The midday still to know that He is God.
To wonder why I despise.
The works of His hands.
That made me.
The way self hatred rises from belly button to throat.
Making me feel strange and strangled.
Undeserving of love.
Of human compassion and kindness.
The old man rises up out of the grave.
Trying to scare the new creation I am in Christ.
Waving his old hands around and making a wracket.
What a racket!
I still fall for it, and that old man.
Well. He makes me fall right down.
And I must say aloud there at the kitchen sink.
Hands deep in scrubbing filth.
That I am alive in Christ.
And that no grave will ever hold me.
Just that sometimes...
Being brave means doing life afraid a lot.
How being terrified.
Can draw you close to Jesus so you can become holy.
The One Who hung fear on the cross.
That we might walk out in all that freedom.