She held the fire to her chest.
Folding it within her clothes,
but every so often
blowing in air,
keeping it alive.
***
When I say . . .
"It’s just who I am",
"I was provoked",
"I’m getting it off my chest",
"I’m just frustrated",
Does it justify me?
When did God
stop asking me to be holy,
or make my holiness
dependent
on someone else’s?
When did Christ’s example in life
stop being my standard?
Or His death and resurrection
stop freeing me from the power of sin?
When did the Holy Spirit stop
counselling,
bringing conviction,
giving grace sufficient,
meeting me in my need?
When is sin not sin?
When other people are doing it?
When did righteousness become
something distasteful,
legalistic,
unloving?
When was good renamed evil?
And evil, good?
Let me see sin through His eyes,
let it horrify me,
sicken me,
make me weep.
Let me see its consequences in me:
always a hardening of heart,
a growing coldness,
a sliding away,
an avoidance of others,
a preoccupation with self,
a lack of love for Him.
Let me call sin what God calls it.
Let me use biblical words,
and respond in biblical ways.
Let me be broken,
open,
honest.
Let me confess
with tears of grief
and mourning heart
to Him,
and to others,
who I really am.
Let me name the sin and go to the Fountain for help,
so that by
striving and praying,
repenting and confessing,
forsaking and replacing,
I might douse the fire
with the water of the Word
and be changed
a little more
into His likeness.
***
The fire was eating through the fabric,
crackling as it singed.
Soon it would bite and scorch her skin,
but she called it another name
and therefore,
she reasoned,
it wouldn’t hurt her.
Image credit: Olayinka Babalola
