Needing Grace

Dear Strangers, Acquaintances, and even Friends,

Let's just make this clear, so you won't be surprised.

I'm not a good person.

I know I pretend to be a lot, try my best to be, and even believe I am a lot of the time,
         but I'm not.

Not at all.

I'm not always fun to be around. I say cruel things. I'm quick to act on my emotions and am always doing things I regret. I don't apologize much.

And I don't love people like I should.

I'm not loving.

I wish I was. I do my best to be. I hope I can show a fragment of love to you, somehow.

But know this:
I'm just another rotten egg. Maybe more rotten than many others, though I try to hide it and not remember it myself. I like to think I can do it. I like to think that I can change myself.

Into someone fun and fascinating. Full of light, depth, and love.

I truly think I've spent my whole life believing that.

But I will disappoint you. A thousand times over. And hurt you and say things you'll never forget. I'm a failure at being a friend.

And I will disappoint myself.

Because it is me who believes in my strength more than you do.

But I was wrong. I am wrong, whenever I am caught in that lie. I'm weak and. . . I forget that.

So will you forgive me and give me grace? May God grant it to me that I can do the same to you. Even if you don't do it to me. May I learn to love unconditionally. . .

I'm sorry.

For who I am and how I will act and how I will fail you.

But thank you for learning this lesson alongside me: that we're all weak and in need of grace.

Because really, it takes all of life to learn of this. 

asking Him to change the channel of my heart

Wasting time.


It's no big deal, right? I tell myself.

It's too easy. When I'm sitting down to the computer or plopping in front of the TV,
how effortless.
And in the moment, it all appears harmless. Hey, I've got nothing to do. I'm tired. What's the problem?

And pretty soon any nagging from my conscience or nudging from the Holy Spirit is drowned by my disobedience. All too soon am I calloused.

To clarify, I'm not saying that relaxing, having down time, watching a movie, or anything of that sort is sinful. I know I need a lot of down time in order to function well and I am someone who does not thrive on a busy schedule. When I say disobedience, I am referring to my specific situation: God has asked me to acknowledge my laziness, dethrone these specific idols, and come meet with Him.

And, time and time again, I have ignored his chiding. Blatantly refused the invitation I have to go into his presence.

I want to say that it never felt blatant. It was each a small choice and each time- each time it felt like nothing wrong.

But stack everything up and-

I am a sinner. A grimy, chronic sinner. I'm supposed to be living by the Spirit. But aren't I just giving into my flesh, day in and day out?

And oh how I want to want true repentance. I want to have the strength to do a 180 degree turn. But oh I don't. I'm stuck and the barbs of flesh, desire, and sin are rooted deep. Reaching in and wrapped around my pulsing, beating heart. I'm incapable. I'm blind to what I'm doing. My habits are engrained. I'm disgustingly lazy. I'm a sunken ship, buried and lost in the waves I gave myself up to long ago.

All I have left is a whisper. That I may want to want change. It's so faint, this whisper not even past my lips.

But my God hears even the smallest of whispers. All one needs is a mustard seed and the very mountains are uprooted.

So let us all whisper our prayers for him to make us holy.

It's not funny anymore.

It's funny how easily people raise their hands for any old concert. How excitedly they jump up and down, filled with passion, enthralled by the music. How dedicated they are to the writer of the lyrics, following their lives through social media updates. Working hard to learn of this person, to know them.

If they saw this person, they would scream.

If they got to touch them, they might cry.

And oh, imagine, if this person, if their hero,
spoke to them?

They would carry those words with them for the rest of their lives.

And it's funny how fans listen to music over and over again, until their very ears bleed and they can say the lyrics in their sleep. Everything gets memorized, and why? Because they love this music. It touches something inside of them. Those words and the person who made them becomes a part of them forever.

It's funny, too, how these listeners, these worshipers, label themselves as belonging to the group they listen to. They declare how they like them, support them. Their very names are born from their love.

