This Sunday, I was listening to a sermon and the preacher was talking about the need to cut the dead out of our lives. He was talking about sin. And though I understood that, and though I agreed with him, tears filled my eyes. Over and over I had to remind myself that what I was hearing was not what he was saying. In fact, what I was hearing was not something he would ever say. Because I know him. And he was not saying what I was hearing.

He was talking about confessing sin that is in our lives and getting rid of it. He was talking about the concept of forgiveness.

But he kept saying that we need to cut the dead out of our lives.

And I kept thinking that if I cut out all that feels dead in my life…

There would barely be anything left.

Because parts of me feel dead. It feels like I’m carrying around dead weight.

You know when you wake up in the middle of the night and one of your arms is completely asleep? And for a moment, it doesn’t even feel like your arm and, in your tired state, you try to figure out what the heck it is? My life feels like that a little bit. This heaviness. This foreign object. I feel disconnected from myself.

Today, I was doing dishes and was thinking about someone I went to school with. I had just seen a post on facebook from him. He’s… he’s kind of living the dream. The dream that I let die inside of me. The dream that, if I’m not careful, causes septic shock of the soul. And while washing the dishes, I was wondering if that part of me would ever get cut out. Or come back alive. And I came to the conclusion that that part of me would always be dead. And my knees buckled and hit the cabinet that kept me from falling under the weight that settled on my shoulders.

Ugh. Just…what the hell is happening? What the hell was I thinking?

I’m just afraid if you cut all the dead out of me, there will be almost nothing left.



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