Clumsy wallowing. I've been a bit slow out of the starting gate in 2003. It's not for lack of good intentions. I have, after all, resolved to do more of, or do better, all the important things that bring balance and harmony to life. In particular, I vowed to myself that I would devote myself more to prayer and reflection, the study of Scripture, and the attention of the young souls I'm charged with shepherding in youth ministry. And then I get this $&^%*@ upper-respiratory fluish crud, and my prayers turn into weak, wimpy hacks and coughs, my petitions turn to phlegm. My reading of scripture is inattentive; my mind wanders; the remote is too close, the one-eyed monster too beckoning. So I close the Book and channel-surf through bowl games, VH1's "I Love the 80s," and Game Show Network. Oh, how pitiful. Oh, wretched man that I am.
And then that Chris Rice song, "Clumsy," came on the radio yesterday and damn if it didn't speak to me. I get so clumsy/I get so foolish/I get so stupid/And then I feel so useless. Oh yeah. I can relate. That's me all over the place in 2003. But wait -- there's more! But You’re sayin’ You love me/And You’re still gonna hold me/And that You wanna be near me/‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy. Holy? Moi? I sure haven't felt very holy lately, or even holy-in-progress. But I'm reminded of one of my touchstone verses, Philippians 1:6, which says: being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. Man, I sure hope so.
Even the most sincere, the most deeply founded in faith, go through hours of despair. At such times it is important to continue praying. Perhaps it will sound as if we are talking into an echo chamber. Or perhaps we will feel that our efforts are so insignificant, so weak, that our voice can never reach heaven. But prayer never depends on our feeling close to God; he is always close to us, and he does hear us.
Damn. So I'm not feeling so close to God these days. So I've been sick. So the bowl games have been on. Still, I'm to continue praying, even if it sounds like I'm talking into an echo chamber. It's difficult to wallow in self-pity when God's always nudging you out of the muck.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.
Still puny.Puny. What a great word. See definition 4.c in the Oxford English Dictionary: In bad condition or health; physically weak; ailing. I love this definition from my home state, Missouri:
[In Missouri] puny was ‘confined to bed’, poorly meant ‘chronically ill’, and bad sick meant it was time to call the undertaker.
So, in the vernacular of the Show-Me State, I suppose I'm not puny. And certainly I'm not bad sick. In fact, I'm on the mend. (Thanks for your prayers and well wishes, dear readers.) I floated around the house in a fog for a couple of hours this morning, finally making it in to the office around 10 a.m. to torment my staff. They're all telling me how bad I look, and suggesting I go home. But I know they're just wanting me out of here so they can slack off. Heh.
Bleh. I'm sick today. Some sort of flu bug. I'm in slow motion. If it weren't for an important meeting this morning, I'd be at home, under the covers. I'll probably be heading that way as soon as I can.
Simon Dawes, 
