I am tired.
I should daily die but, instead, every other day perhaps, I grasp and claw and fight my way into my will of living, the very resolve that is manmade, centric focused, self-fulfilling.
As I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe Him, for I watch as the chapters of my story reach their glorious heights only when this author realizes quite shockingly that he is not the Author. Surprisingly, He does a much better job than someone such as I, with my feeble existence, my limited tolerance, my pathetic shell.
Even as I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe Him. My mind bounces this way and that as I cower at the thought of Him. My writing is sporadic, stunted, all over the place, yet nowhere as I try to capture Him, as I search to contain Him.
As I get out my bucket and shovel and begin to work on my sand castle, He forms a mountain with His bare hands. While I retrieve my crayons and my construction paper, He sweeps His fingers across the sky and makes a prism of color unlike any other. While I blow my hot air, He breathes into the wind and engulfs me into His embrace. While I puff on my horn and beat my drums, He summons nature to cascade and ripple and resound with the harmony of the ages.
He shocks me, beckons me, and pulls me by the ear. He embraces me, taps me on the shoulder, smacks me on the butt to get in the game. He will place His hand on the small of my back, or turn me to face Him. He will stand in front of me, beside me, shield me, and nurture me.
He’ll even get out of my way.
He gives me a free will to sin and so I do. But as one sin falls on top of another and they multiply and grow arms and legs and tentacles He never stops taking me back. I am wounded, limping for a lifetime, but there He is, down the road, on one knee, weeping as I run toward Him. He’s so happy that I’m back. I run so fast to Him that I knock Him over when I get there, and we laugh.
His lap is imminently ready to be crawled into, His chest large and comfortable to lay my head. He sits at my table, occupies my grief, and circumvents my catastrophes.
But I can’t mistake this God for any other. No, I dare not try because He will deafen with thunder and He will rebuild kingdoms and He will not trifle with sin. His is a mighty fist attached to a muscular arm that keeps this planet in motion. I shudder at the reality that He is.
Capture Him if we must in the landscape of our minds, but no frame can contain Him.
His love is overwhelming, nearly as vast as He is. He prepares and executes a cosmic change in plans and summons His own beautiful Son to walk this earth and to fix a horrible mess that is you. A horrific mess that is me.
Then He turns His back on him. He rejects him; His first and only born just for me. His beloved Son just for you.
So, as I write this, I am tired, but oh, how awestruck I should be! I was not meant to prop myself up, to cling to artificiality, to pigeonhole my way. I was not designed to muscle out of this box.
I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I must—yes, today I must—find my weakness made strong in all that He is.