On Aliveness

There are two themes running through my journal lately — one is of intense gratitude: about the things I’ve been given and how much I didn’t deserve them. They are filled with thankfulness about how things have unfurled with Annie. It’s got a lot of awe and wonder at the beauty of the outdoors and the sheer awe of creation.

But its counterpart is written from a part of me that is uncomfortable with my comfort — feeling sometimes an almost-arrogance at how much I’ve gotten things figured out or how much I’ve learned or where I am in life. I think a part of myself senses a puffed-upness in my soul, or is wary of a front that I put up from time to time. It’s a false self, tied up in schedules and enamored by Having It Together.

It’s hard to put my finger on it, but it comes and goes with a sort of numbness to the Gospel that creeps up, accompanied with various flavors of cynicism. Thinking to myself that the times I felt God’s presence the most were the times when I was humbled the most and almost wanting to crawl back to that place again, if only to sense the closeness of my father.

Bankrupt… maybe that’s a word I’m looking for. When I was humbled and begging for God’s presence in my life. And now that I’m in a place of plenty, there’s that sense that I’m looking into mirrors and still missing the real thing. Jesus, be near to me now. I want to know your voice. I want to know simple things to be important things, like iron friendships and unyielding brotherhood, like being a part of your movement, like seeing redemption and miracles and Grace rock people for good, like humble love that is beyond reproach or ridicule.

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