A friend challenged me recently.
Typography Joseph Alessio
She said that maybe the scripture that I see as my mission is in fact, intended for me. Maybe I’m the one that needs to be freed up from the chains that bind me. She said it in the most grace-laced way imaginable. She didn’t malign my calling. She just expanded my demographic. I know she’s right. And I don’t like her telling me that. But I think that what’s got me all scrinched up is the fact that my eyes were opened. And what she said? It was something I didn’t really believe.
There’s a difference between
knowing and believing.
I knew that I have chains that need to be loosed in my own life. But I didn’t actually believe there were still chains that need to be loosed in my own life. And I really didn’t like that.
Her truth filled words propelled me into my little orbit of narcissism and pride where I like to exist all by my little self thank-you-very-much. I take the pride and lay it on the altar of my own sin. It leads me down a path that I like to travel every now and again even though its dark and scary and ugly. The belief that I want to be my own savior. Quite honestly, sometimes I don’t want the grace. I want to do it by myself and be my own sacrifice and pay my own price and say yep, I got that covered. So,
Does the grace cover seemingly
Several weeks ago, my daughter pinched a nerve in her neck, she’s 10. I was just a couple of years older than when I pinched the same nerve, I can remember like it was yesterday, it was excruciating. This has been coming on for a while. She carries a 35 pound backpack to school every day. Every.single.book.in her fourth grace curricula comes home with her. Not because she needs them all every night, but because she doesn’t want to forget one should she happen to need it. The strain of carrying that heavy load of books finally caused that little electrically charged zip of a nerve to break under the weight.
I think I’m breaking under the weight right now, The load on my shoulders is self-inflicted and I’m over the top sanctimonious about carrying it. Look at me, I’m carrying my big load of &%^$ myself. Aren’t I amazing. I can name it, justify it, quote the scripture that covers it, feign remorse to God, beg for him to take it and still come out on the other side with my perfectly little ordered ugly in tact. It disgusts me that this is the truth about my soul. I can’t step away from it and if I do I hear a voice that says you’ve ruined it all now, you call yourself a follower of Christ, and you think you’re too good for that grace. And I drown in a shallow puddle of self-loathing. All the while, believing somewhere in my heart that I’ve paid the price myself.
I haven’t found an easy fix for this one. It’s messy, ugly and so very painful. I’m trying to embrace the fact that if I did have a tidy little answer, that might be a bigger issue.
For today, I’m going to remember that the blood was for me and choose to believe it. The dripping, hot, clotting crimson, smearing the body of Christ, seeping down it’s splintery wood, puddled at the foot of the cross. That sacrifice was essential because of my narcissistic plan for salvation on my own altar of self-indulgence.
It’s ugly, it’s messy, it’s humiliating and it’s true.