Christian Living

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Wandering

With little purposeful feet we wander away.
We place our hands deep in the tattered pocket of a ruthless enemy.
This enemy is cunning causing us to think that we are in the lead.
Our eyes begin to see night by day. Cloud cover confuses the trek, tripping us, misdirecting.
Always now, as we roam further into the cold night, we are shielded from Truth.
It is all familiar because it is all us-our choice--our sin, bubbling up from a very human heart.

There are those insipid whispers that hiss and slide over our ears, sounding no alarm to our dulled senses.
As we walk, we find only our pleasures strewn along the pathside like so many multi-hued wildflowers. This gives shivers of happy along our stiff backs.
If we feel loss at all, it is like a breeze on our skin, passing, almost unnoticeable.
When we reach the end; hours, days or years later, it is at a precipice of unfathomable depth.
Then we will flail and our fingers will grip the edge for purchase. Here is where we will most assuredly drop without bending to the Father. Without His hand holding, without acceptance.
Our wandering has led to this pit.

I watch him, tears streaming, as he wanders into the wrong camp. It is a blind yet direct path. I watch, aching, as the light that shone from his beautiful eyes is extinguished by cares he has yet to comprehend. I watch as confusion replaces certainty. I watch as disappointment heaps upon itself. Mountains are forming from accumulated and random life rubble.

I want to capture him in this inevitable fall. Its a mother thing. I want to leap forth, arms outstrethched, a tarp for him to safely fall into. I want to scoop him up onto my lap and rock the pain away.
God wants, however, something entirely different.
God wants him on his knees. In fact, God is manufacturing situations that will bring falls and tumbles. Teachable moments in the fray.

In the meantime, he wanders blithely along the pretty, fragrant, manicured path of his own creation, stumbling once in a while, but grasping at the enjoyable and fun. He is heading to that pit that stinks of death.

At the pit, that foul place to either lay our sorrows or leap, he will choose. There he will lay his life willingly at the feet of the Savior or he will not. A mother believes, though, that when he faces God, when he quietly looks upon the beatific face of our Savior, his heart will know, and finally, he will bow in humble repentance.

M. LaPointe c 05/04/2009

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