Irony Becomes Her

An undeserving pleasure

"He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds."
--Psalm 147:3

Who would have thought it would be hard to want healing?

But it is. And I doubt I'm the only one.

I have been unhappy over the last couple of months more than I ever was before, and I have felt more helpless than ever before to change it. But the thing that most concerns me now is the source of some of the happiness I have had, which must be confessed honestly: self-pity. I have dressed my wounds in "poor me."

The mean "pleasure" of self-pity is hardly worth the label, but I can't think of any better way to describe the feelings the indulgence evokes. And to call it "satisfaction" indicates the twisted desire which that pattern of thought must satisfy, the desperate straits into which I have fallen and from which I must be rescued.

Enough is enough.

I don't want to have any reason to say "poor me." I don't want to suffer, deserved or otherwise. I want to be rescued from this predicament, healed of these wounds and restored to my purpose as an image-bearer of the glorious God who created and ransomed me.

I want to rejoice.

"How good it is to sing praises to our God,
how pleasant and fitting to praise him!"
--Psalm 147:1

posted by Lynn @ 11:15 PM