I feel like a popped balloon. My buzz has been killed, my emotional high has worn off. I feel, disillusioned. Disenchanted. Discontented. I feel hurt, overwhelmed by every awful thing I have ever known.
I get so brought down by imperfection: when I see myself in the mirror, when I see another's facade slip. For a while the world is wonderful, and then in an instant it's all too much. Stress and insecurity and tension and deception and pettiness. If it were one thing I could take it in stride, but I see it all at once and it makes me want to curl up inside myself and have a pity party.
And when I am so consumed by this perspective, it's difficult for me to raise my head. With my eyes fixed on my feet I can't bring myself to move. It's hard for me to hope, to persevere in the promise that when we are weak He is strong. It's impossible for me to see that His grace is sufficient. That this is why He came. To save us from ourselves.
How many times have I dwelt on this same realization? How many times have I run the gamut through this cycle? When will it stick? . . . When I solidify the habit of running to Jesus first. He is my hope. To whom shall I go? Who else has the words of eternal life?