lovedAlso, I'm grateful for what I've been given. Not nearly grateful enough, mind you, but given even a few moments' consideration to my life, my health, my mind, my friendships and family, the pity party is forced to come to an early and abrupt close.
I don't idolize balance. It's almost a complete myth, and living solely in pursuit of it can lead to absolute godlessness. Yet there is a balance to be struck between my gratitude and my brooding, between praising God and engaging the hard realities of my story with Him.
The key may lie in trust. If I deny the story He's telling in my life, drowining it out in a chorus of abstract "worship," I do not trust Him enough to engage in a real relationship with Him. Likewise, if my brooding and contemplation shuts out the richness of the hope He's given— especially when I cannot see clearly the way home, the way to the healing of my heart— I trade my true identity as His son for that of an orphan, abandoned and alone, forced to find my own way and make my own life work somehow.
Feel it all and stand, not in my strength but in full dependence on His. Cry out with purpose and hope. No fear behind my eyes. He has me utterly confused and completely captured. That's love, baby— wild, wild love.
