Debtor’s Work

I have a hard time with the concept of something being “unconditional” or “free”.

In my experience, there are usually strings attached. Not always, but usually.

So naturally, I struggle with grace.

Most days, when I really look at myself, I have a hard time looking past my own wretchedness, and I can’t understand how the One who I’ve sinned against can. I find myself striving, red-knuckled, to be someone worthy of the grace of God. I’m always fighting to be . . . I don’t even know sometimes. A better servant? A better friend? A better daughter? A better sister? A better (fill in the blank here)? This is not in itself wholly bad; we are to always hope for growth. But when fighting becomes about working to earn, things get messy.

Jesus paid for that wretchedness that I sometimes can’t look past. I know that it no longer coats my skin – grace does – but I also know wholeheartedly that I don’t deserve it. He gives it to me anyways, and for that, I will spend the rest of my life devoted to His glory.

I guess my struggle is the tension point between knowing that grace is free and knowing that I don’t deserve it. It all boils down to pride, really. My strife is prideful.

The Lord is still teaching me how to be more accepting of His grace, and I can feel each day, my heart receiving it a little more. In the midst of my learning, I’ve written a poem about my struggles with that beautiful and free gift of God’s grace. I realize the weightiness of this poem, but please know it came from a place of growth.

And by that very grace that I all too often fight, I have grown.

“Debtor’s Work”

I’m realizing how good I’ve gotten

At breaking my own skin.

–

I scratch, I pick, I peel,

And my wounds,

They don’t clot anymore.

I only bleed.

–

Rolling up from my red-stained knuckles

Is a copper stench so thick I can taste it,

Reminding me of just how cheap each blow is,

And underneath that sticky, hot, wet coating,

You’ll find written across my fingers the words

Work and Earn.

–

I get stuck thinking my fighting

Will be a sufficient repayment

Even though I know there was already

Enough blood to begin with.

–

Take away my striving,

And I’ll try to live up to the stillness.

Try to write truth on the muscle in my chest,

And I’ll ask you to wait

Until I deserve it.

Coat my scars with balm,

And I’ll still feel guilty anyways,

Cause I’ll look at them and see

My own fingerprints imbedded in

My partially healed flesh.

–

In my nauseating humility,

So false it chips away like aging paint,

Your gifts feel like curses.

I wear them proudly,

But my skin looks so dirty

Up against the beautiful banner of

Bright light

And soft white

Covering me.

–

After trying and trying

I still can’t live up to

Everything you’ve already given me,

And my surrender seems so cheap

In light of the worth

Of your red-soaked exchange.

–

I want to learn how to take it,

How to call it my own,

The imputation

Of all the things that,

Despite my callouses

And the inflammation in my joints,

I can’t acquire for myself.