Bitter Tea


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).

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