Saturday, 30 May 2009

  • Abandoned?

    That silent voice that just spoke nothing, that is me. I’m listening to your plea with open ears - counting all your tears flowing from your irritated eyes searching the skies looking for that hope that beyond there lies.... When I am silent, I am listening. Not abandoning.
    -Bradley Hathaway, Silence

    Sometimes, I feel like I need to blasted by some huge and different experience or epiphany in order to write about my Jesus.

    However, in the past few weeks, something has been scratching at the corners of my mind - trying to quietly gnaw its way out. I am not sure how to articulate it, and that's been really bothering me.

    I don't need something dramatic to happen to me to remind me of my faith. Every once in a while, when I'm alone in my car, I'll talk to Jesus and tell him about my day. Every I remember to speak up, I always end up apologizing profusely and saying how much I miss him and I love him over and over again.

    It might be time for me to stop apologizing and trying to convince him of my good intentions to speak with him more often. I need to grow up and embrace the fact that I don't have an excuse to stay away from him.

    Most of the time I feel very unlovable. I know this is silly. I have incredible friends and an amazing family who love me very much - but, occasionally, my depression creeps back and turns me sour. I feel like they're wasting their time, loving someone like me. I feel like God's wasting his time - and the biggest waste of all was to die for someone as self-absorbed and needy as I am. Sometimes I wonder why he made me look like I do - most days I look in the mirror and vow that I'd give anything to look completely different. I am so arrogant that all I can think about is my ugliness. I am insignificant, and I do not matter.

    Punchinello laughed.
    "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"

    Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly.
    "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."

    Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this - much less his maker. He didn't know what to say.

    -Max Lucado, You are Special

    Apparently, I matter to God because I am his. He made me, and he loves me. You matter to God, too - because you're his and he loves you.

    I don't know if anyone else needed to hear that, but I did. I knew I needed to write something to this effect, and I think I've done it.

    He can took my wretchedness and made it his own - and he loves me.

    What's bigger and more dramatic than that?

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