Metaphor: My face is like my life. I hate the imperfections, but they’re there, obvious and distracting. When I stand and look in the mirror at my face and the blemishes that spot it, I see ugliness. I try to rid myself of it. I try my own ideas; I try what other people suggest; I even try what the commercials and magazines say. In the end, none of it really works. My face is still blemished. I cover it up with makeup when I’m in public. I hate the thought of others having to look upon my face with disgust. I assume they would, because I do. Even the blemishes from long ago have left their mark; scars and remnants remind me that they are permanent. My face will never be blemish free, perfect. Maybe the worse part is that I can’t control it. I try. So hard do I try. I’m sure it would be worse if I didn’t try, but no matter what I do, it seems my efforts are in vain. It won’t go away. Maybe I expected it to by now. Some days it’s worse than others. Some days I can even be okay with the reflection of myself. But other days, most days, the monster within rears its ugly head and I’m reminded of how very far off the mark I really am. I’m reminded that I fail, over and over and over again. I’m reminded that nothing I do seems to make it any better. My face is like my life. I hate my imperfections. And it’s hard for me to believe that this thing that I am, this blemished being, is something a holy God delights in…
*I think I was rebuked tonight by God. My most passionate fits of crying and devastation usually happen on the floor of my bathroom. I can lock the door and no one will bother me. No chance that someone might barge in and see the tears. I wanted so bad to cry tonight, but I couldn’t… which made me angry, angry at the one who could make me cry if He wanted. I stood in front of that mirror, disgusted with my insides and outsides, and I pretty much told God that He skrewed up big time when He made me. I was ugly, in the deepest sense of that word. And He rebuked me, “How dare you say that of MY creation, a thing that I love.” I could cry after that. So I did, long and hard, heaving sobs as I sat crumpled on the not-so-clean floor. That deity is so dang confusing. Sometimes I feel like I’m crazy… Of course, a friend once said that to me and I told him it was the only sane way to feel. Sigh. I feel like Christianity is like running on a treadmill. You’re moving a lot, so you feel like you’re getting somewhere, but when you slow down enough to look around you, you realize you haven’t moved at all. You’ve just done a lot of work, burned a few calories, and caused yourself enough pain that you’ll be sore for a while.
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"For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person --though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves His love for us in that while we were sinners Christ died for us." (Romans 5:6-8)
