Hoping...

Isaiah 40:31 but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

All I can do is hope. Hope that I am who I think I am, that He is who He says He is. Until now, I thought I knew. All the answers, chapter and verse. And then a spider, dressed in red silk, bit me, took a bite out of my life. Though pressure was applied and the wound washed, cleaned and dressed, I cannot walk. There is no assurance in my step.

Have I truly been standing upon a rock? Or deceptively cemented in the quicksand of my own good intentions, my ankles strangled by the tatters of my own righteousness? It's all a blur now, my lists of good and bad, my fears of contamination, of pollution.

For it is me who is most foul, perverse, crooked.

And so I come hoping. Will He make my crooked places straight? Make me clean? Or should I just tie my shirt in the front like the others and leave the silk in the corners of my mind? Put down my broom and dance on a table myself? I'm not sure. For the first time in so long, I just don't know.

That scares me, but it thrills me too. Not knowing. Of only one thing am I certain--Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

And so I come, Jesus, wondering if it was all for naught, for guilt, to try to wash away a stain already purchased with Your blood. If it was that, You were gracious to give so many mercies along the way.

Why is the still whisper so easily drowned by the brash shout? Why did I sell myself, all that was, for what is not bread, for what cannot fill? I thought it would. That my cracks would be satisfied, filed smooth. That I wouldn't go about bleeding, looking needy and crazy. I just wanted to live with my shirt buttoned for once, with my pants on the right side.

It ain't meant to be.

And so give me the courage Jesus to dig through all this off-shade foundation and crusted over papier mache. Give me strength to pry off the lacquer and heart polish, to wipe the vaseline off my teeth and stop smiling. 'Cause it ain't all right. It might not ever be. But I've got to dig her up any way, that crazy woman in there I've been hiding, thinking that entombing her would be enough, that hiding her would be sufficient.

It wasn't. I must go all the way down to the egg, eat the shell and pull her out, rub her wings. I'll let her fly today, one good long trip, over the mountains, through the valleys, over everything so she can see what she missed. That girl's been in there a long time.

I'll let her fly all over, give her a good dinner. I'll wait until tomorrow to tell her she has to die.

At least that's what I'm hoping.