Into the Fire

Recently there have been some posts on various blogs about the authors of those blogs expressing interesting levels of inferiority in certain areas of their lives. How many times have we all visited that place in our psyches where we shudder at God’s inimitable creation of . . . us? We always tell ourselves that physical appearances aren’t what it’s all about (yeah, right), and that we can make up for what we lack in glamour or beauty or handsomeness or athleticism with . . . oh whatever. Most of the time we’re lying because the majority of us insecure people have set up icons of preferred beauty, manliness, etc., ad nauseum. The scale, of course, is unattainable without hundreds of thousands of dollars of massive reconstruction and makeover wizardry. Pathetic, right?

Maybe that’s why passion is so important to me. I cannot remember a day of not feeling inferior when I was growing up. The enemy of my soul (unbeknownst to me) tortured me with it from a very young age, and, truthfully, I have yet to completely shed it. There was no real reason for it either. If ever a little girl needed encouragement and love and reinforcement from two parents, I got it. Unlike many who have valid reasons for “feeling” inferior because of receiving just the opposite or worse from their parents or step-parents, I had it all. I think the inferiority thing transcended looks and accomplishments as I peer back at it in hindsight. I think it had to do with the innate unworthiness of the human condition. I just didn’t understand it back then, and the demon of inferiority was quick to translate it in untruthful ways.

I’ve never had the privilege—or the burden—depending upon how you view it, of being beautiful. I’ve had brief, very brief, moments of feeling beautiful on very rare occasions. I was blessed with my Dad’s blue eyes, although his were a brighter blue, naturally curly hair which I tried to straighten, of course, in high school. I do like my lips—they’re full and probably my best facial fixture. Let’s not even discuss the body. Especially now.

What I have always had is passion. I love passionately. I am devoted passionately. I invest passionately. Anything that is “worth” my attention gets it passionately. Any of you who are passionate people know that sometimes you share your passion with only One. The One who gave it to you. Other times you share it with your best friend, your mate, another professional, an acquaintance where your mutual passion is all you share, or perhaps an internet group of “friends”. Regardless of who shares it, you could spend a lot of time doing it, discussing it, making time to engage in it, acquiring money to venture into it, and on and on. Passion can be a wonderful thing.

Passion gives me a sense of value. It helps me to find perspective. It hinders me from focusing on what I don’t have . . . such as startling beauty, the physical fitness I used to have from doing the racetrack gig. It reminds me of purpose and leads me to perspective. Passion forces me to “see” deeper than the surface of life’s appearance. It makes my writing matter—if only to me and my Lord.

Passion is the blessing I need to carry on, to find value, to “feel” worthy of sharing Jesus however I can find to do so. Passion encompasses the relief that consumes me when I visit the past and arrive at the present. Jesus Christ lived, loved, and died passionately. Doing the same is the least and best I can do.

God, you are the reservoir of passion. I cannot invent it without your infusion of it. You are worthy of great passion and devotion. Let me never lose either. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.