Ok, so I'm feeling a tiny bit better, but also despondent and lazy, and have now accustomed myself to plunking these in here (it doesn't take long to form a habit, tragically, when it's something that's easier than whatever you were doing before). I do truly love writing. It's the only thing (beside God, obviously, cough) that keeps me sane. But also, you have to be able to think something, and this week has been all about me shuffling around looking at the devestation and chaos and then just going back to bed. The best thing about it is is that under normal circumstances I would freak out and try to clean it all up and do whatever it is that's required, but now, I've happily shrugged my shoulders and and wandered off into the fog. Why am I blathering on like this. Here is the next installment of Sarcastic Devotionals for Angry or Worn Out People.
Day Three
Genesis 2:26
Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” 27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.
Everything has been set in place. The sun, moon and stars are orbiting in their new regular way. The land and sea are all settled and arranged. Day and night circle together. All the trees and plants and flowers are spread in vast array. The sky and seas and land are full of life. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect and unspoilt. And then God says, let's go ahead and make Man.
And for thousands upon thousands upon thousands of years we sit around asking WHY! For Heaven's Sake. WHY? Why did you do it? And not just man OR woman. It had to be the two, the two together. And not only so, but somehow the two reflect something in God. Together they are in the 'image' of God.
I look at my gray, harried, exhausted image morning by morning, the flap of my worn out and destroyed middle swaying around in the brisk winter breeze, wishing I could have some other image. Wishing the eyes were a little more cheerful, the nose not so prominent, the tone of the skin brighter and more magazine worthy. Wishing someone would show up and airbrush me into an image that I think is beautiful, that I think reflects my idea of God. And then I lift up my head to look in the face of someone whose eyes look just as tired but who, let's not kid ourselves, looks better every year, more distinguished with each gray hair. The two of us look at each other, as in a mirror darkly, misunderstanding and ununderstanding each other. Then we look out at the world and try to do whatever it is we think we've been called to do. Supposedly, and it must be so because God himself said it, we two reflect the image of God. Supposedly, and it must be so because he said it, the reflection is good. The world looks at us both and sees a glimmer of God himself. And every evening, and every morning, I whisper quietly to myself, “really?” And then I remember the image of the first born, naked, hanging out there in the breeze, broken.
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