For I am only human after all...

Oscar Wilde once said that the purpose of art was to conceal the artist. After painting Dorian Gray's portrait, Basil Hallward refused to put it in a gallery because he felt it had, "too much of [himself] in it." Artists fear critics, fear those who might expose them for who they are, or what they were thinking. For some reason I want to say the woman was Elinor Roosevelt, anyway, some woman who could write, and though she'd published numerous poems during her life, none were so moving, so open, as those found in her journal after her death.

How often is it that we don't say things the way we normally would, things we believe in, things we put in writing in our journals which we close and never let anyone see, how often do we shy away from letting other people see into our souls? We fear criticism, that someone would be offended, or possibly even that we would be seen as vulnerable.

Vulnerability is such an ugly word - a word conveying a sense of exposure. Unprotected. A little girl whispers a secret to her best friend in the whole world, and the next day the whole school is whispering behind her, looking and pointing. To put oneself into art is the same, in a way. Letting others get into your head, to grab a hold of the piece of your soul and twist it maliciously, taunting you with the words you'd spoken. Once it's out there, you can't take it back.

Wise is the man who learns from his own failings, but wiser still is the one who learns from the failures of others. I'd heard those words before, perhaps a slightly different paraphrase, but it strikes a chord. Personally, you can talk yourself blue in the face, but I usually won't heed the advice until I try it for myself. And no, I'm not talking about drugs. Silly things, like, always point the knife away from you: didn't and got a huge slice on my thumb. Or, "don't go to the park alone with him." Yeah, messed up there too. Lost my first kiss because I didn't guard myself by heeding parental advice. How about this one, "I don't want you to have alcoholic beverages before you're 21." Now, thankfully, God created me as a lightweight, so drinking is kinda not an option because I don't like the feeling of not being able to control myself. But I had to figure that out on my own as well.

Ever since I figured out I was going to Mexico, Satan's been hard at work trying to get to me. He keeps distracting me with the things of this world, trying to sever the lifeline I have to Christ. And where have I been during this? I'm holding the receiver, not listening, but looking the other way while the devil's minions are silently at work trying to cut the cord. I'm not fighting, but that same feeling of guiltiness washes over me when I think of how I've ignored the One who allowed himself to be whipped, just so I could know who He is, just so I could know how it is to bask in the ocean of love He has for me. I know He came to save me from myself and all the temptations offered in the world, and yet I find it so difficult to return to the call, to pick up that receiver and say, "Yes, Lord? I'm back again, what were You saying?"