It should be seamless—this eternal life I am living now.
When this flesh is done, the Lilly that I am should gently walk into the Lilly I will be,
a brilliant transition to everlasting, but . . .
and there it is,
the big but.
It is hard to imagine when instead of cataloguing 1000 gifts I catalogue whines and unmet expectations. My blow by blow diary of ills belies the peaceful image of Lilly pouring over her Bible with a fragrant cuppa, content with life, overflowing wisdom to all in her waning years. Ah, the whining years.
I thought by now the struggle with flesh would be long past—an ugly memory of what was.
But the “what was” is—
an ever present spectre before me, and
I still stumble on as in the dark with the barest of lights,
marking one step. One…
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