Why do I become discontent? Why do I have this craving for honor, glory, and recognition when I know very well were I to get them I would still not be satisfied? Why am I not content with the riches God has given me? Through Christ I have everything, and I want to chase after nothing. Does that make me a fool? I know the truth and I still run after the lie. Pathetic.
Any ways today was actually a good day, I just sometimes marvel at myself (and not in a good way).
Psalm 144:15 Happy is that people, that is in such a case: yea, happy is that people, whose God is the Lord.
Proverbs 16:6 A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.
For some reason I find this verse comforting tonight.
Ezra 8:22 For I was ashamed to require of the king a band of soldiers and horsemen to help us against the enemy in the way: because we had spoken unto the king, saying, The hand of our God is upon all them for good that seek him; but his power and his wrath is against all them that forsake him.
Two things. Ezra was concerned for God’s honor, and he trusted God to uphold His honor. Secondly they must have had a lot of money with them, if a band of soldiers was “needed” to protect them. How often does God do that? How often does He ask me to do something totally backwards? How often do I say yes when He does?
It is a mystery.
How simple and confused a man I’ve become
in my weakness I look around and think that my only strength fails in the fact that I can’t decide anything
when the morn comes I look at my life and think of the grey and stormy clouds that wrack my
dark nights.
How innocent and strong my mind was
in my strength I would’ve never guessed that I could be so easily broken, that I could be so easily bent
as this day breaks in my soul I think back to those sorely missed wee morn hours when I felt such a
clear darkness.
How I feel the calls from both sides moving me
when will the pulling stop- my tearing can’t be good-
I hunger for release, to heed a voice; it begs
to come to that sweet tomorrow when at long last my fate won’t bear a thousand raging refining fires
harsh and molten.
How I long for the day when I think clearly
when it’s no longer I, when I no longer judge my own strength, when I am not I; only then can I decide
when I look at the future, superlative and full of hindsight-oh how I need that bright new day to break
full of light.
How I know that, though I can’t know anything
by that one point on which all thought strongly stands, the point by which all, and in all, I exist-One’s image
creation of grace and love, despite my best efforts to test by rain and snow I am a finely crafted perfect day
clear and flawed.
How simple and confused a man I’ve become
when the very mystery to which I commit to wickedness is a mystery by which I commit to love mercy
in my sorrow I have joy, and with my guilt I have merciful love; I am like at last the real smelted treasure
formless and pure.
It is a mystery.