Not me

 

I try too hard.
And want too much.
Or not enough.

And live seeking.

And it is God only.

Filling the empty places.
Calming my anxious heart.

This I know.

Though I don't often live it.

And.
Having to be reminded.

Because of what I do.

And that is.
Making Him into something.
He is not.

A formula for success.
Or happiness.
Or to fulfill my own agenda.

Forgetting. 

That I am full of.
Desperate attempts.
Going nowhere

And it is grace.

All the time.

Covering my lack.
My endless flaws.

Sin in me.
Clamoring loudly.
And rearing up ugly.
For attention.

And I find.
Over and over.
In order to see Truth.
And to live free.

Must remember.

God rules this world.

Not me.

And He always.
Welcoming.
Forgiving.
Extending grace.

Redeeming everything.

Because.

Such an exorbitant price paid.

No longer having to be

 

 

 

Refugees.

In war torn countries.

And the homeless.
On the streets.

Hospitals full.
And nursing homes.

Feeling different.
And set apart.

Reality slamming hard.
Against hopes and dreams.
Facing loss.
And fearing.

Even those of us.

In homes warm. And safe.
The wee hour moments.
Threatening to bury.
With pressure and worry.

And feeling different.
For it.  Full of shame.

An outcast.
On so many levels.
From others.
In this broken world.

Because.
Things just not.
What they are supposed.
To be.  And longing for.
The pretty perfect picture.

And in the redemptive story.

Jesus, too, an outcast.

When He departed heaven.
And hung on a tree.

To rescue.

And we like to.
Rescue the hungry.
And the babies.
And the abandoned puppies.
All good things.

But He.

Rescued us.

In a way we are unable.

Offering.
In our broken and our shame.

A new status.
As His beloved.
No longer having to be.

Outcast.

And reaching out to others.
Who are.

I doubt seriously

 

Left to my own devices.

Would I ever choose God?

A somber question.
And I fear the answer.

Because I would choose. 
Me.
And I do.  A lot.

I want God to fit into.
My formula for life.
To fix me.
And to fix the world.

And yet.
The harder I try.
The more I sink.
Into failure.

Take nutrition.
Being told to count everything.
And keep a record.
Making better choices.
Bending low over it for a full day.
Table full. Books and lists.
Pencil scribbling. 

And what I learn.
Quite shocking.
All the foods we consume.
Just because.
Tasting so good.

And I resolve.
Eat healthier. 
A lot healthier.

And then.
A day or two later.

Despondent.  Ready to quit.

You only live once.
And I like what I like.

And my man says to me.
May I introduce you to.

Moderation.

Well.
Hasn't worked yet.

I don't know.
I just can't.
Most of the time.

It's not good and I'm not sweet.
Or beautiful or successful.
Or virtuous.

More like guilty.

For eating junk.
And trying too hard at some things.
Not enough at others.

And I don't.

Deserve grace.

That's why it's so radical.

Because.
I doubt seriously.

I will ever learn moderation.

Or choose correctly.

Left to my own devices.