Immediately a repugnant smell escapes the box. Its vapours, laced with vitriol, burn and sting the senses. Expectations are dashed like tea party trinkets exploded by grenades. The pulsing heart is fuelled with sinister deception. Every pulse spews self and sarcasm. The life-giving qualities of this organism have been hijacked with hate; no trace of the Creator’s original intent remains. All channels for expression are corroded with rust, its genetic code corrupted to the core. Sabotaged. Yet see it rise; it’s poised to strike. Its path of terror is strewn with prey. Chewing like cancer, it devours—even itself. Who can plumb the churning depths, deep as hell beneath? What strong man can now corral the collateral damage and once again secure the lid? Who can tame the hideous monster embedded in my human heart.
“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it?” (Jeremiah 17:9).
Through history’s gate comes One so pure. With eyes that scan eternity, He sees right through the gaudy lid. Unflinching in His great resolve, He shrinks not back from task at hand. Intrigued, I wonder where He’ll start? How will He ever restore this frightful sight? Will He untangle, will He pour in oil and wine? With interest I pull up a chair. This spectacle will certainly involve great strength and mastery. To stuff the evil back inside; to manhandle and force the lid—what prowess and might is this? But curiously, He comes unarmed, spreading seeds along His path. For warfare His tactics seem a tad strange. But oh the force of such compassion; deep furrows ploughed upon my heart. And before you knew it He is gone. His life is taken from Him like water spilled upon the ground. How can He disappear like that, claiming that His work is done? His parables, a paradox, that echo through the ages: “He’s coming back at harvest time? Will there be faith? What will He find?”
Back to the box my mind now goes. Something has germinated alongside the mess. Like parents expecting baby number two I wonder how there could ever be room in this box for more? But there it is, unmistakably so, a brand new pulsing in the corner, a brand new embryonic heart. Pure as the snow and utterly foreign, this new growth unfolds. Side by side they coexist. The box is crowded now for sure. The struggle isn’t over. In fact, it’s grown. Two separate natures, two separate wills. The thirst for prominence competes. Which will tower, which will reign? One moment this one, next the other. I try to keep the monster chained. I try to feed him less and less. And when he threatens to overpower, I grit my teeth to the pain and with strength not my own, I chop him down. Bit by bit, one step forward, another back, my progress is dismal and slow. Yet gradually I have grasped the truth: death to my old self is incredibly good for the new me.
