I'm starting to notice how many times I say I can't do something when I really mean I don't want to do something or, even worse, I won't do something.
Something that would be good for me. Something that I really ought to be doing.
I just reread an essay by Peter Kreeft, and he won't get out of my head! Get out, Professor Kreeft! Get out!
Quit telling me that the only thing keeping me from being a saint is that I don't WANT to be a saint. Because if I did, I would DO IT. Not come up with reasons for why I absolutely can't get around to all that saint stuff right now because I'm busy, don't you see how busy I am, and it's too hard, much, much, much too hard to fit in sainthood around dishes and grocery stores and bill paying (and Brother Lawrence, you hush about sanctity amidst the pots and pans!) and after all sainthood is for people like Mother Teresa and not for people like me, I'm just a mom and a grandma (hush all you Mom saints, especially you St. Monica!) and well.......
Whew. Take a breath, girl.
And this isn't just taking over my spiritual life, either. It's leaking into everything! Doesn't my spiritual life know it's supposed to stay in its nice little box and not leak over into whether or not I will eat in a healthy way (but I WANT my junk!) and move my body in a healthy way (but I WANT to watch my shows!) and on and on and on?
No, it doesn't.
I'm in the midst of a Holy Spirit smackdown of epic proportions, here.
And it's NOT comfortable.
Isaiah had it right:
Yet, O LORD, you are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.
And being the clay isn't always so very fun.