This world is not my home.
I live a beautiful, colorful, simple yet chaotic life. Surrounded by love, laughter, forgiveness and hope
yet
I am often sad and lonely and unsatisfied. Every day brings reminders that this is not the place where my roots should grow deep. Even the most fulfilling human love that is mine is not enough.
Sometimes I fear admitting this because I worry God will put this confession to the test. I guess I am bold enough now to admit it because I can't deny truth when it whispers unrest to my soul even after the most seemingly perfect day. after day after day.
Every day I mourn. I mourn over my own sin and I mourn over evil that I cannot deny though my comfort begs me.
I am still so very broken. I struggle every day to choose Spirit over me. I mourn because I am stuck in my selfish ways. These filthy rags I try to call holy. Haughty eyes tell those rags to fake it. But my rags know I am lying and so it makes me feel even lower. Holiness refuses to pretend because God is holiness and he doesn't fake it.
Grace I hold to you. You'll never let me go because Love wont let you.
I mourn for children who have no father. For children who are sold like cattle. For mothers who have nothing to feed their dying baby. For grown men who still don't know what love is. For those who suffer and for those who die because they refuse to stop believing in the message of Jesus Christ. Christians who cannot say the name of Jesus for fear of never saying another word again.
But my mourning can only go as far as the next load of laundry will allow me to ponder. My tears cease as I fix a full breakfast for my children who will sing to God today with no fear of death or abandonment or hunger. My mourning holds no power and it is so sickingly shallow when compared to the true tool of warfare that my King has entrusted to me.
Prayer.
I will pray. And though my words seem to only go as far as my eyes can see and though my voice sounds so annoyingly awkward to my own ears I will trust in the one who said to never cease praying.
I talk to him because for some reason I might never understand, he likes to hear my voice. He likes to know I care enough to speak the words that make no sense. I know he likes to hear me obey him when it seems that there should be a better way to cure this evil.
He knows. When we pray and he moves the mountains, the praise goes to him. All I've done is open my mouth when no one was audience.
This mouth among many. Nothing incredibly wonderful or special. As a matter of fact, the clumsy words that flow out have proven to be very messy and leave me feeling pretty stupid more times than I want to own.
This way HE gets the glory because he uses the weirdest things to show how vastly immeasurably awesome he is.
He could have chosen something far more worthy to move his heart.
Oh the stars.
Those miraculous stars. The same words that spoke them to shine to entrance our imaginations spoke this mouth to speak on a given day and then on another chosen day to speak no more. Its those words I choose to speak to him while I am still so. far. away. from home that move destiny in the now and eternity.
I don't understand very much of you God.
And really, I don't expect to. I've tried to build kingdoms and carve dreams out of ashes. That's easier than trying to make stars. But I've failed at it all and so I will never pretend to get your ways.
I imagine those stars must sing to you somehow. Do they ever thank you for thinking of them so long ago? Do they sing of what's to come? Do they see this torment they are forced to illuminate and do they ask you to intervene? I am so far below those stars.
But somehow you care to hear my voice.
And so I pray.
