The performance anxiety is already killing me. What's funny is there's no evidence anyone is reading this anyway. And why would they? I haven't said much yet. This is kind of how my personal journal tends to go . . . only much worse. Yeah, that's right, I get performance anxiety writing my personal journal, writing for just me and God. What a mess, huh? But let's forget about that for now.
This is the thing I really need to say:
Jesus is King. He's good.
Jesus loves me. And, well, how can I help but love Him back?
He is my Strength, my Source, my Song.
He's my best friend. I've been blessed with some great friends, but He's clearly the best.
He saved me. He still saves me. Everyday, he rescues me from some mess I get myself into, plucks me from some trap that's been laid for me.
He's my Provider.
He makes me smile. He makes me laugh.
He heals me. He helps me. He makes things right.
He's changing me from the inside out.
Jesus is Way Cool.
I've been around for a few decades and I can't ever see that He's let me down or left me alone. Mind you, most of that time I was running away from Him, trying to fit Him in little boxes (tiny ones, like my brain), swearing at Him or just plain ignoring Him. All of that time that I was trying to get rid of Him, He kept chasing after me. All of the time that I refused to believe Him, He still believed in me. I was screaming "La, la, la, la, la! I can't hear you!" but He just kept whispering my name and telling me how much He loves me.
If I don't say anything else, I want to say that. I want to let you know. That's the important part.
That's the first Truth. That's the Truth that drives all of the others.
Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Remind you of any songs? His name says it all: "Yahweh saves" or "Yahweh is Salvation." Joshua. Yehoshua. Yeshua. "Hey zeus" (the sound not the symbol). Doesn't matter how you say it. Jesus is all that.
We'll come back to this from time to time.
There. That wasn't so bad (at least for me). Don't know how it feels for any poor soul who happens to be reading this. Just spit out a few words. Share what's on your heart. It is okay that I spend lots of time talking to myself, isn't it?
Okey-dokey. Here goes.
Watched the presidential debates this week. My vote was solidified. No big surprises there.
Not gonna say yet which way. We'll get to that. Some of you are already congratulating yourselves on the fact that you know which way I'm voting. Woohoo.
Here's the thing. I'm sitting with my wife this afternoon, these thoughts are racing through my head. All sorts of thoughts. Thoughts about politics. Thoughts about Spirit and Truth. Thoughts about the meaning of Life. Thoughts about the meaning of my life. This is pretty common. Happens to many of us everyday.
But lately I've felt this urgency. Maybe it's midlife. I'm not that old, am I?
Anyways, so I'm thinking and the thoughts threaten to spill out into words. And I gesture somehow and she (the lovely wife) says something like "What is it?"
Now, a thing about my wife: she generally likes to hear my thoughts. She's funny that way. We disagree about some things and sometimes she just plain doesn't understand me (more often, I don't think she understands but she's pretty sure she does and I'm not real sure which of us is right). So, it wasn't one of those, "what is it this time, let's get this over with" what is its. At least I'm pretty sure it wasn't. At the very least it was an "I'm concerned about whatever psychotic state you're in, so go ahead and let it out and maybe I can help." I like to think it was more of a "you're brilliant; share with me the fascinating wanderings of your genius." Whichever it was, she does a good job of letting me feel like she really wants to know what's on my mind. Which, if you've made it this far, you know that takes a lot of patience.
The main thing is this. Life is short. It's good, but it's short. I've always believed that we are here for a purpose. I have ideas about what my purpose is and . . . well . . . it's looking like I'm gonna get an incomplete. I've done that a time or two. But I've reached the age where I'd rather get a B than an incomplete. Really, more and more, I'd rather get a good strong "you're an idiot and your presence stultifies me" F than an incomplete.
I'm guessing it'll still be somewhat incomplete when I give up the ghost, but I'd at least like to say I finished a few of the assignments, handed in a representative sample of my writing, circled one or two of the multiple choice answers.
So that's what this is: homework. I've got some things I need to say. Don't we all. Blah blah blah. Oh well. I've got some things I need to say and I'm not really hearing anyone say them the way I think they oughta. Isn't that what blogging is all about?
Maybe I'll find out.
