I've always been a big fan of sanctification. To me, it's the whole idea of God finally getting together a self-improvement plan for all us screw up Christians. The constant seduction of a seemingly easy to follow 12 step plan or the like can be rejected in the face of the Almighty's renovating Spirit. "Ha! No thanks, Dr. Phil! Take it somewhere else, Tony Robbins! I'm good, Oprah! I'm being sanctified!"
I've had the struggle of perfection bearing down on my slim shoulders since diapers. Some could say it was because I was created for more, being part of my Father's chosen, having the weight of future glory burdening my earthly walk. I have to disagree. I wonder if it simply expectation. Sure, living in a family of perfectionistic personalities hasn't helped. Yet I glance into their lives as a possible mirror to my own, for the qualifications I put on myself are much harsher than theirs.
I often go on self-improvement stints. I resolve to do something everyday or to act better in a certain area or remember something I constantly forget. Most valiant attempts involve as many of these things as possible. I get caught looking around in my life too long, turning away disgusted, submitting all I see for improvements. It's much like a real estate agent would look at a prospective house. "Well, the yard's a mess, let's remember curb appeal... And the hardwood flooring is a selling point, but not with this inch of dust on it. Can we remove this wall?" It's like a big to-do list that I long to check off, but never can. Every try fails. I may keep the plates spinning a while, but then gravity kicks in, and they all crash.
I'm uncomfortable with my adulthood. I rarely feel its consistency; at one moment I am exerting my independence, brash and audacious; the next I am clinging to assistance, needy and incapable. I'm tired of making excuses for my absurd behavior, tired of not quite relating to the adult community around me, tired of having to justify myself to everyone, including myself. I don't know who I am. Leave me alone so I can figure it out. But please don't desert me, because I have no idea what I'm doing.
I wish I had it all right the first time. I'm frustrated with my mistakes. I'm angry at my weaknesses. I'm sick of myself messing up. So I ask, what happened to my sanctification? Why am I not getting better? Why has every new challenge, every new element, every new aspect proved itself my superior as I fall defeated? I guess you could say I'm a little discouraged. Prepare yourself, for this is the rest of your life. Imperfection and the inability to overcome it.
So how does a human, incapable of perfection, relate to God, the creator of perfection? How do I communicate to the One who should be more disappointed in me than anyone else in my life? And why would He even want to talk to His pathetic example of a girl who graduated high school, sure of her standards, morals, and absolutes turning into an unstable woman who would be blind leading anyone to Him, having forgotten the way herself?
I wish I had a conclusion, something to tie this mess up at the end in some clever way that gives the reader hope I'm on the right path, just bumping into the furniture until I can find the light switch. And perhaps I am. But for the time being, my eyes aren't adjusting well to the dark.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Present Tense
She makes them laugh, as always.
The sound of their happiness carries from the kitchen and dissolves over the still driveway as she slips out quietly through the front door. Preoccupied, she hardly notices the weight of dusk surrounding her. The stars above serenade her with their splatters of light while the crescent moon smiles upon her down turned head. Her face remains set on her car as she flip flops across the cement, and she ignores the summer night sky's cartographic display.
She slides in the driver's seat, slips the key in the ignition, and pauses. The windshield receives her blank stare as she sighs. She shakes off the moment and turns the key. The four-cylinder murmur reaches her unhearing ears as the honeyed humidity forces her to roll down the windows. Ah, the poor man's convertible is once again created from her coup.
She heads down the road and turns on the music. Coldplay. Exactly what she needs. The wind fills the car and mingles with the strokes of the strings. Her pulse rises with each swell. Her brunette locks with tickles of blond summer highlights fly freely as she twists the knob for more volume. She is lost in the music. It dissolves her thoughts, her words, her senses.
She turns into her neighborhood and the gusts die down. She suddenly becomes aware of the music and how contrary it is to the quiet calm of the suburbs. She spins it down, but the magic is not lost. The song comes to an end as she bumps over the gutter and into her slot on the driveway. The engine sleeps with the exit of the key, and the lights blink off. She steps out and stands, regaining her sense of existence. She walks to the house, glancing up to check if any lights were still on inside. Her green eyes find the window, but refuse to linger. They shoot up towards the heavens and she finally sees that which has been above her as she drove the streets.
She has always been in love with the night sky. Nothing else can make her feel as purposeful, as significant, as humbly important as the stars, moon, and infinite dark beyond. But lately, the realities and necessities and tendencies of life have distracted her from her first love. They haven't met in quite some time.
But now, they have reunited. She forgets to breathe, forgets to blink. Her thirsty eyes take in the sight she has neglected far too long, recognizing the familiar pattens. She is silent, for she is listening. And what she hears gives her hope.
"You are my daughter. You are imperfect; you are sinful; you get things wrong. But you are my daughter, and I love you."
"Help me." She says simply. She does not beg, but says this with the strength of faith, learning once again she is needy and poor, yet has the deepest resource, the richest kindness, standing wide open to her.
She walks into the house and rests in peace.
The sound of their happiness carries from the kitchen and dissolves over the still driveway as she slips out quietly through the front door. Preoccupied, she hardly notices the weight of dusk surrounding her. The stars above serenade her with their splatters of light while the crescent moon smiles upon her down turned head. Her face remains set on her car as she flip flops across the cement, and she ignores the summer night sky's cartographic display.
She slides in the driver's seat, slips the key in the ignition, and pauses. The windshield receives her blank stare as she sighs. She shakes off the moment and turns the key. The four-cylinder murmur reaches her unhearing ears as the honeyed humidity forces her to roll down the windows. Ah, the poor man's convertible is once again created from her coup.
She heads down the road and turns on the music. Coldplay. Exactly what she needs. The wind fills the car and mingles with the strokes of the strings. Her pulse rises with each swell. Her brunette locks with tickles of blond summer highlights fly freely as she twists the knob for more volume. She is lost in the music. It dissolves her thoughts, her words, her senses.
She turns into her neighborhood and the gusts die down. She suddenly becomes aware of the music and how contrary it is to the quiet calm of the suburbs. She spins it down, but the magic is not lost. The song comes to an end as she bumps over the gutter and into her slot on the driveway. The engine sleeps with the exit of the key, and the lights blink off. She steps out and stands, regaining her sense of existence. She walks to the house, glancing up to check if any lights were still on inside. Her green eyes find the window, but refuse to linger. They shoot up towards the heavens and she finally sees that which has been above her as she drove the streets.
She has always been in love with the night sky. Nothing else can make her feel as purposeful, as significant, as humbly important as the stars, moon, and infinite dark beyond. But lately, the realities and necessities and tendencies of life have distracted her from her first love. They haven't met in quite some time.
But now, they have reunited. She forgets to breathe, forgets to blink. Her thirsty eyes take in the sight she has neglected far too long, recognizing the familiar pattens. She is silent, for she is listening. And what she hears gives her hope.
"You are my daughter. You are imperfect; you are sinful; you get things wrong. But you are my daughter, and I love you."
"Help me." She says simply. She does not beg, but says this with the strength of faith, learning once again she is needy and poor, yet has the deepest resource, the richest kindness, standing wide open to her.
She walks into the house and rests in peace.
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