the pit I was in.
A book editor once told me we minister more to people from the pit than we do
from the podium. I've never forgotten those words. At that moment in the hockey stadium, the words were more than true.
I stood on the side of the stage, behind the monstrous black curtain, ready to walk on. Just moments before, I had a panic attack. I didn't know it then because I didn't have proper language, but it was shortness of breath, trembling, sweating, and heart pounding. The feeling of choking. A panic attack.
I remember the bold confession I muttered as I stepped out into the light of the stage. “God, I have nothing. I can't do this. If you don't show up, this isn't going to happen.”
It was a plea. A prayer. A lament. A surrender. All rolled into one.
With that, I stepped on stage and into the bright lights. I couldn't see the crowd. I just remember standing in that shining light, trying to
find my footing, and then beginning to tell my story. One honest word at a time.
I don't remember much more about the following minutes. I can only tell you that I felt this unspeakable peace covering me as I spoke. Like I was somehow safe in the confines of a snow globe– like for that 20-minute talk, that depression couldn't touch me, and I was okay. Just okay. And okay, for once, was beautiful and more than I could ask for.
This strange sense of Presence was palpable and tangible. I knew God was with me, filling in the gaps. It felt like divine power was being lent to me to push through that moment.
It was one of the most powerful speaking engagements of my life. And yet I was frayed and at the end of myself. So how? Just how?
I've been thinking about that word:
Empty.
And the advantages that may come from being empty.
It's possible that when we are at the end of ourselves, something Other Than can rush in and fill us.
Other Than our doubts.
Other Than our worries.
Other Than our fears and insecurities.
Other Than our limits.
Other Than our small views of how things could turn out.
My friend says she is empty.
Maybe “empty” isn't the end.
Maybe “empty” is the ground
burnt up and cleared for something new to begin.
Maybe “empty” is an unexpected starting line.
Maybe “empty” is a meeting ground for the divine.
Maybe “empty” is an invitation for God to rush in.
xx,
Hannah B.
