My head is full of grumbles when I sit down to ponder being blessed. My heart, well it's not that full. It feels kind of like my wallet after cleaning out all the loyalty cards and frequent sippers. Floppy with unintended, empty space.
It's not that I feel un-blessed. I know my glass is overflowing. But is being blessed really just having a middle class peachy life?
I can list all sorts of things that remind me how nice my life is. I'm uncomfortably silent when someone calls me a good person. But I don't laugh at the idea.
Is it just a way to stoke my home-pride fire? Is blessing meant to make me feel more secure and safe?
What if today's blessing is the grumbling dissatisfaction? The one thing between me and self-satisfaction.
The blessings I rely on make me educated, professionally employed, fertile, loved and appreciated, well-housed, optimistic, frequently hugged, respected, encouraged, healthy and well fed.
And the dissatisfaction, it's not a frequent pang. But I need it to long for heaven because I could easily be fooled that I'm already there.
Have you ever prayed that you won't be smug?
I want to be the one who cackles at being called good. Not me - my goodness is full of holes and crinkles. Everything I have is unearnt and undeserved. Given to me by the only one who is truly good.
And even more. What if the following is true?
That my greatest blessings are my inabilities. My losses. My uglinesses. The bits of me that spark shame. My anxious moments, my lateness, my impatience and my laziness. They are where grace and mercy smoulder. They are my possibility. The place where God can truly work, maybe because I can't interfere there.
Perhaps it is the place where my reliance on me is defused and I begin to rely on God - who is infinitely more trustworthy and gracious. And able.
I am a poor, blind, captive slave. I am blessed because someone has come to bring me favour and set me free. Isaiah's promise has been fulfilled. Today. In my hearing.
Linking with a synchroblog (?#*@?) at Imperfect Prose with Emily.