If Only...

They missed it.

Late into that dismal evening, oblivious to his dire state, they missed it.

Failing to comprehend the gravity of that night, the tears in his eyes, the pain on his face--they missed it.

Would they have slept if they knew?

Would they have slumbered if they had heard his prayers?

Would they have been surprised had they truly understood what he had said for years?

The Bridegroom was with them only for a little while. And they missed it.

What thoughts must have plagued them that second day?

What questions lingered in the dead of night?

If only...

If only...

If only they had traded the comfort behind their eyelids.

If only they had looked upon his face one last time.

Then, maybe, they wouldn't have missed it.

The hour has come, was what he said.

The hour has come. The words rang in their heads.

The hour has come, and is now past. All over in an instant.

They slumbered. And they missed it.

Oh Lord, let me not fail to see your coming

In those moments when the curtains part,

When your footprint is embedded in the sand,

Let me not overlook it.

When transforming power manifests in your church,

When daily miracles guide me from dawn to dusk,

When the hour of the Bridegroom has come as last,

Let me not missed it.

The Virtues I Do Not Have

     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.