And in the pause that follows, I sink
into the love in His eyes and begin to see as He sees and feel the wounds that
He feels. Wounds that I have inflicted upon another, the least of these,
landing on Him.
So many little things. Things that
don't matter. Things that nobody will
miss. Things that find their way mysteriously into my pockets, onto my
bookshelves, into my garage. Just borrowed, most of them, but never finding
their way home. How quickly my list of excuses and justifications and
rationalizations grows. I need it more than they. They already have too much.
What difference does it make. Really. The difference is not in the respect for
things as things, but in the respect for things as extensions of persons.
Intangible thefts rise up in my
consciousness. The moments stolen from a waiting friend. The fudged time card.
The expanding lunch and coffee break. The small disposables, purchased by someone
else for a specific use.
The good opinion of one held by
another, shredded by casual cutting words. The good reputation, questioned
without knowledge by a raised eyebrow and sardonic smile. Someone's simple and
real joy trashed by an overly critical comment.
And the things stolen from myself.
Moments emptied of meaning and significance, filled with trash. Today's
pleasures, sidelined by imported worries and the "coulda shoulda
woulda" band of thieves. Opportunities never explored, stolen by the fear
of what could go wrong. Deep Presence never engaged because of self-destructive
pride.
"Spirit of the Living God, fall
fresh upon me. Search my heart for all of the secret ways and hidden sins which
I can barely acknowledge even when I see them in the mirror. Give me the
courage to lift them up. Cleanse the poisons by your sweet, healing, soothing,
Presence."
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