You know, I don’t have a lot of time for the ‘say the right thing’ movement. But there’s a balance to be struck, and I don’t want to join the complainers and moaners and navel gazers. But in case you think that Christians are all do-goody, pious, never-put-a-foot-wrong-saints, read on….
Job told it like it was. He let rip.
I want to be like him. Just for one afternoon…. eh? I want to lay waste to my friends and to be scathing and horrible and truthful. Sarcastic and sharp and mean, just like him. That’ll bloody well show them all.
But I can’t. Because I love ’em too much. And I’m very blessed because my friends aren’t useless like his friends were. And my family hasn’t been wiped out and I’m not homeless and covered in scabs. So I will just zip my lips and sit on my hands so I don’t type anything horrible, and wait for the raging frustration to pass.
With God’s help I’ll go from this……
(Is it me, or has she got someone else’s arms?)
But I can’t do it on my own. On my own I am tired, grumpy, dissatisfied, unloved and unloveable, self centred, self pitying, lonely and really really pissed off. And everyone else is an eedjit and no one really understands me. (yeah, OK, I know that none of us are really understood by anyone else. I’m a dramatist, make allowances)
There is a gremlin within me, a troll under my bridge and a great big lump of concrete where my joy should be. It’s been here for a few days, so all I can do is put the snib on the door, pull down the blinds and bounce off these four walls until the house falls down.
Oh, no. Hang on. I got that last bit wrong. There’s something else I can do. But it involves effort. And a sort of willingness to be wrong and – even worse – for other people to be right. And I’m just so bloody mad at the minute, I’m not sure I can manage it. So I’ll have to ask for help from somewhere other than this little village, this little town, this county and country and world. I think I’ll have to turn to prayer, humble myself and look to my Rock.
Shall I turn to Him or just continue to stew in my own juices, without Him? They’re such tempting juices, a dash of bitterness, comfortably blood temperature, nicely simmering, fragrant with self-righteousness….. It’s a warm and unassailable place to be, slightly raised so I can look down on the world, and anyway, folks, if I clamber out now, I’m going to have to do the repentance thing. Tsk.
Hang on! Where’s the jewel encrusted peacock I was banging on about yesterday? Where’s the loved child of God in all this? I think it’s time to haul myself out of that hot tub of anger and get this mess cleared up.
Once upon a time I’d have been quite happy, wallowing in my rage. I’d have nursed my grievances, hugged and caressed them and encouraged them to grow. I can’t quite do that any more, tempting as it is, because now I know that better is available, another way is waiting. It just requires something… oh, what’s the word… you know, the obedience thing, the love thing…. the ….. oh, you know… what’s it called? Such an unfashionable word.. what is it? Ah, that’s it! Humility.
God opposes the proud but shows favour to the humble.
I marvel all over again that God loves me, anyway. He loves me in spite of me, and because of me. And because He is love. And He won’t turn me away when I come to His door, even when I’m still dripping with all that rage and confusion and hurt. I can’t sort it, but He can.
If I thought I could ever get up again, I’d get on my knees…..