Why do you feel the need to explain yourself so much?
on the verge of crashing and burning, always one poor decision away from re-entering the land of the lost.
And when you've been lost before, you can be found and still live afraid.
Afraid of the falling.
I wear the burden to make up for what I can't get back. I am capable of living in gratitude for what is and in fear of what might not be and I know this isn't right. I know it.
But I have looked wasted time, ugly sin-self in the eye. I've looked square into her soul.
No, but she just rears her ugly head now and then ... taunts me like a shadow.
And while she's not the real thing, I quickly forget that I've been facing the Light for quite some time.
Shadows are only remarkable when the back is to the sun. Face the light and, well, that shadowy-girl may as well be invisible.
I don't tell her there in my kitchen because I haven't quite figured it out. But the truth is this:
I don't think I trust who I've become.
And rightly so. Without the One who cradles the fall, sets me upright, I'm just a wispy kid on a high wire; the crashing and the fracturing are inevitable.
This new gal who lives in my skin and speaks free and dances unafraid at weddings and eats a 6-inch sub in four minutes flat-- she was saved by One who likes to cradle the falling. And she shocks me on occasion and it's only when I start thinking I had something to do with the catching that I get all nervous.
I start thinking this whole show depends on my balancing act and perfect execution.
And sometimes the veil between standing firm and crashing hard is so thin that I quake.
I feel the need to check in, pine a little for some assurance. Wait for others to be my mirror. I tell my friend how I can affirm freedom in women, speak truth that builds up, but how I still hold the past over my own head. When it starts to look too good,
I get busy heaping on the coals.
This is slavery at its very best, I know. I know.
I can live out some terrible theology. Twisted pride: thinking so highly of myself, thinking my story is bigger than His. I can talk about freedom while I live indebted and whisper up a worn out prayer:
Lord, make up for the time I squandered. Make good on what I messed up.
Sometimes I can hear Him responding with loving exasperation, I am, child, and I already did.
I read in James about the person who asks and then doubts, how they are like a wave in the sea. Tossed about. Unstable. I can identify. But this woman I've come to love relaxes at my table and says it in passing as if I know what she means.
Ab, I think this may be your year of Jubilee.