Flesh

"Hate no one, hate their vices, not themselves." --J.G.C. Brainard

I tried to look up the Hebrew behind this verse and, like in most circumstance, it wasn't spelled out specifically by each English word (imagine that!). Instead it was broken into more of "my flesh" and "my strength." linked together. There was no "me" without the flesh part. There are parts of me that have been thrown into the kiln with refutable character, of no work or credit on my own. But still regrettably connected to me is that element of flesh that I'm not sure how to leave behind.

At times I'm confronted by the sheer horror of my flesh. Not in the fact of it being alive, because in coming to Christ, "me" has been put to death. But as Paul described, "I don't do what I want to do, and what I want to do, I don't do!" It doesn't have to do with beating myself or being insecure, although in some hues it does. It's not that I sit and have my thoughts be consumed by evil or thoughts of evil. It's only every once in a while, at times I don't expect. Surprisingly, only when I'm ready for them.

I was confronted head on with the ugliness of the gritty part of my humanity, the part before death of self, that rears its ugly head once in a while. And all in the form of hair dye.

I've inherited my mother's unfortunate gene that converts a significant portion of my hair gray prematurely. I'm 22 and have the hair of a 40 year old. No joke. The initial treatment last night left my follicles patchy and uneven, but not bad enough to notice. But it didn't matter. I was tired of people commenting about my too-dark hair and wanted an answer now. They had to know that I was worth knowing, and my hair proved it. I was completely anxious about what everyone had to say about my hair, because obviously my appearance defined me. It was a weird sort of vanity I'd never experienced before. I was consumed; I couldn't rest until my hair was fixed.

And so, in a nutshell, 4 bleachings later I'm laughing and frowning about why it mattered so much in the first place. There are far more important things in this world than the color my head portrays, but in the life of the moment I threw that important notion out the window. Impulse is sometimes good, but not always. And instead of serving Him, I bowed down to impulse and the mirror it held.

One of the most freeing walks I've ever had came on the night of camp with a dearly-beloved friend. The secrets each of us possessed for years gently stepped into the light on a humid star-lit night. She wanted a source of accountability and prayer, and I didn't even realized I needed the same. You expect moments like these to come in a rush, like a dam breaking and bringing destruction and, worse, shock. Instead, we unlocked secrets I've carried since I was 8, laying them on figurative tables and inspecting them piece by piece, and spending it unknowing when the next stepping stone would come. We didn't know.

I remember the times of shame bubbling over, flesh raging, waves of it overcoming reason and losing myself in allowing it. Looking my Lover in the face, turning tail and deliberately running away. I dread it. I know its not over. The worst part of repentance for me is not admitting what I've done, but not being certain I can promise not to do it again.

Flesh.

This is what I mean by facing the sheer horror of it. realizing the complete grief its caused. Reliving elements of the fall. Knowing that, of those who spit in His face and pulled out His beard, I was the loudest and most adamant of them all.

And yet.

Yet.

That one night. In a walk back to the cabin that was supposed to be insignificant, came a kinship among friends. Not necessarily a closeness, but a meeting of understanding. That night beside the lake, on the brand new pavement, behind the breeze that laced through, in the unveiling of things neither of us ever wanted anyone to know, separate struggles, separate pain, separate sin, we found....grace.

I don't know if I could ever delve the depths of the woman who broke her alabaster jar over Jesus's sweet head and feet. But I'd like to say I've caught a glimpse.