“The fruit’s poison has effected the whole of humanity.” Ann Voskamp
I read those words, and the truth pierces my soul yet again.
The whole of humanity, all who have ever been, all who will ever be, spoiled with sin.
The apex of creation, made in the image of the Holy One, sick and stained.
In runs through our veins just as naturally as the blood that gives us life.
It’s always there crouching, scheming.
This curse that so easily entangles.
It demands its own way.
Its desire is to consume.
Its goal is to devour.
I try to escape its grasp.
Yet still it grips, it’s strangled hold about my throat.
I cry out, in anguish, with the apostle, “WHO WILL DELIVER ME FROM THIS BODY OF DEATH?”
I know the answer, I know the hope that comes.
“Praise be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord….”
I live for that truth.
Its grip is tighter around my soul than that of sin.
That truth is living, breathing, active.
It fills me with hope.
I have been delivered.
Given a new heart, and new life.
A life to live for the glory of the One who paid the price.
Who owned my curse.
This Jesus, this One who loves, even unto death, for the joy set before Him.
I am that joy.
He takes my rags and gives me a robe of righteousness.
In the morning He whispers His words of love in my ear.
I savor them.
I close His book. Savoring the sweet aroma of grace.
As the words of adoration are fresh on lips, I find it yet again.
Crouched at the door, seeking to devour.
How is it that one minute I can praise and love this King of Glory and the next forget His words of grace?
This devourer, is in my heart.
It is in my home.
It seeks my children.
One minute I am praising the One to whom all praise is due.
The very next, I seeth with anger.
I feel it rise up within me.
Like a ship rises and falls with the waves.
I have to do this again?
This loving when it is hard.
When no love will be given in return.
This giving grace when all I desire is justice.
Justice for him.
Grace for me.
Must I do this again, this forgiving, the same offense.
Correcting, yet again. Knowing that my words fall on a hard heart and deaf ears?
I cringe at the brokenness of this child.
Cringe at this revelation into my soul.
Must this child’s wounded heart always reveal my own?
Yet in this I find grace.
This Lover pursuing me still.
His love for me, His love for this child is great.
Greater than our woundedness.
Greater than our sin.
In this moment He reveals the depths of my heart, that he might draw me nearer still.
He uses this broken child to bring healing to my soul.
This great physician scrubs at the wounds of my heart.
the pain is intense, nearly unbearable.
It feels so right.
He loves us too much to leave us in this broken way.
He snatches us in our sin.
Not to destroy.
Not to shame.
To set free.
So I will give thanks.
Thanks for this boy child, with dark chocolate skin, and eyes black as night, with woundedness about Him.
Thanks that while sin may seek to devour his precious soul.
Christ is greater than his sin.
Thanks that in these pain filled moments, when windows are opened, and brokenness breaks fresh, there is a balm for our souls.
A Truth greater than all that has ever been or all that will ever be.
Jesus came into this world to save sinners, of whom I am chief.
I cry out from the depths of my soul, “Abba!”
and He answers.
I am His
A child of grace.