I’m starving. Obsessed, I hunger and thirst for spiritual food, but with this obsession co-exists a great aversion to the very object of my desire.
I seek Him out, but moments of rest are so quickly overtaken by a battle that I can’t face. I turn and retreat.
I binge. I purge. I am left lonely and longing.
I am surrounded by lies, piercing and deflating the truth like arrows. The aim is too good. No doubt the archer is skilled.
He disputes my worth. He tells me I am alone. He tells me to give up, to walk away. He tells me nothing yet everything all at once.
His voice is persuasive; his volume too loud. And the lies of this world play an alluring accompaniment. From the horns comes “
bitch,” from the strings, “
ho,” from the woodwinds, “
too much,” and percussion, “
not enough.”
I rally to turn the channel, and I hear the contents of my heart sung to a less compelling rhythm.
Lord, I'm in the dark,
Seems to me the line is dead when I come calling.
No one there, the sky is falling;
Lord, I need to know.
My mind is playing games again,
You're right where You have always been.
Take me back to You,
The place that I once knew as a little child;
Constantly the eyes of God watched over me.
Oh, I want to be
In the place that I once knew as a little child,
Fall into the bed of faith prepared for me.
I will rest in You,
I will rest in You,
I will rest in You.
Tell me I'm a fool,
Tell me that You love me for the fool I am,
Comfort me like only You can,
And tell me there's a place
Where I can feel Your breath
Like sweet caresses on my face again.
Take me back to You,
The place that I once knew as a little child;
Constantly the eyes of God watched over me.
Oh, I want to be
In the place that I once knew as a little child,
Fall into the bed of faith prepared for me.
I will rest in You,
I will rest in You,
I will rest in You.
“I can barely hear you. Please grow louder.” 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…still not loud enough. Still not long enough. “Please don’t stop! I need to hear!”
“That is nothing, child, but a fruitless cry to vacated seats. He does not hear you. His do not hear you. Not you. Spit Him out. Spit them out. Vomit. Vomit!”Spiritual bulimia…And with it, darkness obscures the horizon. Desperate, I reach back and grasp for something real. “What’s that?”
A still small voice is barely audible beneath the clamor... "What? Please…louder.”
“Eat, My child. Drink”I long for solid food, but I will start with milk if I must. I will not spit it out, though the taste seems oddly bitter.
I will not forsake it, for I still believe it will not forsake me.
