up and down and up again

I hate it when I sabotage my own progress.

Reading Isaiah 45:2-3, I ask: Abba, will You please make my crooked places straight? Are We together leveling the mountains--or do You do the absolute totality of all the doing? Am I engaging only half-heartedly? Show me where I'm slacking, and give me the courage to hear the hard things.

The old ways tarnished the success yesterday. HE is always there, flaunting and waving that bedeviled carrot. I like it when WE win. I am sad when I cause ground recovered to then again be relinquished.

I remember the days when I hardly slept and hardly ate. I read ravenously, and You spoke often and profoundly, deep-feeding roots that You wanted broadened, strengthened, and cemented. At that time I learned "I have called you by your name, I have surnamed you, though you have not known Me. I am the Lord, and there is no one else; there is no God besides Me. I will gird and arm you, though you have not known Me." (Isaiah 45:4-5 Amp) Indeed, I did not know You as I know You now.

Always You would bring me higher and deeper. I am excited that maybe We are on the brink of another exciting adventure after such a great long span of self-inflicted desert. The anticipation of excitement though disappoints because I know that means I value highly the good feelings and memorable moments--the sensory fruits of being with You instead of simply loving the knowledge of the joy You have at just being together. Help me not to over-analyze and complicate things. Help me to enjoy the beauty of simplicity.

just chaff

A friend wrote to me and was struck by the impact our words could have in 100 years. It was an exciting and very real prospect for her because of the impact certain authors have had on her recently, 100 years after their books were written.

I was glad for her because writing and making an impact are very real and important things to her. I am not filled with that kind of optimism nor hope. I think my way on paper or in my blogs. I trust that most of what I've ever said is just chaff. In the end, it will be no more vital to the life of eternity than shavings or dust. My journalism is as lasting as lint. If you find some in your belly button, it's not a profound moment.

I think I imagine realistically that a few things I've said or written will be remembered by my few family members and closest friends. Snippets of conversations, lovelies spoken with just a look, probably something humorous. I won't know I'm being remembered. I won't be able to care. I will be at that forever-party with the One who ever remembers me as He looks on my engraved image in the palm of His hand.

I don't care if I'm remembered for my words. They're just tools for me to work out this salvation with fear and trembling, and to enjoy this life. But you go, my friend, and you work out yours. I love your words, and I will remember and treasure many of them. He will use all of it, all of this, all of what's to come, for the sake of that

One

True

Word.