The Drought.

Sometimes I have a hard time seeing Your love. I have this trouble interpreting just what exactly you’re trying to say. I’ve heard it said that we aren’t the scum of the earth anymore. That we’re redeemed and we are heirs to the throne but I feel more like a vagabond and if I am an heir, I’m a tyrant at that. How can I be mindful of grace, of compassion when I have trouble accepting it even from You? Where can I go if not into Your outstretched arms? What far corners of this earth can I escape to to flee from Your grace? They say that we’re all dead men and if that’s the case, I can’t help but acknowledge my own inability to change. I want to hold fast to grace and see love everlasting but why do I keep gripping the sword? What does love look like on this side? Does heaven still hold its gates open for the likes of me? I want to feel redeemed but, all too often, my vices bind and threaten to choke this hope out of me. God, where are you? My eyes burn like coals as I search for signs of the Almighty. I’ve got a starving heart and an aching in my soul. I sure wish that was me that put it there. I wish it was MY desire. But, even that, am I helpless to stir? How does love find me through the madness?

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