You don't have to fall apart.
Hey human you,
I fell apart in my sinking bed a few weeks ago.
Cried, because I had to get glasses. Cried, because the fine print of a subscription got the best of me and slipped $99 out of my checking account, thank you very much, kind sir. Cried, because I couldn't figure out how to navigate the upgrades on my iPhone apps.
Cried, because. . .change.
And then I cried some more because deep in my heart, I wasn't really flustered about the change. It was something else bothering me. Something that I couldn't explain. Something that I couldn't find words for.
My patient husband listened as I fumbled words around, raking my brain for logic—the smallest size of common sense to cup in my hands. Just a grasping, please.
And I stayed there, a few minutes, until it came.
It wasn't change or the cringing overcharge of $99 dollars that made me cry.
It was atrophy—the wasting away, or decline, or falling apart of things.
It was the realization that I cannot gather and hold and carry and care for all things, at all times.
You know? The idea of some things slipping through the cracks, falling to the wayside, getting put on the back burner.
Through busyness or aging or times that keep on a'changing, we give way to the negligence of such things, and they are bound to waste away.
Simply fade away.
I would have stayed and cried in bed forever at the realization of this, if it hadn't been for the realization of another thing.
That, even as these things fall apart and fade away, we don't have to fall apart or fade away.
Yes, our eyes will fail. Our physical, beating hearts may give way. The skin will rage with scars and wrinkles. The cells will divide abnormaly. The blood count will dance at dangerous levels. The bank account will always run short. We will forget how to play the piano. Forget the names of grade school teachers. Forget the names of first kisses and best friends from freshman year.
But when a faith in Christ like flames is stoked to breathe and burn—eternity becomes in sight, comes into the soul.
Even now, even while everything—within and around—breaks and bends and shifts and changes. Even now, while our beating hearts and breaking bodies and lives stretched thin are falling apart and fading away—we are preserved. . . our souls kept and intact.
I don't know what vision or organ or body or life changes you're going through. But, here's truth that's hope for this moment, and grace that goes with you:
Be human. And be small. Let those few things slip and fall away. Let those few things fall apart, as you release the tightness of your grip and your grab.
Because, our Father in heaven—with the cosmos in one hand, and our delicate human lives in the other—has promised us life. And, more abundantly, life with him.
Eternity—the promise of a place, of his person, of his presence, that will never, ever fade.
Or fall apart.
Not even forsake us.