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I have these primitive senses – to feel something new, to want something that I do not have, to dwell on what I miss out on. Why is it, as Paul asked, although I want to do good, evil is right there with me?[1].
I have these primitive senses – to feel something new, to want something that I do not have, to dwell on what I miss out on. Why is it, as Paul asked, although I want to do good, evil is right there with me?[1]. I see myself working each day to control these primal instincts – a practice that is very much a delicate balance fraught with self-determination and compromise. For when I fall into any of these wants, needs, and desires and become victim to them, I also risk taking everything else down within me to fulfil the desire. What do I want above everything else? To feel seen? To become appreciated or to be accepted? To be applauded and be told good job? For by nature my fears are hidden behind simple wants, masking what it is that I am not prepared to lose. The question of what I do most desire assumes that I have a short memory for the important things around me, assumes that I lose sight of how much it has taken to get me here and implies that what I already have pales in comparison to what I could have.
To catch a firefly that’s high up in the sky, you must allow darkness to surround you. And even so, there’s a chance it might not end up in your palm, and you lose sight of your goal. When I hit new lows, there’s no net to keep me from going lower if I forget the kind of darkness that I am capable of. And in the midst of darkness lies a pride that often grips me – a sense that I cannot be redeemed and I feel condemned to the current state and even too attached to who I’ve become that I cannot let go, cannot trust someone else to carry the burden of my sorrow and sin. For what kind of justice is there if someone takes your actions, your thoughts, who you were and tells you that you are free of these things? I often idolize my former self and tell myself that things cannot possibly be better let alone getting back to where you were. But isn’t that the curse of memory? Not having any other point of view of where I can go, I cling onto where I was once before – pure and spirited, filled with joy and hope – and I admire these memories, wrap them within my heart to becomes, forever, who I was and who I will never be again.
When you hear that song calling on to the embers of hope within you, what follows is a hatred of any of that hope, a thorough despising of the gospel truth, an aversion to conversations about whether its truth can water your thirsty, fading spirit and a folding within. What folds within but those leaves that fall and turn to dust? Where does sin have its grip? Is it not in the small delights we hold for ourselves – the refusal to submit all of who we are to God? You want the warmth of another around you, the warmth from your house fireplace on your feet, the warmth of the sun on your face – and to glory in these temporal delights and sustain them for as long as you can. And for me to do just that, I let the times tell me who I am becoming, I have to become the god of my life and shun the idea that I am a flawed human being. All of a sudden, I am on my way to contain my worst fear – the world that I am creating begins to crack, to fall apart and crumble. The cycle repeats itself.
There’s a certain kind of vivid yet seductive clarity that comes when I was so close to someone who passed away. I become especially conscious of own fragility – a thought that is often elusive. To understand that I can continue living without both the mercy of others and the knowledge of the truth of where you are at that point in time is where sin matures within myself. And often, that very pit where I find myself offers no way out. Someone offered me a hand with a graceful alacrity that I cannot thank God enough. I feel a longing at times for complete restoration but I know that each day that struggle within and without between evil and good is a battle I should never give up because I know that I don’t have to do it alone, I have God right there with me.
[1] Romans 7:21 New International Version