On nights like these, on the crux between sleep and insomnia, I feel pinguid remorse served with a double heaping of guilt. While I often feel remorse from my actions daily (a side effect of my own limitations on repentance), tonight feels different. You see, I feel as if I have been running away from God.
It wasn’t a pack-my-knapsack-and-jump-into-a-boxcar running away. It was subtle, like I had taken a step back each day until I happened to be waist deep in the Gulf of Mexico. And that’s what guilt is to me. I can’t help but feel my ankles entrenched in quicksand, unable to move as I am swept by the undertow of my own rebellion. I cannot tell a lie—while this semester has been one of the most fruitful times of my life, I have never felt so rebelliously indifferent to the cause of Christ. My so-called intellect and zeal for speed, romance, adventure tickled me pink and bloated my pride. Why drink from Living Water when I can go out and get some other bottled Dasani myself? Wrong. As midnight proved himself faithful to Sandman, harmful, disease-ridden thoughts settled and burrowed like a parasitic worm snuggling in my stomach for a good night’s rest. I remembered that time I said flavorful words one too many, or when I screamed at Hannah at the dinner table, or when I made excuse after excuse to leave my Bible unopened. Still awake. Still saddened. Guilt has a way of corroding my granite heart with vinegar, bitter and acidic to my soul. Why would God choose someone like me, someone so unfaithful to the simple task of following Him? I don’t know. I suppose that will be the reason for my life, to seek truth when I lack discipline or drive. Right now, my bleary eyes can tell you I refuse to give in to the trachoma of sin. I don’t like my long-distance relationship with Jesus Christ any more than I like being cognizant at 2 a.m. in the morning writing something I will regret later. But my guilt cannot squelch the flame of the Holy Spirit, no matter how hard it tries. I’m lucid enough to hear His gentle voice over the cacaphony of my own doubts. When I pull back the noise, I see Him there. A calming presence, a gentle Savior, dusting the gravel off my thought’s imaginary kneecaps and making me white as snow. Sometimes, I wish more was required than His blood on the Cross, that I could clean up my act by myself, but then again, what’s saving grace without Grace Alone? From your honest, if not delieriously tired friend, I bid you adieu.
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Chapter One of My Life.
I walk down the street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. I am helpless. It isn't my fault. It takes forever to find a way out. Chapter Two. I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I'm in the same place! But it isn't my fault. And it still takes a long time to get out. Chapter Three. I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it there. I still fall in. It's a habit! My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately. Chapter Four. I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it. Chapter Five. I walk down a different street. Portia Nelson, There's a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self-Discovery As I read Anna Karenina (1878), I believe Tolstoy is the best writer ever lived. I am so intrigued by his writing style. Each description isn't fluff but psychoanalysis fodder. As a young writer myself, I think on modern publishers who'd criticize my arched metaphors and naivete. Placing my heart on this blog requires discipline for me. I don't enjoy criticism on my work because each labor rips a part of my soul. Yet Tolstoy doesn't think on criticism, he just writes. Even still, while critics lament his social commentary, he is still regarded more highly than Paul of Tarsus. He allows his soul to be tread upon with no injury to his own identity.
Konstantin Levin's story! I won't do you or him justice to write about it. I love him, I think I love him more than Anna Karenina and Stiva. Not unexpectedly, I am learning more from reading Anna Karenina than any other great magnum opus. If I had read this book any earlier, I wouldn't have finished, or certainly never started again. I am grateful for my sixteen year-old doubts. "If the world could write by itself, it would write like Tolstoy." - Isaak Babel |
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