I am poured out before you.
You and God. You are the only two that really see me. Really know me.
The good, the bad, and the ugly, right? I show them the good. But you see the bad and the ugly. The complaining, the self pity, the discontent.
And still you come to me, put your arms around me, and cradle my head against your shoulder. Your quiet prayer puffs into the cold air, mists of tenderness, as we stand on the back deck. The deck you built. You, who are always building, building. Building this home, building a business, building our family.
I complain, like an impatient child, that it's taking too long, and when will it be done? I stamp my foot and cry and accuse and blame; are we there yet???
Why is it that you, the one who loves me best, has to endure the worst of me?
For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do. --Romans 7:15
When I finally manage to extricate myself from the sticky, black-tar pull of my navel-gazing petulance...I find you doing more, working harder. And I'm so sorry, so remorseful. But I've done it again, and wallowed in a day of self-indulgent, self-absorbed, self-pity. Self, self, self.
On your birthday weekend.
For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. --Romans 7:18-19
Last night we stayed up late, facing each other cross-legged on the living room floor, talking, talking. About Paul's struggle in Romans, our struggle. About Todd's message of the sin-monkey we so desperately want to throw off, but then bump back up on our shoulders; a comfortable, miserable weight.
You see all of me. The bad, ugly, sin-monkey on my back. Yet somehow you see the good too. You see the good in me even when I can't. And I want to be transformed. For you, for me, for our children, for God.
I want the 41st to be different. That I might love you more than I grasp to be loved. That I might be a new creature, freed from this monkey-sin that so easily entangles.
We gave you presents this weekend, tucked in gift bags, wrapped in brown paper, colored & cut & glued & stickered by small hands. Things on your wish list - just little trinkets, really - olives and movies and Irish Cream. You wanted a date night with me too. But little ones are still sick, and the night got so complicated, and we didn't go. Mostly, I know, the thing you want is for me to be happy. For at least one night, to dress up, and go out, and forget about the worry of bills and schoolwork and laundry and wood trim and beautiful, fussy, needy, precious children at home.
So this year, my gift to you doesn't come in a package. I can't wrap it up, and you'll never be able to open it all at once. This year my gift to you is the relentless, persevering pursuit of contentment. Of slow-down, of daily optimism, of joyful acceptance. Stearmanizing my world instead of awfulizing it. Cherishing the wildflowers instead of pointing out the weeds.
I can't do it in the power of my own flesh, my own will. I've tried it before. "Get a grip! Get your head out of your stinkin' donkey, Teri!" But here I am again. I've no idea how to change this, how to throw this addiction-to-self off.
O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! --Romans 7:24-25
I'm poured out before you. You and God. Everything laid bare.
You both see the worst of me, get the worst of me. And you love me still.
That alone, so remarkable, and yet also your love shows me -
You, Lord, that You love me still.
And in that Love, I have hope.
Hope that even if I can't change me, You can, Lord.
I think it will be hard. I know it will take time. I definitely don't have a 12-step plan for how to get there. But I wanna overcome, I wanna be delivered from this body of death.
So I'm gonna believe You, Lord. I'm gonna believe Your Word, that You can change me, through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Thank you for loving me, even so, Kevin.
Happy Birthday.
