Sin
follows me like a shadow. I sit, it sits with me. I pray, it stands outside the
doors, knocking, and knocking, waiting for me to slip. I eat, and it
sits across from me, smiling sardonically. I sleep, and it enters the room,
standing at the foot of my bed, watching me, tempting me.
I
told myself I had conquered it. But I slipped. Take heed lest you fall. What goes up must come down after all. I had not anticipated that I
would fall so easily, but I did. The shame of it fills my throat; my stomach is
queasy. My words of repentance sound empty. You are out of reach; my own
body feels foreign. Yes, I know better. Yes, I should have done better. Yes, I
should have fled swiftly. Yes, Yes, Yes. I KNOW.
Moments
like these are humbling and humiliating. It reminds me to always show mercy to
others because we all fall short. It’s humiliating because I’m reminded of the
times where, high on my throne, I looked down with pity and disdain at those
who keep slipping back into their old patterns. And now I'm ensnared by my own hubris.
Yes,
I know there’s grace, but I am tired. I wonder if grace ever gets tired. Tired
of rescuing me from something I should be free from. By definition, I have it,
even though I don’t deserve it. It’s there, always available. Even now as I
stand in this vacuum devoid of sound, of feeling, of life, it is within reach.
But
I am tired.
“Even
youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope
in the Lord will renew their strength. [For] no discipline seems pleasant at the
time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness
and peace for those who have been trained by it. (Isaiah 40:30-31, Hebrews
12:11).
