Logging Time

I started writing a freeform poem last night after being convicted of a few things. Just when I start to be proud and happy about big areas where I've grown in my life, God reveals more. It's often an emotional roller coaster being in the thick of it, but I know it's necessary.

I use "speck" and "log" as references to the popular Bible verses below:

"How can you think of saying, 'Friend, let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,' when you can't see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend's eye." -Matt. 7:3-5 (NLT)

However, I mostly use "log" to refer to myself and other ways I affect others, not necessarily an agenda of trying to remove a speck from someone's eye. I could discuss endless angles of this, but I'll just let it speak for itself. Perhaps it will mean different things to different people and I don't think that's a bad thing.

"Logs"

I see a speck in the distance

I am fixed upon it

Wondering what it is

What color is it?

Is it attractive?

It is ugly

It is annoying

It is different

I draw closer to look upon it

To discuss it

But not necessarily to know it

Or respect it

I assume it’s a certain shape, size, color

I take a step closer to the speck, still transfixed in my gaze and mind

My foot hits something.

I shuffle to the left. Blocked.

Right. Stopped again.

I step backward, all the while focusing on the speck.

Another obstruction.

I am frustrated. Hurt. Lonely.

So I start to frolic. Frolic as much as I can within the small space I am trapped in.

It is dark. I can hardly see a thing save that distant speck.

But I jump, laugh, stomp. Distract.

I feel something beneath my feet but ignore dwelling on it. Anything in this space is enjoying me as I am it. At least I assume.

But I get tired. I can’t move anymore. I have tried to flee this darkness. I’ve tried to ignore it. I eventually collapse to the ground in exhaustion.

I decide to try escaping again. But this time I take my eye off the speck. I don’t let my feet jump or skip. I just sit and look around.

But I can’t see clearly. I hurt. My eyes hurt.

I go to brush something out of them—perhaps dust—only to encounter something much bigger. It is heavy, solid and massive. A log? A log. One in each eye.

They’re painful. They’re inconvenient. They’re baffling.

How did they get here? How did I ignore them? How is it that even now when faced with their existence I want to retreat to frolicking again?

I know what must be done. And perhaps that’s the scariest thing of all. Knowing, anticipating, fearing, analyzing how to remove these logs.

So I stay on the ground. Still. Thinking. Feeling. Letting the enormity of the situation sink in.

I put my hands out in front of me to feel one of the logs again. Dense, weighty. No wonder I’m exhausted. And so it begins.

I hit the log. It doesn’t budge.

I clench my fists tightly and strike the log. My punches move quickly and with force I didn’t know I possessed.

I feel chunks of the log flying everywhere. My knuckles throb and I feel them bleeding. Splinters now speckle my hands. This is a battle.

Perhaps I’ve done enough, done all I can. I’ve chipped away some of the log.

But it remains in my eye. Rooted in my eye. I still can hardly see.

So I muster strength and what I know I must do.

With arms wrapped around this painful log, I begin to pull with all my might. Nothing. My whole body aches but I do not let go of this log. Cannot let go of this log. It’s resided here long enough.

I scream, cry, curse, and pull again.

The log dislodges slightly and sharp pain pierces my eye. I want to stop. I cannot feel this.

Can I ignore the tears and bleeding knuckles in favor of finding that speck and playing again? I can. But the log will remain. I will remain practically blind and trapped in this small space.

So I continue.

I have no concept of how long I try to remove this log.

Just when I am ready to lay down, give up and give in to anything else, a large set of hands covers mine. The hands feel my torn knuckles and my sore arms. The hands are gentle yet powerful. This is my log to remove. And yet someone is here. God is here.

His hands bring strength and renewal to mine and together we slowly but surely remove the log. All of it.

My eye is wounded and bleeding. But I can see. I can see!

I can see that there is still the log in my other eye. But God isn’t going anywhere.

So we wrestle with this log. With the pain and the weight of it. It’s not an easy task, but we’ve already eliminated one log, lessening my fear of the unknown.

More straining, pulling, and shifting, and eventually my eyes are free. I am free of these logs.

My eyes squint at first, timid to fully open and experience an unobstructed view. For the first time I see I am surrounded by trees. Trees I bumped into because the logs hindered my vision.

I peer between the trees to see some of my old removed logs in the distance. I see the sun, vibrant green grass and the vastness that lies before me.

“Look down,” God says.

I nervously obey.

I see what I had been frolicking on. What I had ignored.

In my fits of careless skipping and jumping, I had left trampled flowers in my wake.

Some were beautiful and delicate, and others were robust.

Now they were a mess of colorful petals and broken stems at my feet.

“I didn’t know, God,” I say with tears streaming down my face.

But I realize the moment I say it that it’s a lie.

“I didn’t want to know,” I say.

I didn’t want to know or think about where I was trapped. I didn’t want to think about what it would take to get out. I didn’t want to think about how I was affecting anything else.

I wanted to avoid the pain.

“What do I do now?” I ask desperately.

“You’ve harmed these flowers,” God says. “And it breaks my heart to see my creation harmed…but you have not killed them. I created each and every one of them and they can heal and grow, just as you can remove logs from your eyes. With my help.”

I kneel back to the ground, sobbing over each flower; each leaf, each petal, each stem that I disregarded.

I see that their roots are still intact and God is right. We can all heal and grow.

We can all laugh, dance, and play the way He intended.

But I must sit still to painfully remove the logs. With the help of His loving, unyielding hands.