Skip to main content

Undone. Forgetting. Pressing On.

The last two years of my life have been hellish, not because of a major traumatic event, but because of me. I did it. I'd like to place the blame on someone or something, but I can't. The common denominator in all my suffering is me.

That isn't to say that nothing trying has occurred. There have been challenges and bad decisions. There have been events and happenings, but the misery that is clinging to my bones making each breath painful is my own doing. Or rather, my undoing.  I am, to borrow from Isaiah, undone.  My question; is being undone enough?

If you look at various translations of Isaiah 6:1-5, you will see undone translated as lost or ruined.  If there could only be an English word that encompassed all three ideas at once, I would use it.  Unlike Isaiah, I am not undone, lost or ruined because of a vision of the Almighty.  I am worthless because I am clinging to the past.

Paul's letter to the Philippians encouraged them to put the interests of others before their own.  That's part of the high calling we have as believers and a lofty goal. It's impossible too.  I am so busy working on self-preservation tactics that there is no way for me to actually put others first. I put them first once I am certain it is safe for me to do so.  Emotional safety is my prime objective. My emotional safety.

Sure, Paul also encourages his readers by admitting he's not able to do it either. He tells us to forget what lies behind and press on. It's hard to know what to forget. Do I forget the childhood that has left me so battered and bruised? Do I forget the multitude of sins I have committed by putting exercising my self-preservation skills?   Once you admit that you are broken, do the shards of your heart reunite? Or are they still weapons you hide deep within, ready in case you need to wield them to keep vulnerability at bay?

Forgetting what lies behind.  Pressing on.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Spiritual Aphasia aka Senseless Theology

I was recently asked why I read theology and follow theological debates. "It's all just words and opinions." Words. Words on a paper, words on a blog. Words that travel invisibly through our airwaves and our minds. What would our inner monologue consist of without words? Harsh words, gentle words, untrue words, and solid you-can-die-behind them words. They have secret lives in the depths of our souls. They overflow in torrents of grief and joy. They seep out of our character flaws, wearing down the weak convictions that hold them back until they contaminate all those around us. All of us are stained within and without by the raw sewage of unkind words. Our souls are in jeopardy for want of The Word. Jesus Christ. The Gospel. The Good News. Words matter. Doctrine matters. Theology Matters. What you win them with is what you win them to. I study theology because I was lost too long in a world that scrambles truth with its own ideas and preferences. I was fed a diet of tosse

Super Church a song for the Emergent-sy

In the early 70s I was in a youth choir at my church. Our youth pastor was a musician and his way of connecting with us as a group was through the choir and music. Somehow there was an affiliation between him and The Continental Singers, New Hope and Jeremiah People. He was worked with Moishe Rosen of Jews for Jesus too, I think. Are any of these names familiar to you? Though I remember the church fondly I was a profoundly lost and troubled young woman during my years there. That and time have muddled the memories quite a bit. Today I was digging through some old paperwork and one of the books to the musical we did. It's Getting Late For the Great Planet Earth, a folk rock oratorio by Cam Floria. Yes, that's right. Cam Floria put Hal Lindsey to music. There's a lot to laugh about and some to groan about but as I was looking through the songs and remembering, I found this little ditty and I only wish I could sing it for you. Just remember that this is circa 1972 and even th

What if.....

...what if I just need a place to let some words spill out? What if they spill out in bouquets of bright colors and pleasing scents but their frames are made of snakes and lies? Will you the reader be able to tell? Will it matter? When words smell like lilacs and honeysuckle do you care what lies beneath them? Perfumed syllables cover the stench of hope's decay. A violet or two will fool most surface dwellers, allowing them to pass by quickly and unaware.  Is that what words are supposed to do? What if my aesthetics with words are similar to Morticia Addams' with flowers?  What happens when luscious blooms are discarded?  When the ragged silhouette of thorns is all that remains will you still see the beauty?  Perhaps we'll find out.