Hello. I am Mrs. Goodperson.
I blithely and calmly smooth and sweetly soothe the foamy rippling waves, the prayerfully controllable waters lapping at the rocky shoals of my worn-out, but hopefully working through His Grace, exhausted soul.
Sometimes my insufferable cockiness causes me to lose my cautious footing to frantically splash, ensnared, drowning in treacherous tidal waves. There is no gaily painted surfboard or brawny lifeguard to cling to, to keep me from succumbing to my own foul misery.
I desolately reside at 1234 “count to ten” Wits’ End. This eerie locale is dumped at the bottom of a weed-choked swampy dead-end, a place so loathsome even frogs won’t croak here.
What set me off this time? I tangled with my normally benevolent beloved over our friend’s needs/wants. What does it mean to “love thy neighbor as thyself”? If he is hungry, feed him? What if it costs me my precious time and money?
Yes, there are “moochers” always looking for handouts. Yes, I am easily taken advantage of, weeping with those who weep and rejoicing with those who rejoice.
I am tormented between obeying my wise steward husband and those pleading for my time, energy, food. My neuroticism bounces me off walls.
My husband thinks I just want people to like me. I have no difficulty in that department. I am very lovable. But like an overeager puppy, I do respond to all callers.
I get scolded like the child I sometimes am. I pout, I cry – and with my very short but extremely sharp fingernails, I dagger rbbons of ragged bloody flesh on my innocent unsuspecting arms.
Yes, I am one of those unhappy self-loathing, self-mutilating histrionic souls – and why? Is this a pathetic screech for help? Well, yes. Please take note of my abysmal pain. I hurt – badly. I hurt myself badly. I must hide in long clingy sleeves to hide my very literal bloody shame.
Unfortunately, I must see the kidney specialist this afternoon. This may require blood draws. Both of my arms are savagely ravaged. How will I explain this to the horrified phlebotomist taking the blood from my mutilated arm? “I had a run in with my cat?” It hurts to be me.
I am a preacher’s struggling, oft-times nonsensical wife. I should and do know better. I warmly counsel others suffering through their own traumatic angst to turn it over to God – all of it, the pain, confusion, frustration, rebelliousness, nasty temper.
I should maybe listen to myself.
Some of my dear faithful readers are aghast, positively shocked that I am letting so much personal matters be exposed in print. I desperately need your heartfelt prayers. We are called to and must pray for each other, deeply – with great attention to detail.
Simply “blanketing”, generalizing prayer is rather ridiculous, won’t you agree? Our mighty and powerful God knows what we need before we can even prepare to verbalize our highly emotional pleadings.
You know the need – please remember the spiritually starving in prayer. Don’t neglect the poor and hungry, needy souls who, because they find themselves at their wits’ end, wind their way into our hearts. Love thy neighbor as thyself. Good, heartfelt giving of ourselves to bring folks to the realization that God is truly the Provider of all good gifts, and He lovingly presents to us His Son, Jesus, the Christ.
He wants US to know what we need from Him. Need hugs? Understanding? Love? An end to tormenting confusion? We will find all we could ever need in the arms of our Savior. Jesus’ strong welcoming Arms stretch incredibly to meet our every need. We must take our helplessness, our rage, feebleness and bone-chilling agony to His sturdy, stable cross.
Jesus is no longer on His cross because our precious righteous Father resurrected Him to live within us through His Holy Spirit. But we must leave all our pain, sin and regrets at the foot of His cross. He bore it, was nailed to it and died upon it to save us from sin’s deadly force. He frees us to repent – to sin no more.
Shame on me. I constantly ask You for Your forgiveness, for Your grace to strengthen me – and then blow it by letting my infantile savage temper rage out of our control.
I am a child, yes. I am Your child, praise You. Thank you. Time for this hysterical child to mature in You...
I am literally at my wit’s end.
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