We pressed our hands into fossils cemented in rock;
we stood with our heads tilted into rain,
as the sun shone down on us,
like a moment sent from heaven
but sometimes I’m not happy even when I’m happy
the sun sets, and it isn’t enough
it’s never enough.
Everyone I know is scrambling for validation
in the dark we forget who we are,
so we seek our names on strangers’ lips, a blue thumbs’ up, the eyes of others as we tear them down.
How did we get like this?
It can’t have always been like this.
The world doesn’t talk much about sin, because it looks shiny and feels good, and we confuse sin with identity and don’t want to think of a God who wants to tear apart who we are.
Thing is, I’d like to be someone else.
Jesus said he came so we could have life and have it abundantly (John 10:10), and this is what I see in stories, the ones that mean something, the ones that are bursting with beauty and pain, life and death, and so much love, the ones that make me cry because I’m not sure my life will ever be so full.
I throw that kind of life away almost every day, because getting there seems uncomfortable. Because I am my own god. Because I have made myself so large I block out the light from the Father of Lights. (James 1)