Against my best efforts, my failure is a perpetual reality. And not failure in a horrid sense, but failure in a less than perfect, with faults sense. When I’m thinking sensibly, failure isn’t the end of the world.
However, sometimes I feel like particular failures are with me over and over again. I try to legitimize these repeated offenses by likening them to Paul’s thorn in the flesh. Maybe my critical self-talk or striving for who knows what is just my constant companion, given to me by God to endure. But then I hear the soft strains of a violin playing its sorrowful song of pity.
I make myself out to be the victim of my own choices. Again and again I choose vanity over humility, I choose ill-humor over joy, I choose myself over God.
God doesn’t see a thorn or a martyr. He sees a broken vesel, a jar of clay who He chooses to pour living water into again and again.
His love never fails. The repetition of my mistakes does not hinder His grace, a grace that He shares so abundantly.