There's No Waste At The Altar
- 6 hours ago
- 3 min read
“She said to herself, ‘If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed.’ Jesus turned and saw her. ‘Take heart, daughter,’ he said, ‘your faith has healed you.’ And the woman was healed at that moment.” —
Matthew 9:21–22 (NIV)
Read this slowly.
Press play first.
This morning, driving into work, I had that song on again.
"At the Altar."
The one I keep replaying. The one that finds me before I even realize I need to be found.
Traffic was moving. Coffee was cooling. Life was waiting.
And as the song played, something in me slowed down long enough to see it.
An altar.
And me standing in front of it.
Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just beautiful. Steady. Solid.
And behind me?
Everything.
My childhood.
The sins of my youth.
The mistakes I’ve made as a mom.
The regrets I’ve carried as a wife.
The words I wish I could take back.
The insecurities that still whisper.
The unforgiveness I justified.
The strongholds I tried to manage instead of surrender.
The mindset patterns I keep “working on.”
All of it stacked behind me like overfilled luggage I’ve been dragging for years.
And I realized something uncomfortable:
I’ve gotten strong carrying it.
Women do that.
We learn to function with weight.
We learn to perform while bleeding.
We learn to smile while suffocating.
But strength isn’t the same thing as freedom.
And suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about a building.
I was thinking about the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years.
The one who pushed through a crowd to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment.
She didn’t need a sermon.
She didn’t need a platform.
She didn’t need permission.
She needed contact.
She needed exchange.
“If I can just touch Him…”
That’s it.
And she did.
Her faith healed her.
But what moves me every single time isn’t just what she did.
It’s what He did..
He exchanged her shame for belonging.
Her isolation for identity.
Her sickness for wholeness.
That’s what an altar really is.
A place where something ends, and something begins.
It is where we lay something down so something new can rise.
You cannot pick up grace while gripping shame.
You cannot receive peace while clenching control.
You cannot walk into freedom while dragging yesterday behind you.
At some point, you have to turn around, face the pile, and choose to set it down.
Not because you’re weak.
Because you’re ready.
An altar is not about drama.
It’s about a decision.
It’s the moment you say, “I will not carry this anymore.”
And here’s the beautiful part: heaven is not stingy.
When you lay something down, you don’t walk away empty.
You walk away lighter.
You walk away called “daughter.”
You walk away with a grace that feels almost unfair.
I don’t know what is behind you today.
But I know this: there is an altar with your name on it.
Maybe it’s your car.
Maybe it’s your bathroom floor.
Maybe it’s right where you’re standing.
It’s not about location.
It’s about surrender.
Turn around.
Set it down.
And let Him exchange it for what He’s been holding out to you all along.
My Prayer:
Jesus,
I am tired of carrying what You already carried for me.
Today, I choose the altar.
I lay down my shame, my regret, my offense, my strongholds, my need to control, and the stories I’ve believed about myself. I lay down the weight I’ve grown used to.
And I receive what You have for me—Your grace.
Your healing.
Your love.
Your identity over my life.
Call me daughter again.
Remind me who I am.
Teach me to live with open hands.
In Your name,
Amen.
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