"Forgive me for my envy. Forgive me for the covetous spirit that afflicts me from time to time. Forgive me that although my face beams in joy for you, my heart constricts in agony for me. For all that I desire that continues to elude me. Forgive me for these things that I feel. I’ll peel my eyes off your field, and be grateful for my empty one. Perhaps what I planted takes a little longer to breakthrough the soil. Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps…” Her voice broke, and she wept. The room was silent. No one spoke. No one clapped. I watched as she wiped away another tear; she made like she would continue, but thought better of it, crumpled the speech and walked away.

I wanted to clap but my hands were arrested before they met together. Was it..? should I have…? I didn’t know what to do. A few seconds later there were a few scattered claps that echoed from various points in the room. I saw the senior pastor walk to the pulpit, Bible in one hand and adjusting the mic with the other. I saw his lips moving but my mind had disconnected.  I felt a discomfort that I couldn’t explain. Her words were a mirror that I wanted shattered. But the way she had given up…why had she given up? I scanned my eyes looking to see if she was still around, but I couldn’t see her. Had she left? Why had she stopped speaking? I sat fidgeting in my seat and then stood up to go to the bathroom.

I found her there. Her body tensed and I didn’t know what to do. “I like what you wrote,” I confessed awkwardly.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, barely glancing at me. I moved closer to her, part of me wishing I’d just pretend to use the washroom and get back into church. She looked up at me, confused. Her thick lashes framed beautiful light brown eyes, the shape reminiscent of the Khoisan. In her eyes I saw too much, that I almost hesitated. “It’s going to get better, I promise,” I said, smiling encouragingly.

Her eyes teared up once more. They were already a faded pink from the crying she had done moments ago. “Yeah,” was her response. “Oh my gosh, I can’t stop crying,” she said embarrassed, grabbing more tissue. “I’m sorry.”

Sighing, I found myself in Exodus 32, the last scripture I’d read. You prompted me to read it again. I read it twice and couldn’t help but laugh. The Israelites’ impatience led to the sin of idolatry, and that sin led to the death of thousands in the camp. I’ve never appreciated the gravity of idolatry; how, because of it, you were ready to destroy your Beloved for creating a golden calf and exalting it above You. Yes, it was arrogant that they gave the work of their hands credit for rescuing them from Pharaoh. How they danced and celebrated, so proud and self-important they were.

 I suppose I have been doing the same thing in my impatience, replacing You with the work of my hands and the pleasures of life. I criticize a world that exchanges your Truth for a lie, worshipping and serving the creature rather than the Creator, yet I do the same in my own life: choosing the world instead of separating myself as the Levites did when Moses asked who was on Your side. It’s so easy to point at the hypocrisy of others, yet turning a blind eye to my own. There are a myriad of things vying for my attention, and it often feels as though you don’t hear or are not in a rush to answer, so the work of my hands become my pleasure; the progress from my efforts lead me to sacrifice in their honour. Indeed, will I ever escape that never-ending blame game that keeps all of us from taking responsibility for causing our own destruction? Undoubtedly, the cares of this life are a smokescreen that blind me from perceiving my descent from Your Kingdom. You were swift with judgement and rebuke once-upon a time, putting to death those who dabbled in any and all abominations. It has become easy to be lazy.