sunday’s secrets

by Misty Dawn

conviction has been hovering over me.

& the heaviness has finally made its point.

but i’m so glad.

there’s not much I seem to be able to do with heaviness, until it speaks.

first world problems.

they’re making my soul sick.

distracting me.

making me frown on those I should be loving more.

first world problems.

my own discomfort.  my own selfish discomfort.

it’s breaking my soul.

but the right way.

like art.

breaking my soul into the pieces that are necessary

for the eternal stained glass echo . . .

of Him.

leaving only the stains that purify, & only the shattered glass that heals behind.

at first I was just noticing.

i’d hear the complaints.

& i’d try not to unleash the lavish display of facial expressions I come with.

the expressions that would give away my judgment.

“AT&T.  Could their customer service be any more difficult to work with?”

“C’mon barista, how hard is it to spell my simple American name right?”

“I wish my nosey family would stay out of my business.”

“School is so boring.”

“I am so over this day . . . and it’s only 9am.”

“Ugh! Another Pandora commercial.”

“I wish people would stop sending those annoying invites on facebook.”

“I wish I lived somewhere where the leaves changed to beautiful purples, reds, oranges, & yellows . . .”

Sunday is like the only day I actually want Chick-fil-A . . .”

 REALLY?!

i’m supposed to love you though . .

but your first world problems annoy me.

& there it is.

my own selfish discomfort.

your first world problem

is mine.

 ouch.

i’m no different.

ouch.

I may be harder to irritate,

& maybe even more appreciative than you . . . maybe.

but your selfishness

 . . . it still bothers me.

it prevents me from loving you right.

from loving you like He loves you.

& so another piece of me breaks.  but the right way.  like art.

except I’m not the artist.  He is. 

Father, heavily saturate my soul. Break it & stain it your way.  Making it more of what You’ve intended it for. Your echo.

 

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