Friday, July 27, 2012

Confessions


Here, I often paint a picture pretty of life.  My words create a hazy Monet, with light dappling and color bursting in all the right places.  But the truth: if you stare at the painting long and hard enough, you will find the imperfections.  My life is not perfect; is it not near museum-worthy.  This is a blog that I use to record life, and mostly, I look for the beautiful and happy strokes.  It helps me see my life as the amazing gift it is.  What I don't want, though, is to give you the illusion that I am bouncing along from one grand adventure to the next, with no mishaps along the way.

My heart is messy here.  Here where the landscape could be (and has been) the subject of a famous artist's brush, here where the sun shines and the ice-cream is abundant...here I bear still the earthen clay of a broken vessel.  

Working and living with people, seeing them every day for many hours, stirs the sins.  They bubble to the top of me, and they come out in ugly manifestations.

Competition.

Pride.

Envy.

Judgement.

This is where I am at.  This is where I fall to the bedside in a quiet, wood-paneled room and beg for mercy.  This is where I remember that I long for it to be not I who lives, but Christ in me.

It is good for the hammer to swing.  It is good for the pot to see itself truly, the shards on the ground, broken and tiny.  It is good for the branch to see the withered leaves when it has stripped itself off of the Vine.

I sat at the front of the shop a few days ago.  It was my turn to man the cash-register for the gifts section of the store.  It is a coveted position, for it provides a chance to sit and escape the endless line and the question one always has to ask: "Would you like that in a cup or a cone?"


I scribbled these thoughts on a notecard as I sat.

Be gracious to people
as you long to be shown grace
Lay down judgment
Quit being the elder son
Speak words of life, of genuine kindness
You do not have to be the best, the first
Off up your pride on the altar of death,
It does not need to be revived. 
Strive not for your own pleasure, comfort
Serve not to be served.
Love is not my language,
but I want for it to be.



This is not who Lara Weaver is on her own.  This is not a life I can eek out if I make a plan and stick to it.  This is only Christ.  This is me, surrendering minute by minute, each breath in and out asking for the Man who was God to live through me.

Christ, who is our life.

Christ, who is our life.

Oh Christ, come be my life.

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