To anyone out there trying to be perfect…stop. There was a girl in here not too long ago trying to be successful. A successful beauty, a successful student, a successful friend, a successful daughter, a successful professional. Like different outfits, she put them on day by day – the perfect outfit for the perfect occasion. None of them ever fit her, though all of them promised the perfect fit. Eventually she realized that her problem was not with the fit of her clothes, but with the fact that she felt the need to wear them in the first place. Why it was so unbearable to be just as she was – naked, and wearing nothing more than what her Creator put on her. So unbearable that she had to put something on, and she would settle for anything even if it wasn't made for her. The answer was in a Fall that was, but the solution was in a Father that was, is, and is to come.
Had I all the days on earth at my disposal, I would have asked the sun, moon, and stars to bow down to me. And I would have been utterly destroyed by their explosion of anger – anger over the fact that I would dare ask for their allegiance. But oh, I would, because that was not a stretch for one who dared desire the worship of sons and daughters of God, as I fiercely desired it – a fire in my heart burning for them to kneel before the work of my hands. I believed at times that my disguise was flawless, my heart pure, my passion genuine. But the Spirit asked in his voice as soft as a diamond, "For whom?" Whose name do I seek to proclaim? And then, why? And then that gray ragamuffin of a child, features unrecognizable from dwelling in darkness – the darkness of self-worship – hands worn, hair dirty from the construction of her own cold, dead, hauntingly beautiful marble statue (the obsessive labor would kill her someday), emerges. She realizes she wants her Daddy. She realizes she's not an orphan, and leaves her consuming work. Just drops it like that – after slaving days that last a moment and nights that run forever. After telling herself over and over again, "Keep at it. You're almost done. Those lips are almost perfect – beautiful enough to tell an undetectable lie. Those eyes are almost ready – sharp enough to see delight in pure evil. Almost. Don't stop now." But she stops. She drops her hammer of broken promises and her chisel of bitterness. She looks up at the night sky and its bright lights. She realizes the sun, moon, and stars were made for her by her Daddy, the Father of lights. And she – she was made for Him. Her shackles come loose and for a limited time she dances in His embrace. He kisses her grimy hair and it becomes clean. He holds her close, and she has color again. He does this everyday until the day she leaves again. She leaves because she has forgotten already – forgotten who He is to her and who she is to Him. So again she picks up her utensils. At first they are light and easy for her fingers to manipulate. Later on, the hammer is such a heavy burden her wrist snaps off and the chisel is so uncontrollable she cuts off pieces of her own flesh until all she sees is red. But right now, they are light as air, servile as doves, tempting her to resume this obsession. She binds herself with shackles to complete this flawless statue. Cursed. All the while the Spirit comes to save, thankfully never too late, whispering into her still-red, beating heart, "Remember…", hoping one of these days, she will. She will stare into that same night sky, eternally gifted to her, and remember who it's from – remember that she is loved, remember that she is enough. Remember that she is…remember…I AM…remember I AM His. For while she works, He waits and draws. He draws that night sky, putting every luminary jewel in place just in case she looks up again today and says, "Daddy, can I wear the stars as my crown, or will they cut into me?" "Wear them forever, my dear, for I wore a crown on earth so you could wear one in heaven." She cries out "Daddy, can I dress in that pure, white moon, or will my blood seep through and leave a stain that lasts forever? "Dress in the moon, my precious daughter, for my blood has washed you white as snow." Then she asks with ever growing confidence in His love, "Daddy, can I take the sun into my hands, or will its fire consume me?" "Dare to hold the sun in your hands, my treasure, for its fire does not burn you anymore. I have gone to the land of fire, and emerged victorious so you need not fear the burning of my gifts." So he draws that universe for her while He draws her. Closer and closer, and He is irresistible and glorious and full of grace as day by day he lays out the promise of their life together. So she is able to come back over and over a thousand times over, to be a daughter for a day in His kingdom until she realizes that all her nights can be His days. And then she walks into everlasting to everlasting, never to look back.
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him… But the father said to his servants, `Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’” (Luke 15:20b, 22-24)
