The holiday season is literally around the corner; the time of year we juggle schedules begins-all over again. I run out of steam often, but at the holiday season, raging guilt and self-contempt escalate. The very time of year in which I could take inventory of blessings is shawdowed by penumbra of winter; I stare into a cluttered room and stifle weeping. I. me. my.
It is this for which I give thanks: Thank you God, for my ineptitude, my inability to make life work. Let thanks be to him who made me desperate-who created me to long for him, without whose intervention I would have no hope. I need a savior-all the time.
All praise and honor to him: who made provision for my weaknesses, who, in his wisdom, grace and mercy, appointed his only son to step into time, put on flesh for his own glory and for our sakes; whose wrath was satisfied by the same one and only son who took our place. The gospel's everlasting resonance is that after all this- the giving up of heaven, the putting on flesh, the sinless life before the Father, the grueling death on a tree, the only son conquered the scourge of death by his resurrection, bodily, from a sealed tomb. Our God did for us what we could never, ever do for ourselves. My cup runs over indeed.
Soli Deo gloria.