It is so easy for me to get off my knees, walk out the door and let the symphony of my spirit joining His fade into muted haze. Easier still to settle my discontented soul on the backs of others. You were on fire until you had to interact with that immature, unfruitful bunch. It’s okay, soul. It’s not your fault. But what good is a fire that doesn’t light up the dark? What good is flame without needed warmth in the cold?
It’s a twofold caution… Because some days I’m the finger-pointer and some days I’m the fire-crusher (which frankly sounds cooler, but it’s not). I catch myself blaming my dispassion on the rhetorical you because I can see what God is doing in me. But you are on your own progress and maybe you’re having a rough go at the moment. Or maybe you’re indifferent. Or maybe you’re way ahead of me, but passion for you looks different than passion for me and I’m underwhelmed… Regardless, too often I let my own pace be affected by the sojourners around me.
And how often have I been a point of stumbling for them? How often have I met with a Saint fresh from her King’s throne room and stolen her joy with my apathy? Or my grumbling? Or my discontent?
I’ve been struck recently with how near God is. I fail so so often at putting forth the effort He deserves, but He is only ever just a word away. He seems to be ever waiting for our sincere hearts to yell “Daddy” so we’ll hear His words of comfort or admonition, feel the gentle strength of His holding, remember the sweetness of His love. In the middle of a crowded room, alone in the dark, during great trial or great blessing there is potential for a transformation.
But transforming takes time and it takes diligence. It takes me seeking and giving up. Loosing this grip -rather, letting go altogether – on my happiness, my passion, my own filling up. It takes my concern shifting to the people around me – to the ones with whom God might bind my spirit – so that their burdens become more important than my own. So that their heavy hearts hurting mine become the recipients of my most tender care, not the focus of my victimized recourse. It takes a death of me. And I am incapable of this kind of killing.
So I beseech the Heavens. I cry out to my soul’s only real Love. Passion or not, Help. I trust the Spirit to relay from where I am paralyzed. Help. Help. God I need you.