I'm Yours

My husband has a wife that's about as soothing as alcohol on an open cut or as reassuring as the bathroom mirror right after you've gotten out of bed in the morning. Yeah, mercy isn't a word defined by any of my actions. At least not with those closest to me. And though I do not negate the usefulness of said alcohol or mirror at the proper time, I serve up honesty at all hours of the day, even the dark and difficult ones, when sometimes honesty needs to be shelved at the expense of someone's heart. Truth, like open-heart surgery, is only effective when the patient is prepped with enough anesthetic beforehand and healing time afterwards to fully recover. Otherwise, the point dies a hard, silent death. I haven't learned this yet. At least not with my family. I don't know how to be anything but brutally honest. I think it's a missing strand in my genetic code. And what is the value of honesty if the person receiving it walks away with more bandages than he had when he came to you?

It all seems so plain and simple, reading it. Stop being so honest all the time. Learn to dish out a little more grace. Why is living it so much more complex?

I think I expect judgment for my own actions. I expect everything I do to be examined under some cosmic microscope. I expect God to rail me with thunder and lightening for the wretched sinner that I am. That we all are, apart from Christ. Perhaps this is part of the reason why I feel the need to hold a mirror to every wrong move someone makes, to shed the ugly truth on everything, whether welcomed or not.

I hold this same mirror to myself. I beat myself up for every imperfection. I forget who I am. I forget Whose I am.

I'm Yours, Lord. Everything I've got, everything I am, everything I'm not. I'm Yours, Lord. Try me now and see. See that I can be completely Yours.