I feel a spiritual battle waging in my heart. While most days are filled to the brim, I can find myself in the snare "be more." This sinister trap grips my leg and produces a limp. It speaks with jagged teeth: "Are you doing more? Are you effective? Are you using every moment purposefully?" I try to convince myself to pick up hobbies, read Jane Austen, and write my next magnum opus, yet I just grasp at straws.
I do very little relying on my own willpower. I am reminded of the Gospel in my futile attempts at normalcy. On the cross, Christ the Glorious puts to death all my false ideas and idols of God, including my desire to be more. When Christ breathed out His last, He offered Himself up to the Holy Spirit and revealed a God beyond our wildest dreams. The shape of the Gospel is not a warped thing. It is not in the shape of my snare. It is more like a Fibonacci spiral, seen in the cusp of a petal or the curve of a shell. It is the fabric of our being, the very essence of life. It takes shape of a seed, dying to bear fruit. It is Jesus, not me.
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