Diving In and Dealing
Here's the thing: I love writing.
It's not quite the same with pen and paper. My handwriting is pretty sad, and it doesn't feel as smooth. It feels realer, flesh-and-blood-er — but typing is faster and smoother. There's something especially satisfying about knowing what I want to say, and letting my fingers tap against the little letters that express a thingy.
Sometimes, I'll write emails to no one that I end up deleting just so that I can type even more freely. And then, it's still just cathartic.
But more! It's more. I think the devil hates good things. I say that because — a couple times now when my life has been poised for good work and healthy movement — hardships have swept into my heart and mind and bled into my actions, my life.
I say all that to consider the war between my creeping sin and my bursting desire to create. Even more so, I want to remember my desire to create. I want to remember that I am a son made in the image of God — the true Creator.
It's so quiet. It is the sound of a low whisper. I have packed a lot of noise into my brain lately, so it's been hard to hear, but — when I listen — it's sweet.
Sweet like honey or Nutella. No. Sweet like a fresh plum! It's a quick splash of refreshing flavor. When I listen, I can taste the joy. It's so brief, and I forget it so quickly, but I know it waits behind listening.
And I'm an idiot.
If I were to observe myself from the outside, I would say I was a resolute moron who chooses misery on purpose. I suppose if I were to observe a lot of people from the outside, I'd say we were a fine bunch of resolute morons, choosing misery more often than not.
IT IS A GOOD BLOODY THING WE HAVE JESUS
What a freakin mess.
I don't know what He's doing in me right now. I recently described it like being squeezed, and all the crap inside of me is oozing out and dripping all over the place. Now, I'm covered in my own crap, and I stink like a stinker — but it's outside, and I just need a simple hosing.
I recall another image. I once envisioned drawing closer to God like looking closer at a nasty pile of mess. As I draw closer to the Light, more and more of my crap is visible. Sometimes, I want to think that He's putting crap in my life, but, when I'm honest, He's just shining a light on the crap already there.
Coincidentally, I've been telling my writing students that they need to dump out all their writing tools — the pristine ones, the rusty ones, the hated ones — so that they can be cleaned and sorted.
This image is burned in my mind:
One of my students was remarking how he's not afraid of his own writing; he just wants to improve some of his skills.
I remarked that "some" will not do. We need to dump out everything so that it can all be seen.
He slowly raised both his hands and said, "fear."
He said it was a smile and a laugh, but that's how we all are I think: we just want to show our respectable problems, the ones that make us look good — or at least normal. Actually diving in and dealing with the deep piles of shit: now that's scary stuff.
As it turns out, I have a lot of deep piles of shit. Maybe I've become apathetic about my messes. They seem so commonplace — almost like they should be there. I think, though, that I've just embraced the crapstorm cleanup called sanctification.
In the words of the psalmist, "I am yours; save me."
It's not quite the same with pen and paper. My handwriting is pretty sad, and it doesn't feel as smooth. It feels realer, flesh-and-blood-er — but typing is faster and smoother. There's something especially satisfying about knowing what I want to say, and letting my fingers tap against the little letters that express a thingy.
Sometimes, I'll write emails to no one that I end up deleting just so that I can type even more freely. And then, it's still just cathartic.
But more! It's more. I think the devil hates good things. I say that because — a couple times now when my life has been poised for good work and healthy movement — hardships have swept into my heart and mind and bled into my actions, my life.
I say all that to consider the war between my creeping sin and my bursting desire to create. Even more so, I want to remember my desire to create. I want to remember that I am a son made in the image of God — the true Creator.
It's so quiet. It is the sound of a low whisper. I have packed a lot of noise into my brain lately, so it's been hard to hear, but — when I listen — it's sweet.
Sweet like honey or Nutella. No. Sweet like a fresh plum! It's a quick splash of refreshing flavor. When I listen, I can taste the joy. It's so brief, and I forget it so quickly, but I know it waits behind listening.
And I'm an idiot.
If I were to observe myself from the outside, I would say I was a resolute moron who chooses misery on purpose. I suppose if I were to observe a lot of people from the outside, I'd say we were a fine bunch of resolute morons, choosing misery more often than not.
IT IS A GOOD BLOODY THING WE HAVE JESUS
What a freakin mess.
I don't know what He's doing in me right now. I recently described it like being squeezed, and all the crap inside of me is oozing out and dripping all over the place. Now, I'm covered in my own crap, and I stink like a stinker — but it's outside, and I just need a simple hosing.
I recall another image. I once envisioned drawing closer to God like looking closer at a nasty pile of mess. As I draw closer to the Light, more and more of my crap is visible. Sometimes, I want to think that He's putting crap in my life, but, when I'm honest, He's just shining a light on the crap already there.
Coincidentally, I've been telling my writing students that they need to dump out all their writing tools — the pristine ones, the rusty ones, the hated ones — so that they can be cleaned and sorted.
This image is burned in my mind:
One of my students was remarking how he's not afraid of his own writing; he just wants to improve some of his skills.
I remarked that "some" will not do. We need to dump out everything so that it can all be seen.
He slowly raised both his hands and said, "fear."
He said it was a smile and a laugh, but that's how we all are I think: we just want to show our respectable problems, the ones that make us look good — or at least normal. Actually diving in and dealing with the deep piles of shit: now that's scary stuff.
As it turns out, I have a lot of deep piles of shit. Maybe I've become apathetic about my messes. They seem so commonplace — almost like they should be there. I think, though, that I've just embraced the crapstorm cleanup called sanctification.
In the words of the psalmist, "I am yours; save me."
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