It's funny, how I stuff my hands in my pockets when I feel the urge to raise my hands in church. It's funny how hastily I rush through my nightly devotions, how fast I mutter a prayer before dinner. It's funnier still how my Facebook says I'm a follower of Jesus Christ but I barely think about this God-Man I label myself with. I take the Bible's words too lightly, and when was the last time I memorized a verse on my own? And not because I had to?

But wait, it's not funny. It's not funny at all,
when, for the first time,

I decide to sit before Jesus and pray.

I set up a chair in the dark of my room for him, and I sit across from him in my rocking chair. And do you know what? I see how un-funny it is when I imagine him sitting across from me and see him looking right at me. Looking through me. Here I am,

before him,

and there is no laughter in me when I see the hypocrite and sinner I am. When have my actions matched the words I've written? When have my beliefs been carried out?

I'm sitting, I'm sitting in front of Jesus.

And all I can do is cry,
because I'm not worthy.

* * *

Linking up for Imperfect Prose on this Wednesday. Isn't this post so poignant? It touched me to the core. . .

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.

My Monster

Feeling restless. 

I can’t stand this wandering feeling pulsing in my heart, writhing in my mind, squirming in my being. It’s a dissatisfied restlessness. Sometimes it comes, like an itch, and it’s uncomfortable, hard to ignore, difficult to ease.

And it feels wrong.

It derails me. And I can sense the sinfulness within it. If let loose, it would turn to anger, to swearing, to spitting arguments, to words that tear like a silver knife.

I sense its power. It’s a sleeping beast of my flesh. Sometimes the desire to wake it up comes in the heat of a moment. I could just shake it a little. It would greet me with green, thirsty eyes. I could let it be free for a couple minutes. It would feel so relieving to set it free to do its damage.

But if I unbind it,

the harm it wreaks will be worse than I can imagine.

And only regret will follow.

Parts of me are so tempted, hungry, desirous because I seek

how good it could feel.

A moment like biting into sweet berries on a heated day.

In the end, though, it’s a poison. And that satisfaction is fleeting.

The berries turn bitter, kill the Spirit within.

So I’m begging for this offer, temptation, beast to be taken away.

Kill it before I hand it the reins.

Or, at least,

Lord,

give me to strength to battle it until the day it will be silenced forevermore.

My Knotted Heart

My pride never seems so noticeable as when someone edits something I've written.
Or criticizes, confronts, and chides any part of me.

It blares like a trumpet.
A magnifying glass hovers over my pink, puffed heart. Veins of selfishness pump through it every day. . . and that is exposed. That reality becomes noticeable.

I feel my heart get tight, like a knot. I hate hearing that criticism. My mind knows I need it, but it's so hard to welcome it. To hear of my faults so plainly...

My first instincts: defend myself, make excuses, shoot back the criticisms.

The frost coats my words thick. Ice lays on my branches. Bitterness and self pity become my weapon.

When really, I should have no weapon at all.
 

"For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned." (Romans 12:3)

I need sober judgement.
Humility.
Acceptance.
Vulnerability.
Honesty.

The one who heeds correction gains understanding, in the end.

Melt this rigid heart, I beg.

There's a Log in My View

It's amazing how quickly anger can take root in my heart.

It's easy for me to see faults. So easy, to see those specks festering in their eyes.

When a tree stump is in mine.

The splinters poke as I look to the left,
and they remind me of my sins.
And I learn to bury them fast. Develop callouses before I feel any more of the Spirit's conviction.
His rod feels like fire.
Painful to my flesh.
Searing.
And all I want is for the pain to stop.

So I shun his discipline, stuff cotton in my ears,
sing ho hum.
And let only condemnation and judgement flow red in my blood,
though so much timber is in my eyes.

Realizing

I think that God shows me my
incredible selfishness
so much--

to bring me to him.

It's so hard.
All I am is selfishness. Really. 
I see it and want to cry and scream and crumple.

And then I feel this thought- that I need God.

I need him to be selfless.
I fail, I fail, I fail.
Every day.
I never go to him. I never receive it, surrender. And I can't.

He can.