Nothing good matters. At least nothing good that I do, anyway.
The debt simply is too great. It would be the same as some fool emptying out the ocean one soup spoonful at a time and expecting praise for his accomplishment. Why? What difference does it make?
Only the bad matters on my end. Only then does the blood of Jesus matter. And boy does it matter. Like drying that same ocean by grasping the planet and hurling it face-first into the belly of the sun, it matters.
My death, my sin, my shame. His glory. Nothing else matters.
If anything else did, though, it would only be whether I am willing to have my world plucked from space and sent sunward, certain to crash and be forever, unrecognizably changed.
But assuming any other victory when it happens makes for childish arrogance. And why, then, go back to the place that got me into this mess in the first place?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Travelling
Every road has a story. Coursing onward like arteries to the heart of recollection, roads share new memories with each journey.
One road will always be known for the building with the funny name, just past the stop light. Another remains a childhood image, indelibly set. Another always means almost home, or almost somewhere, or only just beginning.
Even roads never taken tell stories. So do the people who miss them on a map, forever cursing some night they drove hours in the wrong direction or slept in a distant town anxiously awaiting morning from the driver seat.
Every road leads somewhere. Every destination has its reason. And every road tells an intricate story to anyone willing to slow down a bit and listen.
One road will always be known for the building with the funny name, just past the stop light. Another remains a childhood image, indelibly set. Another always means almost home, or almost somewhere, or only just beginning.
Even roads never taken tell stories. So do the people who miss them on a map, forever cursing some night they drove hours in the wrong direction or slept in a distant town anxiously awaiting morning from the driver seat.
Every road leads somewhere. Every destination has its reason. And every road tells an intricate story to anyone willing to slow down a bit and listen.
Pop
A firecracker rockets heavenward atop a sparkling trail of light. Faster, faster, faster until finally slower, then slower, then slower. All but stopped cold in the equilibrious pause known by the firecracker and so few others, a decision waits.
From that decisive moment to a time when all sight, sound and the spent-up firecracker itself are forgotton, only an instant passes. So the firecracker--everything it is made of and all it should believe itself to be--takes everything that is packed within it and bursts wildly for, and in, that solitary moment.
No firecracker believes it lasts forever. Yet not one finds that moment too short a time to shine. Only utterly damaged firecrackers forfeit their moment.
Oh, to be so well constructed. Or, perhaps, to so clearly see the design.
From that decisive moment to a time when all sight, sound and the spent-up firecracker itself are forgotton, only an instant passes. So the firecracker--everything it is made of and all it should believe itself to be--takes everything that is packed within it and bursts wildly for, and in, that solitary moment.
No firecracker believes it lasts forever. Yet not one finds that moment too short a time to shine. Only utterly damaged firecrackers forfeit their moment.
Oh, to be so well constructed. Or, perhaps, to so clearly see the design.
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