“Living means decisions. Living means writing your every word and action and thought and drool spot down in forever. It means writing your story within the Story. It means being terrible at it. It means failing and knowing that, somehow, all of our messes will still contribute, that the creative God has merely given Himself a greater challenge – drawing glory from our clumsy botching of the past. We are like factory workers in a slapstick comedy, standing at our positions beside the too-fast conveyor belt that flings the future and all of our possible actions at us. Corn syrup and food coloring everywhere (along with cheese and ceramic figurines).
Do your best. Live. Create. Fail.
How many thieves can we fit on this cross?How many of us can be dead in Lazarus’s tomb?
Is there room for more dry bones in this valley? Because I could lie down.
I can complain in a wilderness.
Or maybe deny Christ three times?
Resent the righteous?
Shoo away some children?
Fail to grow figs?
Panic in a storm?
Forget God’s law?
Pursue my lusts?
Sell out my Maker?
Hang myself in a field?
So glad I could help.
And from it all, from the compost of our efforts, God brings glory – a world of ripe grain in the wind.
By His grace, we are the water made wine. We are the dust made flesh made dust made flesh again. We are the whores made brides and the thieves made saints and the killers made apostles. We are the dead made living.
We are His cross.”
– N.D. Wilson, Death by Living (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2013), 166-67.