What am I doing?
I ask myself this question all the time. This morning, in fact. Last night, for certain. Almost always when I’m doing something wrong. Engaged in sin. Mired in my own hellish muck.
Then I ask, how did I get here? Why do I keep coming back here? How do I stop?
In that list, there isn’t much Jesus. Did you notice?
I usually don’t notice. I keep thinking I can talk myself out of the choice. I firmly rely on my reasoning abilities. I hope in my desperate pleas for help.
I don’t get down on my knees. I don’t pop open the book of answers. Of promises. Of my only real hope.
stumbling 