Gnawing on celery.

In just the last week, I spent . . .
  • countless hours numbing myself from my reality as I stared blankly at the television.
  • numerous hours facebook-stalking mere acquaintances as I mindlessly clicked through the photo albums of total strangers.
  • a deafening amount of time running my mouth to friends in an attempt to process another stupid decision I made out of pride.
  • a dictionary's worth of words rambling on and on and on to my sister about things that no longer matter because I was simply caught up in a moment.
  • a sickening number of brain cells anxiously pondering the what ifs of my seemingly uneventful life.
  • a disturbing amount of time nagging my husband about schedules and future plans and last night's miscommunication.
  • a saddening amount of energy beating myself up for the way I reacted to my children as a result of my own selfishness and lack of sleep.
I'm no math whiz, but if you added up all the hours spent on the activities listed above, I have a funny feeling that they would closely match the number of hours I spent physically awake last week (which is a whole heck of a lot).

And that's what pisses me off. It didn't take much self-reflection for me to realize that I spend a ridiculous amount of time seeking to fill my empty bucket by grasping for things of this world, my own inner demons, the reassurances from others, and a whole bunch of cultural trash.

Not God.

Not His Word.

Not prayer.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I clearly hungry for the very thing that Jesus promises to give but instead I continue to seek the very thing that is making me more hungry? It's like I am gnawing on celery to satisfy my appetite but I'm burning more calories in the process.

It makes no sense.

Yet I continue to follow the path of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

In chapter two of Radical, Platt describes a group of church leaders in Asia who risk their lives in order to unite and study the Bible for days at a time. I am praying that I might possess merely a fraction of the passion for God that those men possess.

I am praying that God will awaken in my heart a deep and abiding passion for the gospel as the grand revelation of God (Platt, 40).

Because here's the truth: God's promises never falter. They never weaken. They never cease.

And because He promises to deliver blessings, goodness, and rewards (in addition to providing for my needs) to those who seek Him first, I am asking . . . praying . . . begging for God to position me in a way that I am open to His fulfillment. To the joy and peace and contentment that can only come from Him.

I'm sick of clogging up my soul with crap making it damn hard to open my heart to God's voice.

I'm only two chapters into this stupid book, and I'm a complete and utter mess.

Fortunately my God is meeting me exactly where I am at right now. And for that I have never been so grateful.

For more reactions to Chapter Two of Racical, check this out.