This week I forgot the gospel. Instead, I listened to old lies:
I’m brilliant. I’m terrible. Everything is too much. I can do it all myself.
I went back to old idols:
I went to bed instead of facing all my feelings. Then I leapt up and tried to prove I was worthwhile. Then my head exploded under the weight of expectation and I retreated back to bed. And then up I popped till it started again… zero to hero, with nothing in between.
I fixated on certain foods and brands of shampoo. If only I could get the right balance of nutrients I’d feel much better. If only I had the right conditioner I’d look great.
I stockpiled groceries. I went clothes shopping. Something’s missing: I haven’t got enough. Quick, find the solution! Do something, anything to feel better:
I comfort-ate and went to bed.
I got my hair cut and looked into expensive skin treatments.
I shouted at the cats.
I cleaned again.
I disappeared up my own belly-button and then I tried to go deeper. It was dark and airless and I choked on my own fluff.
I told myself I was doing fine.
I despaired because I was such a mess.
I gave up.
Instead of stuffing and spending and cleaning and sleeping and hiding and doing – I talked to God.
I remembered the gospel.
I remembered I couldn’t make myself happy. Or good. Or worthwhile.
I remembered I’m a sinner, broken and wicked.
I looked at myself and I looked at Jesus. I felt ashamed. And very tired.
Then I climbed into the Father’s lap and said sorry. I’m sorry.
I let him take all the worry and all the guilt and all the mess.
I remembered that I’m loved.
I remembered I’m forgiven.
And I rested in Him.