Scarred Hand
Once upon a time, I am not what I was now. Mistakes have been made. Tears have been wept. Lessons have been learned.
When I went through my Darkest Hour, I spent some time in therapy (and then went home and did my homework) working out how I’d gotten to where I was, and how one choice had led to another, in a spiral that went back decades to the First Bad Choice. There is value in such a journey. When I see weeds from that particular genus pop up in my heart, they get whacked off *immediately*, no delaying for perfect weather or loads of energy.
But sometimes I take out that strand of ugly decisions and fondle it. “If I’d only done THIS or said THAT…” and that’s not useful. Because that’s me trying to take retroactive control of my existence. I’ve done stuff that I am deeply ashamed of. K. Can’t go back. I can’t-have-made a different decision. It’s over now. And where I am is where I am.
Who I am is who I am.
Paul wrote about this:
Romans 8:28 And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
God has worked a lot of beauty from my idiocy. When I take that strand of ugly out and say, “if only” – I’m saying I know better than God. (Because I come up with a fantasy version of my life if only I had been perfect). Repenting of my many sins is useful, but … it’s over. OVER. I am washed clean. I am made new.
I have scars of mind and body. I have places that will hurt until it pleases my Lord that they be healed. So what? That doesn’t exactly make me unique.
When I try to take control, I’m acting out of fear. I’m saying, “this place that hurts so much – if I rehearse in my mind the way I should have acted, I’ll never make that mistake again. I can never be hurt like that again.” Self-protection. It’s not my job to protect myself. Not. My. Job.
It’s not my job to be in control of my life or make things new. My job is to let go and let God live through me, using what I am in this moment. Let Him be glorified. And I’ll get back to work identifying fear and tossing it up to be burned until I run out of fear. (Three minutes before my last breath, likely).
Hands, Heart, Hearth 
What a near and dear post, Hearthie. There’s nothing quite like that really Darkest Hour. For me it’s felt the like Bog of Eternal Stench – you dip one toe in it and you stink forever. Grave sin is like that – it mutilates the soul so deeply that even when we are gifted with His gracious forgiveness and our souls are renewed, we can’t help but remember the stink that was there.
Yes. Am I the only one who indulges in gluttonous excess of “might have beens”? If only… then the Bog of Eternal Stench wouldn’t exist. Or would be a mud puddle. Or… :p
Oh no worries there girl! You have plenty of company in that carriage.
once again, beautiful Hearthie.
Thanks, Jenny. 🙂
Seconding Jenny’s comment. Beautiful.
Blushes at you girls.