When you’re ill with perfection

Coffee perks, splutters joy full into my cup, and I lift it, inhaling all grateful. Taking up my pack, I step out the door, walk right into the ‘shine. I slip into my favorite spot on The Three, the place overlooking spreading acres of green. The Jeweler has come in the night; this, I see. Carpet’s aglitter with a “fousand million” diamonds, and the bird notes drop diamonds down, too.

My heart turns to Jesus, my Shepherd and Friend. It’s His voice that I’m needing today.

Quiet, still, mug’s warm in my hands. Unseen breath whispers soft over blades, setting diamonds far-scattered to shimmering.

Jesus is speaking. Yes, and giving a picture, and the topic just now is perfection. Oh, this horrid, horrid -ism that had so long afflicted, had taken deep root in my heart. What a lie.

I’m listening, for He’s speaking. Nay, more, He is kneeling. He’s kneeling in front of a cell.

It is mine.

“The lock for this prison is on the inside. You’ve locked yourself in, little sister.” His hands are outstretched, reaching through iron bars.“Father and I, we’ve not imprisoned you.”

Behind Him, sun shines liquid gold, and a pasture, green, vibrant, stretches far.I know that place.

Holy Spirit and Counselor, my Teacher and Guide, is unpacking the lie that’s been hidden. “Never enough.” That’s one, and then this, “Not quite.” Not quite good enough or quite right or quite pleased. Never pleased.

In His sweet, wisdom way, He speaks through a picture, and this one’s a hard suit of armor. I watch and I listen, and He’s bringing in truth. Bringing light, revelation and healing.

A suit of armor? That’s what it’s about, this awful disease and this torment? A suit of armor?

Yes. I see it. I know what He means, for I see myself working and polishing. The armor’s protective; I don’t want to fail. If I’m checking and working, I’ll make it. I’ll earn His good pleasure, avoiding His wrath, so I’ve got to keep scrubbing, maintaining.

But this suit, it’s so heavy, and I see that it’s rusty, and I’m near to worn out from the striving. And the wearing. I can’t run, cannot fly. Just limping along in this cumbersome metal that “protects me.”Or imprisons…

“I’ll feel naked,” I say (for I talk to Him straight). “I’m not used to living without it.”

And once more, He speaks. “I’ll cover you with My robe. And the robe is called ‘righteousness.’” 

The light’s shining down just over the barn, setting those diamonds afire. Morning breeze blows, cool and fresh, and the trees raise their arms, giving praises. I lay down rusty armor, unlocking the cell, and step out into sweet, golden Light.

Very air of Heaven is filling my lungs, and His robe, it’s covering me.

Hey, you. You who, too, have been sick with this illness. He’s saying to you, “Come on out now.” Oh, come! His robe, it will cover you, too.