An opening: finding a way inside. Also to uncover, reveal. To unfold.
I am not afraid to drag the slimy thing out, all elbows and wet wings, and unfold my sin before Him. He already knows what I’ve become.
Confession by its very nature comes after the fact.
There follows a certain kind of embarrassment over choices I’ve made, covered with fervid, but ever impotent, thanks.
But does this constitute Him knowing me any more than he knows all things that happen?
There is a gnawing desperation for God to know me, not just as history, but in the way of consummation.
Is it possible to allow God to stand alongside me in real time as I commit an offense? Me watching me watch God watching me.
What if I open myself completely in the moment of falling. What happens then? Knowledge?
*the
speaking to soul…I love your writing Susan.
And all the while we are a small interruption, opening, in the expanse of eternity. Is to be known also to crawl through that small space as a birth canal? Or perhaps to be known is conception itself…