Wrestling

I’ve been wrestling.  Wrestling with what exactly I think it is to be a follower of Jesus.  And in doing so I’m discovering a part of God I’ve long left buried.  The part of Him that is holy and perfect and must pass judgement on sin and complacency and unwillingness to follow.  The part that requires me to – expects me to – make sacrifices in order to follow Him.  To take up, as David Platt calls it in his new book Radical, my torture device and follow Him.  To love Him above my parents, my siblings, my husband, and my child.  To consider the loss of any thing or any one near and dear to me a privilage if it is lost in following Him.


How do I get there?  How do I reconcile the God who makes me feel warm and fuzzy and loved and protected with the God who expects me to sacrifice my child if He deems it necessary for His glory.  How?  How?  How?


I don’t know.


The Hunk and I have been tossing this idea around over the past few days.  Are we radical followers of Jesus?  Because if you are going to follow Jesus, it’s always radical.  That’s the way He designed it.  Period.
The Hunk can turn these thoughts off when he is not actively discussing them – either with himself or with others.  I, however, cannot turn them off.  They roll around in the corners of my mind.  Back and forth they roll like marbles on wood floors.  They roll and clack against the confines of my tiny little brain and against each other and against all the other thoughts I ever had about what it looks like to follow Jesus.  And the clacking noise starts to get to me after awhile because I don’t know how these new God discoveries play themselves out in my life.


I said to The Hunk, “So does it mean that I should be door to door witnessing right now instead of relaxing?  Does it mean I should not have bought my new curtains and instead given the money to someone who needs it?  Does it mean that we should give up regular trips to see our friends and family and instead spend that time and money on ministry?”  And the Hunk  said to me, “I don’t know.”  Pause.  “Are you crying?”


“Yes I am.  Because I’ve been wrestling with this for a couple of weeks.  And it’s hard.  And I, I, I just don’t know.”


Comforting hug from The Hunk and, “That’s good babe.  Wrestling is good.  It means you’re growing.”


Long pause filled only by the sound of my sniffles followed by, “And I really want to keep my curtains.”


To be continued…

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