I am in a dry spell. I read or hear the Scripture, and it means nothing to me. My faith right now feels like it is defined by deadness. I still believe, but my belief is an unoccupied shell. I am surrounded by new creations alive in their growth, and how I envy them—how I envy the prior version of me that was alive, too. But my faith was rooted in pride. I see that now. I interpreted Scripture through a lens that brought me constant assurance that I would go on to be a true hero for the Lord, bravely going where few Christians had dared in the name of ministry. As a youth, I looked up to David and Timothy from a place of expectation. I never wanted to be a Christian whose only experience with outreach is to just show Jesus through actions, not words. This seemed a cowardly waste to me. Imagine my disbelief, my defiance upon realizing that God is not opening doors to bold missions. He has given me a comfortable, blessed life, to be sure, but it is not what I have been preparing myself for. It seems to me that my only hope at preserving the fragile flame within me, once a blazing flare, is to make this season one of study in patience and humility.