Read the riot act to a Newsie...but keep swinging those fists.

[This was written on Sunday May 10, 2009 and was posted to my Facebook and Myspace page.]

My words have such little significance. Waiting for Your spirit to intercede.
I've washed my hands ten times now. Still a sinner, bruised, weary and each day the dirt gets thicker.
But You are...The Way, The Truth and The Life.
My soul beckons for the dust kicked from Your feet.

I never thought this winter was going to end, as I stand in disbelief of the early May breeze gracing my tanning collar bone. I am leaning on the back balcony of 2586 3rd Avenue, smoking a pipe and gathering my thoughts to the southern comfort of Lucero. The noise of the traffic fails miserably when trying to shake me of my God sent Joy. I feel that if Christ was in the neighborhood, He would be on His way over to pull up a chair and take in the beauty of life's stillness with me. When I am caught up in situations like this, I miss Luke Backus more than I could ever put into words. It's been almost a year since I have seen him, and not knowing when I will share a brew with him again is near torture.
Or take pictures of the stranger things in creation...
Or eat veggie chili when it's blazing hot out...
Or talk about how much we have learned from Rob Williamson and George Welty...
Or listen to Farewell To Fashion on repeat...
Or...I digress...are you getting the picture that he is a greater part of my heart?
A lot has happened in the last twelve months and I just want to tell Luke all about it.

To put it simple, a carpenter from Galilee wrecked shop on my life. And proved to me that I have been doing things wrong all along. His yoke is easy and His burden is lite. But I still catch myself whispering under my breath... "Can't I just do things my way?"

Surely, these hands that labor in vain can do something of worth?
Yet you prove to me, over and over that all I can bring is filthy rags compared to what flows from the tips of Your fingers - what illuminates Your embrace. I'd faint from exhaustion before I could ever prepare a meal worthy of Your lips.

This is beating the living hell out of me on a daily basis.
I strive to bring perfection.
I fail to see Your masterpiece in me.
I fight.
I fall.

Ephesians 4:28
"He who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with his own hands, that he may have something to share with those in need."

Your word drives me.
But, no one can understand how much I have stolen. I fill my hands with Your righteousness hoping to replace the hearts I have broken. I have found earthly forgiveness - reflections of God's grace from the mouths of His children. Why can I not forgive myself? Is it because I made this bed by waking up hungover in others? My face is stained with remorse for the animal I once was.

How, Mighty God? Can You see beauty in me?
If You have forgiven me...then You must be the Messiah.
My ankles were chained to a spike buried deep in the ground until the earth began to quake.
Behold! Christ!
The Lion of the Tribe of Judah!

This unending cycle of self doubt may possibly continue. My heals scraping pavement in a dead run from my own salvation.

I long for the day when I stand before Your throne and none of this will matter.

Father, rid me of my works. My meaningless desire to be perfect.
And remind me that even the wind and waves obey You.
Though I'm a whore-like representation of Your kingdom.
I am still a piece of Your body.

And surely that will be enough.