I'm not even aware that it's there...an imperceptible film, like a skin over my eyes, my heart, my mind. I can function with it there. It doesn't hinder me . . . much. Hardly noticeable in fact. And I carry on.
It's not intentional. It's not direct rebellion. It's just - there. And I think that nothing's wrong. The longer it's there, though, the easier it is for the next layer of filmy residue, again undetectable, to deposit itself on my spirit.
I coast. I think I'm okay. But I'm not. And I don't know it.
The first inkling I have that something is "off" is how I hear someone tearing someone else down, and I don't walk away because I'm not too fond of the victim either. It tickles my itchy ears. I snicker.
A few minutes later, I feel sort of down in the dumps. But I don't make the connection.
Within a short while, before I even realize it, I'm not only snickering, I'm joining in. And then I go back to what I was doing - and feel a withdrawing in my insides, like a blossom withering. The divine presence inside me, the one I say I've given first place, is weeping in silence, feeling abandoned, alone, unloved.
And I still don't know how I got there.
Little foxes, the writer of Song of Solomon called them. Little compromises, things that go undiscovered, that sneak in under the leaves and wreak havoc, can erode intimacy with God, undermine relationship with the self, poison relationships with others. They come from complacency, from routine, from boredom, from the lullabye the enemy sings so softly I am barely aware of it - the song says that it's okay, it's only a joke, it's only this once, it's only a few minutes.
The film builds and builds. Unseen by me, the infestation grows and leaves more sludge on my soul. I wonder why God seems so distant. Why He doesn't seem to hear me when I speak to Him.
He hears. I just don't hear HIM.
If I were just to listen to my heart's desire, I think to myself. If I were only to go into the trysting place with Him - just for a few minutes, just this once, just resting in His arms, just looking into His eyes. Then the film would dissolve, the sun would shine through unhindered, the freedom would come, the glory would fall. But I'm too busy. I have this thing to do, that thing to read, the other thing to write. And before long I am left boarding up the windows in my old place and wandering around aimlessly, knowing I need to be doing something but not knowing what it is - in a daze, as if I'm in the poppy fields of Oz, and all I want to do is sleep.
But there's a small voice - barely sounding like a whisper because the film has muffled and dulled it - calling to me from the inside. If I begin to look after my spirit, hydrate it with music, feed it with truth, take care of my inner self, the film starts to dissolve. The voice grows a bit louder. I pay attention. A strange peace comes - little by little - that is not dependent upon the circumstances of who did what to whom, of how much money I have or don't have, of the crazy pace leading up to the holidays.Then I recognize the voice.
It is the voice of unconditional Love.
It's not intentional. It's not direct rebellion. It's just - there. And I think that nothing's wrong. The longer it's there, though, the easier it is for the next layer of filmy residue, again undetectable, to deposit itself on my spirit.
I coast. I think I'm okay. But I'm not. And I don't know it.
The first inkling I have that something is "off" is how I hear someone tearing someone else down, and I don't walk away because I'm not too fond of the victim either. It tickles my itchy ears. I snicker.
A few minutes later, I feel sort of down in the dumps. But I don't make the connection.
Within a short while, before I even realize it, I'm not only snickering, I'm joining in. And then I go back to what I was doing - and feel a withdrawing in my insides, like a blossom withering. The divine presence inside me, the one I say I've given first place, is weeping in silence, feeling abandoned, alone, unloved.
And I still don't know how I got there.
Little foxes, the writer of Song of Solomon called them. Little compromises, things that go undiscovered, that sneak in under the leaves and wreak havoc, can erode intimacy with God, undermine relationship with the self, poison relationships with others. They come from complacency, from routine, from boredom, from the lullabye the enemy sings so softly I am barely aware of it - the song says that it's okay, it's only a joke, it's only this once, it's only a few minutes.
The film builds and builds. Unseen by me, the infestation grows and leaves more sludge on my soul. I wonder why God seems so distant. Why He doesn't seem to hear me when I speak to Him.
He hears. I just don't hear HIM.
If I were just to listen to my heart's desire, I think to myself. If I were only to go into the trysting place with Him - just for a few minutes, just this once, just resting in His arms, just looking into His eyes. Then the film would dissolve, the sun would shine through unhindered, the freedom would come, the glory would fall. But I'm too busy. I have this thing to do, that thing to read, the other thing to write. And before long I am left boarding up the windows in my old place and wandering around aimlessly, knowing I need to be doing something but not knowing what it is - in a daze, as if I'm in the poppy fields of Oz, and all I want to do is sleep.
But there's a small voice - barely sounding like a whisper because the film has muffled and dulled it - calling to me from the inside. If I begin to look after my spirit, hydrate it with music, feed it with truth, take care of my inner self, the film starts to dissolve. The voice grows a bit louder. I pay attention. A strange peace comes - little by little - that is not dependent upon the circumstances of who did what to whom, of how much money I have or don't have, of the crazy pace leading up to the holidays.Then I recognize the voice.
It is the voice of unconditional Love.
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