Cooked Goose

So, believing that God was going to do this impossible thing, believing that he would get me to love him, I started to pray each day for a pure heart. A pure heart … meaning a heart not divided into multiple loves. A heart with one master, undivided, whole. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. 

Each morning as I prayed, I sat in that particularly overwhelming brand of doubt. It’s that doubt that comes over me when praying for someone’s healing. I dislike the feeling so much that eventually, I slip into that mindless, rambling prayer. It’s as if a self-preservation instinct kicks in. The subjecting my mind to talking rationally about the impossible eventually becomes too much. If I must, I’ll get in the room with it, but don’t make me wrestle with that beast. I’ll throw stuff at the impossible, averting my eyes, but don’t make me look at that thing.

What do you know of love anyway? A pure heart? A pure heart? Do you even know where your heart is?

Weeks of praying with no signs of movement, so I thought, “If I can’t get more of him in my heart, I can try to get other things out.” What were my idols? For what was I really living? For what do I grieve? Worry? What makes me happy?

My family. My kids. Success. Opinion of others. But if I’m honest, those things, less in and of themselves, but more as they relate to me. It’s me. The conclusion was that the small idols were pieces of a the great big idol — my life. What do I really want? I just want my life to work out. Lame, but it is that for which I’ve worked all along? My life.

Took the fight to two fronts, and was really getting my ass kicked on both.

 

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