Stench nauseatingly wisps its unwelcome, sinuous depressing threads, permeating an atmosphere that would normally be dripping with sweetness and light. I, who cannot stop retching, am vainly stretching - searching for any light to illumine the dying rotting bloated victim that must be found and decently buried.
I am captivated by Romans 7:24 KJV:
“O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?”
Shaking and gagging, taking shallow sobbing breaths, I stumble through unimaginable liquefying maggot-ridden horror. I weep as I creep through this unholy deep . . .
I cannot abide to remain in this hell hole, so aptly named. Except that it does not remain in Hell – its stink permeates and floats about me like gnats swarming an unrecognizable road kill.
It obnoxiously, almost cheerfully heralds my entrance into all avenues of polite and impolite society. Oddly, I am the only one aware of this. Like wearing clothes inside-out, and no friendly someone commenting until the workday has ended.
Please tell me how to unload this – sin. Please acknowledge that you see that which I have hidden within for years. Surely you see it. You must see my true potential, blindly rushing to my swampy grave. Putrefying.
Oddly, my sin once fit me so exquisitely. How it feathered over me so entrancingly, lovely and graciously enveloping me in its fuzzy warmth like an affectionate clinging Persian cat in full purr . . .
It made me stand out in all crowds – this sin of self. Exuding exquisite confidence, wearing clothes that mother said were inappropriate.
Dear mother said a lot of things that, to me, were inappropriate. Shall I paste all my angst, my histrionics, my “acting out” on dear sweet mom? Blaming her for my sins is running from blatant responsibility. But so easily believed by so many . . .
Dressed alluringly – my husband said I looked like I was advertising for what I didn’t have at home. Unholy giggles convulse me at this – I didn’t have “it” at home. I thrived, thrilled at the appreciative lingering eyes caressing my aching heart within my provocative frame.
Tell me you see it – this putrid monolith accompanying me. Little red flags poke up through the disgusting ooze, plaguing me with little girl memories of an omniscient, omnipresent holy Father. I could blame Him. If He hadn’t set up that cursed Ten Commandments I would not be caught sinning against Him.
Adultery. A nasty word for seeking for love in all the right/wrong places. I didn’t know that my flaunting my “style” opened the door for thoughts that would damn many a man to keep me company in Hell. I didn’t even need to fornicate. You just can’t win.
Do you see it yet? The sin that defines and shapes me? The self-pride that refuses to humble my spirit so that I can cry out to God? Why can I slosh through this muck and you not be splattered with the rot? This is infuriating. Making me very angry. You do not want to see me angry. Not pretty at all.
I am not pretty now. I look in the mirror and see the swarming morass of my sins. You must see it too. How can you help me to struggle with it, shrug it off, if you agree with it? I don’t need mollycoddling – I need deliverance from this living livid nightmare. I desperately need you to see what now horrifies, shames me to the brink of madness.
Please do not agree with my sins, telling me I had every reason to escape a physically loveless marriage. Annulment? I was told this by a loving nun, attempting to comfort me when I was the most grieved. She could not or perhaps refused to see my sin.
My question is, if I wasn’t truly “married”, did I actually sin against my husband by allowing other men to enjoy what he couldn’t? And if not adultery, was it acceptable behavior to fornicate?
I see the sin. I live in it, swim in it. I am drowning in sin – “Oh wretched woman that I am, who shall save me from this body of sin?”
Jesus allows me to see my sin for the hideous disease it truly is. God has given me His unbelievable gift of repentance through Jesus, His Son. You might not wish to see the reality of my sin, but Jesus does – and forgives me.
Thank you Lord . . .
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