Groaning

I haven't blogged in a while.  I've had ideas, but nothing stuck.  But I think I'm able to do it tonight.  In a way I have to.  I have been sitting here tonight, reading my Bible and listening to worship music.  My soul has been aching for God.  He has touched me down to the very core of my being.  My mind is absorbed thinking about what he has done for me.  My being just wants to be overwhelmed by him.  To just think about how Christ has made me whole.  How he has saved me from myself.

My salvation, my freedom, is not a story.  It is not an abstract idea.  It is the most deeply personal reality that could ever be experienced.  My father picked me up when I had nothing to attract him to me.  He wiped me clean of the filth I had been wallowing in, after I spat in his face and offended his greatness in so many ways.  He had every right to trample me under his feet.  But he took me and gave me new close and called me child when he should have condemned me.  It pleased him to save so great a sinner as I.  How do I thank him for such a gift?  How can I repay the gift of eternal life?  I can't.  All I have is this worthless life to give him.  But I give it with a willing heart.  I pray he can find use in something so flimsy, so feeble, so prone to fail and fall.

I was saved, not to fulfill my dreams, or to have the easiest life possible.  When my master came he lived the life of a peasant.  He gave freely and devoted himself fully to the Father's will.  He died in disgrace, a common criminal.  Am I greater than the one that saved me?  How can I think I deserve better?  His will is now my dream.  I know hard times must come because they came to my master.  I pray that God will give me the strength to trust him when those times come.  I pray I will be able to remember that my treasure lies not on this temporary planet, because my heart no longer lies here.  And that any suffering I might experience in this life is nothing compared to what I have been saved from.

I still have wars to be waged within myself.  If I know one thing about sin it's that it does not like to let go.  My old nature attempts to claw it's way back to the surface daily.  The only difference now is that I hate it.  I despise what I was.  All I ever want to do anymore is fall into the loving embrace of my maker.  He gives me so much more then my sin ever could.  I would appreciate the prayers of anyone reading this.

I know I have covered a lot.  Some of it may have seemed incoherent.  There was so much bouncing around in my soul tonight that I just had to get it out.  But before I end I would like to leave you with one thought: trust in Jesus.  I have not found anything more wonderful than the forgiveness and grace which Christ offers.  You won't want to go back.  If anyone reads this, I pray it will be helpful to you.

The Procrastinator

I came across a sort of self-evaluation piece I did a while back today.  It's written to somewhat mimic the style of The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer, which we had just finished reading in the class this was assigned in.  This basically describes the way I go about most projects (to my chagrin).  Anyway, I'm basically using this as an introduction to me, in a way that will hopefully be more interesting than a short biography.

Prologue

And with us also was a Jake, or a jacob, I am not sure which,

As one day he would go by one name, and the next day he would switch.

He had a habit of pacing back and forth, a habit he had had for many a year,

saying that only when he was moving were his thoughts made clear.

And he was quite odd in his way,

Being one day calm and serious, and hyper the very next day.

And he tended to zone out when others would speak,

though he was not attempting to be rude, his attention span was just terribly weak.

But he was also quite friendly as I recall

Willing to give assistance to one and all.

The Procrastinator

One day as I sat on a chair with a desk

I stood up in the room at the teacher's request.

"This task I give you." was her line

"And do not be lazy with this task of mine."

"Write a tale" she said "thirty lines in length."

"And do not let this assignment sap all your strength."

"And that is not all." said she "This tale must rhyme,

And a moral it should have that stays true for all time."

And I thought about this, I thought terribly hard,

How was i to tell such a tale like a bard?

For tales do not suit me, and poems I shun,

My literary ability is comparable to that of a Hun.

And try as I might, not a single idea i could think of to use,

And not a single story appealed to me out of everything I could choose

And, since nothing I could think of seemed right,

I went on through my days trying to forget my plight

I put off my duty with skillful ease,

Doing instead whatever else I did please.

And this tactic worked just fine,

Yes it worked splendidly, for a time.

But as always, I began to hear,

That the due date for the project was drawing terribly near.

And what was I to do now?

This question caused me to crinkle my brow.

What on earth was my story to be?

And what was it to be about?  This was a mystery to me.

And what of a moral?  That too I was at a loss to find,

All of a sudden I found myself in a terrible bind.

It was the last moment, and still I knew not what to do,

I sat there and thought about it for an hour or two.

And then it came to me;  I knew what i would tell,

I would reveal the secret I had learned for doing well

Do not put things off to the last tick of the clock,

Even if your suffering from writers block.