On those days when I’m winning I can pray out loud with powerfully poetic images and aid beggars with socially smart strategies, and I don’t kiss girls until the level of commitment matches the emotional intimacy.
And now as I look at it, all that parade seems to be mostly just the games played by Sunday school culture, very little different from professional sports culture or the innovative cusp of corporate culture. All of us struggling to get ahead, look good, be proud of our little victories and are hoping to be rewarded for our skill.
But I lost the game today. All my skill could not rescue me from how bad I was losing at the game of living. It was like a t-bone tackle broke my back and sidelined me. I couldn’t manipulate my circumstances, or even sway my own emotions, no matter how I pushed and strained. I had been beaten, and by no fault of my own. The truth was shown that I was simply not enough.
But on the lonely sidelines, as the game rushed past, forgetting me, someone whispered my name. As I slumped on my couch in our living room this evening instead of trying, I just let. Instead of doing, I just released. Instead of striving toward Him, I felt like He put His feet down in my shoes, and reached into my arms, and lined his nose and cheeks up against the back of mine. Maybe this is how he really works in me and makes me look like him. And I felt closer to him, and more like him, and I felt more of him in the broken surrender than I almost ever do when I’m playing the game.