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  • Writer's pictureTight Spine

Traveling to Damascus, just a kicking away...

I needed to see Your stars this morning, Lord. Thank You for your stars. They made me cry in deep sobs because they remind me that I am not alone. These are the same stars that You showed Abraham. That is, before he became Abraham. Before he decided Sarai’s idea of having a baby with Hagar was an acceptable alternative to your plan. Man… we have some really bad ideas sometimes. This week's news really brings this full circle.

Lord, I feel the pressing and shaping You are doing in me. I know I’m acting a fool by rebelling. I’m making it hard for myself to kick against the goads. I can’t seem to stop. Help my near-involuntary childlike responses. Slow it down for me, because I must have some learning disability that’s inextricably linked to my strong will.

In church the other day, the pastor asked us to ask You a question. So I did. What did You want to say to me? You flashed memories of reading about the rebelling children in the Bible. Not those super bad ones, like Achan or the other complainers (although this week I am very much them). I might as well be crying in my oatmeal about the leeks and pots of meat… which always cracks me up. Nope, the roll call in my mind was the aforementioned Abram, Jacob in a WWF-like scissor hold with an angel (that particular audacious moment of Jacob really set the stage for all of Israel’s history), Moses complaining about having to be Israel’s leader, the cowardly and hiding Gideon, the rage-filled Saul of Tarsus, the fleeing John Mark, and several more.

In my mind’s eye I see Jacob circling You as his opponent in the dark, looking for a way to best You. And instead of leveling him in a flash of the light You are, You allowed him to get a grip. In the wrestling You gave him some wins and losses, but mostly engaged to let wear himself out striving against You.

Lord, I’m there.

So in that moment in church, without words, You reminded me. These kids. You used these kids. You delighted in using these ones. Little ruffians. The rag-tag, bruised, and haughty ones. Slowly getting to the point of wear where they could barely catch their breath and stop fighting. Hopefully no longer tearing out someone else's beards like Nehemiah or telling humble brag stories like a very naive Joseph.

I am among those that do kick against the goads, that wrestle with You. You do business with us in ways that defy our small-minded logic. You do whatever is required to get us through the becoming, so that we do have our Abram-to-Abraham moments. I’m getting close to that point where I’m going to give up (again) and finally cease striving. I’d like to get there sooner but You know exactly how I am.

And the stupid part of all of it: the very moment I stop struggling, I know you’re going to bless me. I don’t even have to ask for it like Jacob did. But I just… can’t... won't... seem to get to that point soon enough.

It’s not all about me.

It’s not about me.

It’s not me.

It’s not.

It is.

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