Sometimes, I scare myself

Sometimes, I’m just scared of myself. Of who I am. Of who I’m not. These little glimpses of myself, when I see what I’m doing my best to hide from everyone, especially myself.

Because sometimes, you tell yourself stories about what life should be like, if only. . .and while you’re busy painting that picture, sometimes a sneaking little suspicion sneaks in that it wouldn’t matter, if only, because, even if only, I’d still be there. And maybe, it’s not the if only . . . maybe the fly in the ointment is me, and I’m wherever I go, even in the if only’s. If I am not a dream, how can I live a dream? And I’m not a dream.

The most poignant Christmas post I’ve read this year was one that pointed out, very effectively, that God didn’t wait to come until we thought things were ready. He didn’t wait until there was room in the inn, didn’t wait until there were proper birthing arrangements, didn’t wait until the place was cleaned up enough it was fit for human life. He came in the middle of the mess.


I found the mess. Or some of it anyway.

Now I just need Him to show up.

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