Sometimes Sinner, Sometimes Saint
The thing about recognizing your demons is that they get even louder and more ferocious. They make you think you’re so messed up and you’ve messed up so much that you’re back to square one regardless of any grace you’ve recognized from Papa.
In my case, wrath continues to rear its ugly head.
I loathe it. There’s a parasite inside me, it seems, that feeds off the slightest irritation. It sinks its razor sharp claws into a text, a comment, even a gesture. Then anger gushes out as from an open wound. Then I see it, reflected in the eyes of whatever poor soul has invoked my ire. Monster.
Or so my demons tell me. Then a new fury wells up inside: I am utterly justified in my anger.
And on the cycle continues.
Just when I haven’t had an episode for a while, the demons come back.
Such was the case one day last week.
It had been a marvelous day:
I had breakfast with my brother and our estranged father. It was actually pleasant. Papa reminded me to take in the happiness of the moment then and be content. It was, I daresay, even lovely.
Then I went for a nice walk to the old barn and back, chatting with Papa for a bit before just listening (or attempting to listen to Him, at any rate).
Back at the house, I set to start reading Beautiful Outlaw by John Eldredge. I got to the end of the first chapter before I decided that a nap was in order.
So nap I did and it was wonderful.
When I woke up, I read a few more chapters and did some housework before going to karate class. Then I met a friend afterwards for dinner.
A perfectly ordinary yet extraordinary day.
I should have known that the time was ripe for a counter attack.
Smack in the middle of my conversation with my best friend, in fact, with my accountability partner, Phoenix.
It was a stupid thing that set me off. It usually is. A text from an acquaintance, with a last minute cancelation on plans for the next day. Before I realized, I had gone from mellow to pissed in a few seconds flat. I was indignant. All manner of agreements flooded in. I was justified, too. One hundred percent.
Then I caught the look on Phoenix’s face and pride welled up inside me. I don’t have a problem. Just because I’ve struggled with wrath doesn’t mean every little thing that annoys me must me analyzed to the nth degree! It’s her, the acquaintance from the text message, she’s in the wrong. Not me. It’s unfair. Rude. I saw it coming, too. I knew this would happen… On and on and on the agreements went.
Looking back on it now, I realize that I was embarrassed that my demons were showing. So I became defensive, embittered, and the wrath flowed like a river from yet another gaping wound.
Phoenix suggested when I feel this way to pray for grace. I lashed out at her, and immediately regretted it too. I don’t want to have to ask for grace every stinking time something makes me mad. It’s not fair. I don’t care if we’re called to a higher purpose. I don’t like analyzing everything, shredding it all up, and preparing a report on the whole situation. I just don’t work that way………………………………………………..
Oh, what a foul trickster Satan is.
Somewhere along the lines of our conversation that night, Papa melted away the wrath and redirected it towards worshipping Him. In the parking lot of a St. Louis Bread Co. (Panera for the rest of the U.S.), Phoenix and I took turns playing music, singing along to our favorites, crying over old songs, crying over new songs, laughing at our hysterics, and altogether worshipping our Papa.
I think I learned something quite valuable from Papa through all of this: I can’t always hide my demons. In fact they take special pride in showing themselves through us when we least expect it; then they exact another blow from us. They nail us with pride, embarrassment, shame. Deeper and deeper they drag us, isolating us from all sources of good, so that we feel utterly despicable and grotesque and alone. A monster.
But we don’t have to stay ashamed.
Papa offers new life each and every day. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, a million and more times over again, He offers us grace, and mercy, and love. He flings our sin as far as the east is from the west.
Granted, we are raised to life as saints only to fall again as sinners, and so it continues and each time it gets harder to get back up. Sometimes it’s too shameful to even bother lifting our head. Who could love someone who messes up so much?
I’ll tell you who can: Papa can.
Because even as we pounded those nails through Jesus’ flesh, He forgave us. It’s true, even while we were still sinners, our Jesus died for us. (Romans 5:8)
Where does this leave us? Where does this leave me? Well I, for one, know that I’m going to mess up again. I’ll try not to, honestly. I don’t like being a sinner. I especially don’t like the wrath in me. That’s something I need to work on with Papa, my wrath, but I’ll always be a sometimes sinner.
By the grace of God/Papa, I’m also a sometimes saint.
Sometimes I can’t hide the demons that I face
Sometimes don’t deny I’m sometimes sinner, sometimes saint
