A Pearl: Questionable Value or Infinite Worth?

And what do we have for today?  A world-shattering revelation?  Perhaps a cure for cancer?  A hope to surpass all hopes?  A new presidential candidate, namely me?

Well, no.  Not exactly.  Not even possibly.  I mean, God is the hope to surpass all hopes, that's for sure, but I ran out of all the rest a while ago.  I had something I thought would be wonderful and encouraging to share, but I acquired the human condition and forgot what it was.  There's nothing quite so haunting as losing an idea.  Somewhere, faintly, you have a recollection that it was as close to the perfect idea as you've ever gotten, and that you need to remember it, need to share it, but it stays on the edge of the tide, beyond the waves, and never comes any closer.  Nothing is left but a whisper of a dream, an itching sensation that never gets scratched.  It's heartbreaking, in a tiny sense.  Disappointing, though, more than anything.

That's the name of the game, isn't it?  Disappointment.  All the things you've wanted to accomplish, the ideas that still need to be realized, the stories that need to be written.  The characters that are pounding on the inside of your skull, reminding you constantly that they haven't been birthed yet, that they're getting a bit old for this nine-month thing, that they're overdue, and it's dangerous when that happens.  And then the prose - oh, yes, the prose - that coils around everything like a solitary grapevine, flourishing until it's uprooted by someone who doesn't realize that it wasn't a mistake, that it was meant to be there.  Only, now it's too late, because it needed another year before it could bear fruit.

Oh, and while we're at it, let's add that I want two hours a day to study the Word, two uninterrupted hours, as well as about half an hour to an hour to pray, and the same to worship.  Yes, let's just subtract them from the eight reserved for sleeping.  Who needs sleep anymore, anyway?  With all our technology and medicines, we should have found a remedy for exhaustion and sleepiness by now; it's just one of those nice commodities for rich people, right?  Or, maybe, let's just give those four hours to video games, movies, entertainment, entertainment, and maybe some entertainment; that gives better instant gratification than the Bible does, doesn't it?

Why, oh why, can't my will be as strong with what is right as with what feels good at the time?  Can't I transfer the half-hour's worth of conviction to my daily life, so I could put it to some good use, changing some useless facet of my life into something new and delicate, that promises to grow into a beautiful tree?  But no, no, it would be too easy that way.  I've got to be independent and struggle at it, until I'm sure that there really isn't any way to do it on my own power, and then I'll beg God for help.  Always the last resort, always my last bower.

And the shameful thing is knowing that I have made it so.  And it isn't even so much as what I have done with my life.  It's what I haven't done with it.  The words I haven't said, the thanks and compliments I haven't given, the awkward moments I haven't broken by simply being that which I have been blessed with: a friend.  It is the hours(110 of them, plus about 43 minutes) I have spent gaming, isolating myself from the sunshine, the countless movies used as a halfhearted attempt to soothe the loneliness of living in an American Utopia, the numerous books I have devoured, as if the words could somehow regenerate my creativity.

I'll have you know, it doesn't work.  Oh, certainly, it's nice to kick back and relax for a while, but after a while, it drains more from you than even the everyday bothers.  If only I could tell the me of two weeks ago to spend spring break wisely, and to make it count.  But, I digress; it doesn't work that way.

The truth is, it is a vicious cycle.  I don't read the Word and pray because life has drained me, but I hook myself up to leeches that make me even more tired and dejected, then try to run another day's race with less energy than before.  It would be as funny as a hamster forever running on its wheel if it weren't for the sad fact that it is me.  Vanity, vanity; all is vanity.  That doesn't just mean the time women spend on appearance and youthfulness.  It means that life is vanity, that without the Lord in every aspect of my life, it isn't worth living.  It isn't even worth doing my best at what I'm doing, because there's no one to honor with my hard work, only the paltry accolades I gain with the smallest amount of effort possible.

So you see, really, God is not only the hope to surpass all other hopes, he is the only hope.  He is the only shelter that won't submit to entropy, that can offer warmth and life and joy for what is such a tiny price: my love, obedience, honor, time, attention; in short, my life.  But isn't it worth it?  Isn't it so very, very worth it, for all my life, to infinity, eternity, and so much further beyond to be His?  It is my widow's two pennies, all that I can give that is of worth.  God could take it, yes, but isn't the point of a gift that it is given, free of coercion and grudge?  I am amazed that He wants all of me, whatever little that is.

Amazed, and more grateful than I can express.

After all, I've got to lose my life if I'd like any hope at all of gaining it.

But you know, after I've lost it for Him, I'm not so concerned with gaining it again.  I like it where it is.

In His hands.

~Fumble