• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency

Maybe my mother is to blame. She didn’t have to tell me that she named me after Christ. What a heavy burden to lay upon a child. I feel as though I have to live up to my namesake somehow, to suffer as he suffered or to save as he saved. It’s ridiculous, I know. I know I’m not God. I’m not all or even partial God. I’m human. I’m only human. There’s nothing particularly brilliant and special about me aside from that of any other human. I’m weak. I’m frail. Even for a human, I’m pathetically weak and frail. Delicate, as I like to say. Don’t be too harsh with me; I’m delicate, as though my body were composed of fine porcelain. Maybe my body is composed of fine porcelain or was at some point. It’s as though my body has been shattered upon a slate tile, and I’ve spent the entirety of my life searching for the teeny-tiny missing bits in a vain attempt at reassembly. Only Christ can reassemble me and make me whole again. Until then, I bathe in the droplets of gold dripped upon my surfaces as my heart of stone is gradually purified in his blazing fire.