my sin

Sin is complicated. It would be so convenient if there were a list, encompassing every detail of life, of the permissible and the unacceptable. I could memorize the list, then be set for a happy and simple career.

But it’s not that way, or at least it shouldn’t be. For one man, sin might be pride, the over-valuation of his opinions and over-exertion of his agency. For his wife, sin might be humility, an under-exertion of agency, a lack of a defining sense of self.

Recently, I had a run of long days, so much so that I started my days exhausted and ended them in despair. In those moments before sleep, temptations are strong. I murmur to my husband, “I don’t have to work.”

“No, you don’t,” he agrees, knowing the pattern of this conversation.

“I could be a mom all the time.”

“You could.”

“I could have a garden, and put things in cans. I’d learn how to sew our pajamas. Our house would be so clean…” I allow myself to slip into this fantasy for a few escapist minutes. Yes, life could be so easy. I’d make my own schedule. Laundry would be folded while it was still warm from the dryer—or better yet, I’d take the time to hang wet laundry and let the sun dry it, folding it at dusk. Pinterest could supply me with a never-ending list of projects for my ideal home, activitiesfor my hypothetical children, and, if unfulfilled, I could fill my time making items to sell. The only struggles I’d experience would be the small self-inflicted ones: learning how to embroider a french knot. Yes, life would be serene.

But I don’t even manage to fall asleep before I feel the Spirit pushing me out of the fantasy. Don’t deny you identity! she screams. Don’t check out! I need your agency in your body!

This is sin, at its core: the attempt to be fulfilled by something less than what God desires for me. The life I described above might be a Spirit-willed outpouring of identity for another, but I know it’s not me. So I get up, I hear the Ghost, I sit at my desk and struggle through writing a few hundred words and reading a few thousand others. And I wait in my want to see what might become of my work, to see the unveiling of the person I was created to be.

My despair.

[What despair looks like for me.]

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