Wednesday, April 27, 2005


Time's a funny thing. It evaporates from your hands when you want it to stay, and when you want to push it away, it stains your skin.

That's the way things are right now. There are many portions of my life that I want to stain my skin, and many that I want to wash off. I want to wash off the bad habits in my life, the curses, the gossip, the anger, the judgementalism, the impatience, the labelling of people as good or bad, holy or unholy, arrogant or humble, mean or kind. I want to be a better person, but I see the things I don't like about myself staining my skin.

I want to hold certain things in my hand. I want to sit in the car with J.P. after finishing his floors and talk at midnight with the radio slowly playing. I want to house in my heart that wonderful feeling I have every Sunday in church when I am reminded that I've been forgiven. I don't want to remember the pleasantries of slower days and a happier workplace, I want to be in them right now.

I'm waiting for the dirt to evaporate, and the rubbing alcohol to stain my skin. As I wait, I wonder why it seems to work that way. Why are we so ruined that we can't help but remember the bad things. We never stop kicking ourselves for our short-comings and misfortunes, and we hardly ever remember the good things in our lives.

As I sit, writing this, I have a very easy, well paying job, and I'm on my way to an interview for another. I lack nothing. And what does my mind gravitate toward? The want of a wife. The lack of my own place. The desire to move on. Why do I want so badly to go from here, when this is a great place to be? I don't know. All I know that one of the most difficult things to hold on to is contentment. And you can't grab it by waiting for the bad to pass.

I guess it's time I started counting my blessings again, and being intentional about thanksgiving. I have so much, and notice such insignificant lack as such an enormous gap.

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