True Confessions and Corrections

When I was a kid my parents had an electric typewriter.  I spent hours playing with it.  I sat mesmerized by the hum of the motor and the clack of the keys.  I authored short stories and penned verses of poetry.  I suppose that's where I developed a love for writing.   Along the way I also developed an unhealthy obsession with corrections.

It's weird, I know. I used to appreciate the challenge of lining the tape up just right, so the key would strike at just the right spot to cover the error.  I enjoyed smoothing the rough edges of the film down with my thumb after I pulled the paper off the roller.  I excelled at the puzzle of finding a satisfying piece of white, just the right size for a word or a letter, after most of the sheet had been used up. This proved to be a frequent predicament...you will imagine. I once created a work of art on blue card stock by perfectly "correcting" and typing over every word so that the words appeared flawlessly surrounded by clouds of white on the sky hued paper.   

It did not stop with the "cool" typewriter gadget. I'll admit.  I was also accomplished at using the correction pencil with its stiff green bristles to sweep way what wasn't needed.  My fifth grade math teacher asked me not to use the  yellow erasers that you put on the end of your pencil because they presented a distraction for me.  (Sad, but true.)   I kept a bottle of white-out in my bag at all times in junior high.  No,  I didn't like the smell.  I was compelled with the idea of correcting my words, my grammar, my thoughts... myself.   I honed the ability to hide mistakes and faults; all that did not measure up was coated and retooled.  Even if someone could tell something wasn't originally up to snuff, at least so no one could really know what was there in the first place.

Publicly, I revealed some spiritual, relational and physical errors and typos to prove that I could correct them, or to make other more grievous ones easier to hide.   Worse yet, I would cover the loneliness and isolation of this "correctional" existence by helping others find the corrections for their faults.  Sure, sometimes this was done from a place of good intentions and loving, truthful language.  Sometimes, it was done from a place of thoughtless reaction.  Either way, the damage looms clear and pervasive.

The longer I live within the reality of a God who sees intimately into the disaster I have made with my cover-ups and erasure attempts and loves me completely the more I am intoxicated by the strange mix of awe, love, freedom and I catch.  And the more I wonder...

If Christ came for to heal the broken and provide a way for the lost why is His Church so full of people who revel in the appearance of perfection?

If grace is more descriptive of love than prescriptive of boundaries, what does holiness look like?

If disciples are grown and grace is formative shouldn't disciples be patient and conscious of the soil and environment they present?