“Don’t drink it!” Whispers my heart. But I do, I swallow deeply, great gulps of it as if the drinking of this bitter cup will hurt anyone but myself. Then comes the heart sickness and the weariness in my bones.
In desperation I cry out to Papa who saves me. He holds me close. He heals me and for a little while I am at rest. I find that peace that I so desperately am longing for. I relish the freedom. I laugh in the sun. Dance in the wind,
“This freedom is what I have for your life,” He promises.
But it doesn’t last very long. Like an addict who cannot resist the draw of the drug, I revisit the place where the poison is. I pick up the pain. Holding it in my hand, studying it from every side. Vaguely wishing to release it while grasping it tightly at the very same time. It looks relatively harmless. So I draw it closer. Trying to make sense of it, justifying myself, adding more and more ugliness until the cup is filled to the brim with what could kill me.
“Don’t, don’t drink it!” Oh that I would learn to just put it down and walk away,leaving all the damaging lies and acid remarks, the vengenance and lonliness there to be dealt with by Someone more merciful and grace giving then I, but like a stubborn child, I return again and again demanding that I be granted relief from this bitterness. So I drink again just one sip and then another, bringing wretchedness and brokenness to my heart. Begging for deliverance from myself and my self inflicted torment.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Hush baby I am here. I love you, just rest,” He speaks to my heart and heals me again. He is a gracious father who will rescue me no matter how many times I find myself sick in this gutter. He is faithful, so faithful.
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