Done, Canceled, Forgiven

I woke up at 2:00am wrestling with my mistakes. Let’s just call it what it is, sin. The instrument of my punishment was not the consequences of my sin, because when remitted the lashes cease. The infliction jeering me was no other than the town- know- it- all, the neighbor on the corner peering through her smoky lenses, face pressed to my window with her finger pointed.

There’s no way to win with that kind of measuring stick. It’s just stacked against you from the get- go. I’ve been measured against it one too many times. I ran out to meet her with my hands flailing; I raised His scarred hands as if to say, “Look!” Suddenly the penalty wouldn’t stick. That old whipping post of a measuring stick was meaningless. He’d washed it all away. He hosed me down, bore my sin.

My confession never met His turned eyes or the “talk to the hand” grimace. I was given a grace refund. My account was cleared. He persuaded me with His love that nothing could separate us. I broke that measuring stick with those lines now red, too tall to measure. I jumped up and down in sweet release. He’s not a mortician carrying out my withered body; He’s my life giver, my solitary hope, my friend in blue jeans

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