Hey, I Like My Pants
By Deborah Anderson
Desire...hmmm...desire for God...ooh la la desire...desire for chocolate...desire to be famous...D-E-S-I-R-E…humph. No matter how I sounded it out, I wasn’t getting anywhere on the subject.
My thoughts scurried as I tapped my pencil on my desk. Why does this word escape me? I’m clueless. I know what my problem is. My brain is on sensory overload. I’ve had too much going on. I need to close my eyes and breathe.
I inhaled—one, two, three, and four—and exhaled—five, six, seven, and eight. I performed this exercise several times.
After opening my eyes, I blinked, stared at my monitor, and shook my head. It didn’t help. I was still blank.
I ran my fingers through my hair thinking it would stimulate my gray matter. I spelled the word aloud. "D-e-s-i-r-e."
Have you ever repeated a word until it no longer makes sense?
My brain began to lecture me. You are an idiot. How difficult can this be?
I argued back. “Oh, shut up. You annoy me. Leave me alone. I’m trying to think over here."
Is that right? Is this what you call thinking? Why don’t you go and read some of your friends’ stories? They inspire you and get your creative juices flowing.
I obliged my brain.
I pulled up a story and began reading. Lucky me, it just so happened to be a tearjerker. Half-way through, I began groping for my box of tissues. My monitor was a blur on the other side of my tears.
My brain jumped in. Feeling inspired now, are we? Hmmm?
“No, I’m not!”
What a sap. The story was supposed to inspire you, stupid, not turn you into a puddle.
“God, please help the poor woman in the story,” I cried.
My brain whistled, disturbing me further. Hello? Excuse me, but you’re supposed to be over here with me, working on DESIRE. Can we stop the crying already?
“You're a selfish pig. Leave me alone.”
I’m not selfish. I’m trying to help you.
“Help me? You have no compassion.”
Ahem, not true. If I don’t light a fire under your behind, you and I won't sleep tonight. Call me selfish, but I need my rest or I’m useless to you and everyone else. Look at yourself. Have you poked your face in the mirror lately? Gads, your clothes are horrible.
I looked down at my tweety-bird pants, tucked inside my blue suede boots. I was offended. These were my good writing pants.
I rushed to my own defense. “Hey, I’m comfortable like this, okay? And the boots, they keep my feet warm.”
Yeah, right. Speaking of desire…I’ll bet your husband loves you in this outfit.
“He thinks I’m cute dressed this way. He’s told me so.”
Say whatever works for ya, sister.
I desired for this wrestling match to cease. I didn’t like myself right now. I began to think of Paul.
Paul made his words clear. The war of our flesh against our spirit is ongoing. Paul speaks of this in God’s word: “For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that I do not; but what I hate, that do I,” (Romans 7:15 KJV).
I was beating myself up over a mere word. How ludicrous is that?
God has called me to peace in all of life’s circumstances, yet I punish myself more than anyone else does. This is a major character flaw of mine. I do it over the simplest of things. I tell myself it's wrong, as well as the fact that I’m special to God, and vow not to do it anymore. Yet at times like these, I find myself doing it again. I believe it grieves God when I put myself down. It’s like slapping the potter because I don’t think the clay is good enough.
Ouch. Did I say that?
My heart finally takes over and reflects back to desire. Desire…wait…I see something…a flicker…a thought. My brain cannot speak as God’s word comes forth. “The desire of a man is his kindness,” (Proverbs 19:22 KJV).
Reality sinks in. I can’t beat myself up anymore. God desires for me to be kind, not only to others but to myself, too.
I look down at my tweety-bird pants. I smile. I feel God smile with me. Hey, I like my pants.
Feet shuffle behind me. I look up to see my husband, who puts his arms around me and gives me a hug.
Ah, yes...desire...what a lovely word.
Copyright ©2005 by Deborah Anderson. All rights reserved.
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