The 2006 Holiday season was hell. My life was broken to a degree I did not think survivable. I didn’t journal much at all simply because I couldn’t. However, it’s evident that the theme of self-examination and plumbing the depths of my need for approval continued, even through I had entered what I now I perceive as the lowest point in my life.
I sure don’t write much when the shit really hits the fan, do I?
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Isaiah 44: He paints a picture of ridiculous behavior: we watch a tree grow, we see it being created then we cut it down, chop it up and burn half of it for fuel. We use it, dominate it, control it. With what’s left over – we make a god. Isa 46 then talks about carrying the BURDEN of this manufactured god. We serve IT. But Yahweh serves us! I think I’ve done something like this with “Brenda” or “love” or “marriage” or “approval”. I use up most of it for food and warmth, and I worship what’s left over.
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Alick said, “Women respond to a man’s holy, terrible, inner-resolve.”
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The truth about me is I want a pile of prayer journals that I can point to more than one honest moment of interceding. I want the medals on my chest, more than I want to be a hero. I want the uniform, not the responsibility. I want the paycheck and not the accomplishment. I want the applause more than the perfect performance.
I want acceptance without forgiveness, freedom without fighting, peace without responsibility and love without sacrifice.
I want all the appearances. Just the parts that others can see and respond to.
Was it McDonald who spoke of the man who owns many copies of a particular book, the first edition, the hand-written manuscript, the hard cover edition…all of them. But he has not taken into his heart the meaning of the book?
That’s me.
I’m hollow. Plastic. A fake.
I get so excited when I see all my books lined up on the shelf. I have books I’ve never read. How sad is that? I POSSESS books that I have not read, and really have no intention of reading, truthfully. But I like the titles, or I convince myself that I SHOULD read them, or I’m convinced that having them seen on my shelf will make me look a certain way.
I admire those who use the library to its fullest. There is no pretense in a library patron.
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I think I missed something in the Tom Sawyer story where he got to witness his own funeral. I’ve always thought that would be cool. I’ve fantasized about it a lot. It represents the ultimate in my desires – so much attention, so much strong emotion, so much praise and adoration.
But now that I’m watching myself die – it’s not so great.
For one thing, I’ve got to face the deep sickness in me that embraces the pity and longing others might feel at my death as the ultimate experience.
Really…what the fuck is that?
Am I not here to simply SERVE rather than to become someone who is worshiped because of his service? I’ve said it before: It seems that I will accept an ounce of pity over a pound of real affection. Where does that come from.
My “watcher” stands back in his place beside his big brother Jesus. My watcher is smaller than Jesus…holding his hand. The watcher is un-emotional. Completely secure in the presence of his big brother, and therefore able to watch his own death with dispassion. Wait…that’s not entirely true. He watches his own death like Paul did his: with anticipation, but not for pity or attention. Anticipation of the light of truth being manifest in him.
Jesus help me die today with my eyes on you, and only you.