Set Me Aflame

I was about to eat supper. Dishing up carelessly, living in the day. My food filled the plate and I took my first bite.

Oh yeah. I should pray. Forgot about that.

And with anything but depth, I started to mutter words in my head. What an obligation. What a drag. A bore. A habit that I need to develop. A thing I should do.
To be good.

An airy thought in my head, an itch to be scratched. My emotions blank. My soul numb. Oh yeah. Praying. Let's add that in real fast, like a dash of salt in a recipe.

Then

whoosh

I was shaken awake.

-What am I doing? Oh Lord, what am I doing?
And my heart in the past days? Detached. Empty. Distant. And. . . lost.

And, more than that, I hadn't even realized. 
I hadn't even noticed my state. 

Oh the realizations crashing in upon me, like beating waves, tearing winds,
and my eyelids were opened up like a chest so that I might
see.

And I saw that I was acting just like this was any old religion. An occasional thing in my life to be visited. A meager part of me. A fraction, a slice, not an
all-consuming  
fire,
a blaze transforming every crevice, awakening the deepest love and strongest passion from my depths. 

God, save me from
this
complacency.

Make it my enemy. My dreaded fear. That I may be so on edge, never to stop fighting it, searching for its presence - that if I find a
small hint 
of it, I would leap to snuff it out. May my sword be drawn, senses heightened, mind aflame with the Spirit to never forget.

I want true prayer. Intercession. Communion. A perpetual conversation, a dance of words and love and pouring out. I want this with you, God. I want a remembering heart, an unconformed mind. I don't want to settle. Don't want to sit still. Don't want to lose sight. Don't want to live on my own. Don't want to be like any other person. Don't want to act like you're just another god. Don't want to put you on my mental checklist. Don't want to change our marriage into religion, burden, a pot on the back burner of the stove. You aren't restraint. You are promise. Your grace isn't a perk. It's a pool - that's necessary for me to be saturated in.

Consume me.

Consume me. 

I can't stand my position, my current state. It's not okay. It's muck. And pick me up and 
move me far from here. 
Because I do not want to linger in this complacency, resistance, and lack of 
surrender. 


I need your winds of testing, piercing convictions, life and presence and voice. I need your touch to draw me out of this stupor, out of my death. Raise me from the dead. I need you.

shed this forgetfulness

I have been digging into Proverbs lately. Underlining and highlighting and soaking in
all the practical and deep,
the bundles of steady wisdom.

And in this saturation, I'm hoping some of it will rub off upon me.

Because I need it. Desperately.

How many times have I read about the fool and seen myself leap out?
And how many times have I read about the wise man and longed to find
just a
fragment
of my heart in those lines?

I need to search, really search and stretch like elastic to even
begin
to imagine myself having things in common with this wise, righteous man. This wise one who stays on the path, ponders instead of forgets, leans in the right places, thinks before he speaks, slows, gives with mercy, offers himself with intention.

I'm seeing my foolish feebleness, my folly, my chronic forgetfulness.

Oh my forgetfulness.

And I remember Ezekiel 17's prostitute who did not remember.
She did not remember the days of her youth, when she was naked and bare, wallowing in blood.
She did not remember what He rescued her from.

And that is me.


How the Proverbs plead with me to keep the teaching,
keep the words,
the remembrance,
bound on my fingers,
written on my heart.

Oh Abba, I want to be righteous, a lover of your rebuke, one who remembers your love and work, who walks well, thinks first, ponders always, answers soft.

I know I'm lacking. But
I'm looking back to those days.

How your rescued me from my blood.

And though I'm an adulterer, you have a covenant bound in faithfulness.

So shed this default of mine, of forgetfulness. And let me live
in remembrance of you.

The Finish Line

I really feel like blogging about something substantial, but I have no idea what to write about. So I'll just dive in on one little thing that's been on my mind for a while.

When I got back from the Arizona mission trip,
I felt... dismantled.

You know, ridiculous. Terrible. Horrendous.


Being back home, in my house was odd. Being around my own family again felt different. The people I'd seen, the place I'd been, the lack of sleep, the environment was all suddenly different.

I felt so out of place and strained.

After the ride home with my parents, I went down to my room, sat down on my bed...
       and just cried.
It felt good. I was alone again. I talked to God aloud.

Already, I missed Arizona so much. I didn't know how I could keep going with that strong, pulsing ache inside. To cry it out felt comforting.

The relief of those moments soon passed, and in the next couple days I felt almost as awful as I had in the first minutes I got back. I was filled with tension.


It took me a while to see it... but I realized I hadn't been doing my devotions.
I felt so stripped after all of that continual, daily purpose that surrounded us every day on the trip
was gone.

While I was there, our team was united. We were reaching out to the people. We were told truth every single minute. After so much preparation, now we were doing it. Our purpose was missions, and we could fulfill that purpose every day, constantly,

so soon, so close.

That purpose was laid before us, and we could pick it up right there.

And then, I was back. On my own.

But with the same purpose, though the steps weren't laid before me so easily. It took me a while to see that.

To open my Bible again,
felt perfect.

I can know that I still have the same purpose:
to love my God with all of my heart, soul, mind, and strength.
And through that, love can pour out of me and onto others.

I'm still unsure, I'm still scared.

But my God is with me.

Whom then shall I fear?

I should still keep on running the race, digging into the Word,
abiding, abiding
striving, loving, praying, seeking.

And the finish line yet awaits,
where God will be standing, arms wide open,
to say,
"Well done, good and faithful servant."

So I cling to hope.