my faults!

Often, I feel like a mess.

I wake up in the morning, head to the bathroom, and catch a glimpse in the mirror. It's unforgiving: I see an out of shape, middle-aged man with thinned hair, tired eyes, and coffee-stained teeth. And when I wonder how I could ever be considered lovable, I remember that I am also unwaveringly stubborn, uncomfortably intense, emotionally reactive, and spiritually weak.

I ponder life's opportunities. If I ever finished what I started, I could have my teacher's license or be ordained as a minister. I could have been disciplined and received straight A's. I could have married one of the sweet girls at Bethel that quietly expressed interest. I could have lived the credible Christian life.

Though I periodically try, none of it seems to fit. I am much too impulsive to commit to a lifelong career, much too reckless to marry the safe bet, and much too undisciplined to survive in academia. I've never stumbled upon an arena in which I could confidently thrive.

Worse, I demonstrate enough pseudo-confidence that others think I am comfortable with my eccentricities. In reality, I wonder how I find the strength to make it through another day.

******************

I met an elementary teacher this past summer that recommended I re-explore the awesomeness of juvenile literature. I picked up a copy of A Wrinkle in Time and immediately fell in love with its reluctant heroine, Meg Murry. A slave to her own insecurity, Meg struggles with her appearance, her impulsivity, and the perceived confidence of those around her. She is just unique enough to be a loner, just normal enough to be nothing special.

As she begins a heroic journey with her genius brother and a popular male peer, each of them are given a talisman to use against the force that holds Meg's father captive. While the boys are strengthened in their natural gifts, Meg receives an unwanted aid:

"Meg, I give you your faults."

"My faults!" Meg cried.

"Your faults."

"But I'm always trying to get rid of my faults!"

"Yes," Mrs. Whatsit said. "However, I think you'll find they'll come in very handy on Camazotz."

As they encounter a world of blind uniformity and an absence of free will, Meg's stubborn insistence on thinking for herself is used against the enemy. After her brother is also taken captive to the conforming power, she realizes that despite her flaws, her true identity is found in her unmatched love for him, and she is the only one that can save him.

******************

I began skimming through Mike Yaconelli's Messy Spirituality the past couple days. I have read the book twice before, but I find myself fixed to the words during an ongoing battle with insecurity. Chapter 4 is all about being paralyzed by our past, and moving forward by a "conspiracy of grace." I am reminded that my most intimate encounter with Christ is that He would touch me, knowing my faults. He does see them, but Christ identifies my faults as redeemable. It is with this heart of Jesus that I am moved to love others.

Yaconelli shares a moving story written by author Mike Riddell, demonstrating this love. I pray that I would continue to encounter Jesus in this way, and that I would share this love with the broken:

"Vincent"

"Mmmm."

"There's ah...there's something we need to talk about."

"Only if you want to. I'm happy just to sit here and look at you. Sorry, this looks like something serious." Looks a lot like the intro to the Dear John speech, truth be told.

"It's about me and what I do."

"Yeah, I wondered when you were going to pluck up the courage to talk about it. Don't tell me, you work for the CIA, right? Sorry, sorry, I'll shut up."

She is totally absorbed in the remains of her salad, scrutinizing it for something. Anything to avoid his eyes.

"There's no easy way of saying this. I'm a prostitute. I sleep with men for my living. It's a business. I'm very professional."

Time and silence have this thing they do together. They make a chasm that has no bottom to it. And there you are, standing right on the edge of it. Aware that at any moment you may be falling and falling and falling, with no hope of recovery. At the moment they are at either side of it, each consumed by their private terror. She looks up at last from her salad. Vincent is crying. The tears are streaming down his cheeks, and he is biting his lip to stop himself from sobbing.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to deceive you. I'm sorry, Vincent. I'm sorry."

He can't speak. He wants to, but nothing is working. He is looking at her, at her beautiful face, at her eyes, at the slight hardness around her mouth. And weeping and weeping. She reaches a hand across to his. She is beyond tears, empty and bleak and barren. Vincent is mumbling something, but is incoherent through the pain. And then he begins to repeat it again and again.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you..."

This is the worst thing she has ever heard in her life. She wants to scream, to break something, to tip over the table in rage. Instead some continental shelf rips loose within her. She begins gulping and moaning, a terrible agonizing cry from another place. And the tears are flowing. They grip each other's hands, and lean their foreheads together. The tears are flowing into the abyss, and there is no end to them.