Some call me strong, gracious, resilient. Others say I have faith. I assure you that none of that is true. The more I observe myself as the days, months, and years roll by, the more I'm certain of this. They say the trials of life make you stronger; if that's true, I'd say I've been fairly privileged. And my privilege is my weakness. I read of the Christians in soul-crushing trials, of the likes of Bonhoeffer in Hell on earth. I see their grace, their conviction, their faith in the face of the unspeakable, and I know I do not have such in me. I have not the fortitude. Instead, I, at the first sign of trouble, am more than ready to shake the proverbial fist at the sky. Any other impression of me is merely that--an impression. A façade. So don't call me strong, or gracious, or faithful. I doubt any of the men and women of old would attribute such virtues to me.
You might think that I'm in a pit of melodramatic pessimism. Perhaps I am.
They say that God grants appropriate strength to whom He wills. Then perhaps I am unfit for such a grace.
They say that I'm not the only one, that everyone struggles that same way. Then maybe we all need a better model for true virtuous spirit.
They say, "A sapling cannot compare itself to an old oak." Neither can unrefined silver be compared to the refined. I must call myself for what I am. Then maybe God would have the grace to pass me through the furnace that is heated seven times over.
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