Two things:1) I don't like it when people use the words "the world tells us" as the be-all, end-all contrast to what God tells us. I deem this to be a sloppy, misleading and malignant phrase that is akin to attributing every sin to "the devil made me do it." Are we bombarded with messages that compel us to the wrong end of the spectrum? Absolutely. But to stop there and say the sources of those messages "tell us" to want, do and think anything is superficial at best and downright irresponsible at worst. What's behind those messages? Yes, money in most cases, but what else? What is that constantly buzzing irritation inside all of us? And to stop at this point and ignore our part in this receiving of notions, along with why we are drawn to what so-and-so tells us, misses the bigger picture entirely. It fails to dig out the wretched corpse inside of each of us that really does the whispering. It also leads the listener to believe that these desires are spoken into us, which is a dangerous notion to instill in any mind. Maybe I'm being too captious here, but this is a point I wanted to make. My heart and mind scream "foul!" whenever I hear that lousy phrase.
2) I had the opportunity to just sit and watch outside of a mall entrance last weekend. It was beautiful outside, the air was crisp and the bench was open.
During these several minutes, I had the chance to see parents walk into the mall with their children -- children of various ages, from toddlers to teens. What struck me most deeply was how the majority of the little children held their parents' hands, without qualms, and how most of the older children walked into the mall with their hands all to themselves. There were one or two older children who walked into the mall with their hands clasped with their mother, and part of me immediately thought: "How embarrassing."
Then I grew sad because I remember how I used to cling to my mother when I was young, and how that notion seems so beneath me now that I'm older and more mature. It made me sad because part of me wishes that I could be dependent like that again, and because I wondered if the absence of that kind of dependence made my parents sad.
After that pang of sorrow, I began to steadily traverse the downward staircase of my memory as I remembered how I used to be so dependent on God, almost naively so. I remember how much I used to cling to his every word, how "shame" was never a word that crept into my mind as I read the Bible and prayed in my school cafeteria, how I used to love him without maturity to get in the way -- and I wondered if God missed that (though I'm not sure I can rightly attribute that sentiment to him).
I want to trace my steps back and see when I stopped holding his hand.
