Faith and Scrubbing

I don’t know what to do with myself. I am getting married in less than two months, and I don’t know what will become of me. Am I scared? A little. Excited? More than anything. But I still don’t know what to expect. That’s probably a good thing.

I am learning to trust in God: one of the hardest lessons to learn. But I’m trying. I’m surprisingly not worried about what lies ahead; perhaps that’s because I will not be on my own come July 16, but I think it’s more than that. I think my faith is increasing—every day, a little bit. Not to say that I’m holy. Hell, no. Far from it. But faith-full: closer.

I know I’m not holy because of the shit that still sticks to me. No matter how hard I try to scrub it away, it still clings and stinks up my life. I guess that’s a large part of following after Christ: the constant scrubbing of one’s own shit in attempts to become a little cleaner, a little purer in body and spirit.

Well, I’ve got some pretty crusty shit that I’ve been working on for some time now, and it’s a bugger to get off. My lust is one of the biggest clumps: the “lust of the flesh and the eyes”, which I understand is something that most men deal with secretly (or not, depending on your level of perversion or courage).

So I scrub. And I scrub. And I scrub. And it clings mightily.

That, along with searching for a new job in a new country with a new bride. Like I said: I don’t know what to do with myself. This is where faith takes over.

As Anne Lamott likes to pray, “Help me, help me, help me.”