One by One

They asked for the the card I had been given as I walked through the door. Set it next to me and let it wait. This card, soon to be covered in ink markings, was waiting to be future's reminder. Something that I would write today, not my own words or ideas, but how I would be reminded of who He is, what He is saying, how He is moving, how I am responding.

I sat thinking, contemplating, letting my mind wander into stress filled situations I would try to control, failing time and time again. I began to focus in on ideas and desires I have, things I want to see move, change, develop. Who do I want to be? What legacy would I leave to those I would know and influence? What changes do I want to see and to what lengths will I work to possess those changes? What do I need, what's the right way, right/wrong, who/what/where?

Why?

I formed a mental list of what seemed to be countless unachievable products of how he would move. And when I had exhausted my efforts, my needs of what it would require to see changes and movement like I desire, I began to cross each element out, one by one. Things that had seemed forever important, began to fall one by one.

Signs, wonders, authority, recognition, relevance, position, promotion, fasting, theology, study, tongues, manifestation, knowledge, sermons, music, prophetic, miracles, holiness, anointing, prayer meetings, supernatural, fire, healing, outreach, power, art, evangelism, teaching, books,

But one remained. His person. I cannot afford to have anything apart of my life, regardless of its value, that does not possess His person. Every aspect of my dissolving list had begun with me. What I can do, what I need, where I... And I was reminded, its in His person. These disciplines, these products in isolation, offer little but fatigue. They are not good themselves, good is a person; good is embodied; He is good.

And my blank card now stained: it's in His person.

Imaginary

I sat in the pew next to my mom, brother and sister behind, neck aching and head pounding, everything physically wanting to stand and leave. A feeling welling inside of me urging to stay. Singing familiar songs, possessed by thoughts of how I've sang them with passion, screaming the words, calling Him to move. I stood with the usual slight rocking, fighting the physical to engage with the spiritual. Sifting to hear the still small voice with exhaustion, pain, and apathy screaming for my attention. It has been months since receiving what I had grown accustomed to daily.

As the service moved to a time of confession, I began to hold more focus, searching and allowing myself to be searched. I followed the prompts given and confidently answered; nothing present in my life, unconfessed, that needed to be addressed between us. I sat unaware of any wrongdoing I had done or resolved to do in the future that was left previously unacknowledged. But what had I done, how had I pursued, where am I becoming not a reflection of Him, but Him, Himself?

I began to see the metaphor of my life in a cup. A cup only to be filled with Him. I saw the pride of declining to be refilled, to instead sacrifice overflow because of my own lack of effort. Living off of and rationing what was released to me months ago. I was not running on fumes, I was not running at all. My confession became not what I had done, rather, what I had not done.

I had not let Him fuel me. I had not let me be my strength. I had not lived in the present of what He is doing, trying myself to multiply the effects of what He once did for me. I had not let Him be my everything. He was. I had not.

And my confession, my release of control, my fatal attempts to produce my own joy, my own peace, my own satisfaction, I offered to Him. Admittance to reality, death to denial, I submitted.

And in a moment, I experienced Him.

Realign

Minutes, hours, days, suddenly weeks, now months. Steadily increasing, unnoticed, what was once established lifestyles, now shelved in the name of good intentions. Passion overflows out of intimacy, the converse however, does not offer the same distinction.

Months of frustration, weeks of repeating lessons thought to be never learned, days fighting for potential's success, hours drained without provoking greatness, minutes watching utter foolishness. Then once, a glimpse, a hint to what was believed to be taken with seemingly total apathy. Then twice, the seeds planted months ago, labored over, nurtured, nearly given up on, began to possess their own breakthrough. Astonishment was my only reaction, a group of young men, with only thoughts to themselves, began to see the integrity to live beyond themselves. Seeing the beginning of what I worked so hard for, satisfaction remains as distant as when those seeds lay dormant.

Thankfulness coupled with hope for increase is my only confession. Nevertheless, dreamed fulfillment became an empty promise formulated by and given to myself. Stress was assumed to the idea that breakthrough would offer peace. Reality however is speaking of an internal struggle with that of who is peace and love coveting the attention I am offering this strain. Aiming to repair the broken, where I am only invited to escort the lost.

The internal tension, the stress, the anxiety, the life of displeasure is crowned when I have forgotten who I am. I know who I am most, I am accepted always, I am only satisfied when I am home. My home is His presence, without forgetting this, I am never lost, never a stranger, never without love, always accepting, always advancing, always influencing. Every step I want to walk into a puddle of Him, splashing overflow on everyone in reach, broadcasting His essence;

His love;

His peace.