Monday, October 21, 2013

A Monday Offering

Monday morning and the weather matches my mood. Gray. Drippy. Can meteorological conditions be grumpy? This girl says they can be.

It's a morning when every start was false, one where all I can see is the sticky cup-holders in the van, the crumb-covered counter-tops, the left-overs rotting in the fridge. My eyes are fixed on every mistake, ever scribbled wall, every tiny disappointment.

I have a hard time knowing where to see God on mornings like this. I wish it weren't true.

I have trouble keeping my footing in a life that is increasingly less mine - isn't this what was asked of me? Then why does it feel so hard some days?

I think about what C.S. Lewis writes in Screwtape Letters, and it makes me mad. Not in a holy way. I'm adrift in this sea of Satan's charms, the way he worms his way into my head, my heart, my hands.  I try to offer grace, but yield to personal justice, so ready to rest a red-hot while in all that I'm owed. I try to pray when I want to cry, and find myself singing the theme song to Inspector Gadget instead. And all along I thought that was just me. If the devil wears the disguise of a cartoon I watched 25 years ago, what else is he capable of? How at-risk am I? Why can't I overcome?

I think about what my pastor said yesterday, that Christians are fond of repeating the line, "God never gives you more than you can handle." "It's not true," he says. "He does it all the time."

And I tear up again, because it's hard to feel weak and incapable. It's no fun being mean. I default so often to the tired place of martyrdom where I feel I'm owed a break, some help, a little kindness. I want thank yous for every single thing I do.

And all the while, I whine to God that this beautiful life He has handed me is too hard. That's the point, Shannan. He says this with a little smile, His eyes kind and wide, and I find myself sliding down the bench a little closer to where He sits. He tells me again that He understands all my feelings so I rest my head on His shoulder like a child. He made me small like this. He has His reasons.

I miss the olden days, those glory days, when my life felt more story-book, less scattered.

But I know I'd never go back if I could.

So this is my offering. This is what I have to give today, and I hand it over with blood-shot eyes.
I don't always understand, but I trust You. I don't always obey, so I need You.