Bile gushing

I've postponed writing this for quite a while now (clearly, right, since my last post was in January). I don't know exactly what I am hoping to achieve, really. Catharsis might be one of my goals. Or, simply put, howling at the moon.

I have married a man whose faith in God goes beyond a mere declaration and who actually seeks to implement the precepts he's been taught as a little boy even when it's not convenient or cool. He is the kind of guy who will turn the other cheek. I have learned that sometimes turning the other cheek doesn't bring more blessings but more sorrow. At least that's been the case in the short run. (I am sure that time will show me that it's not turning the cheek that's been the problem but my attitude that's made a difference... Resilience or bitterness).

The truth about being a Christian is that you spend most of your time trying to be good and most of the times that won't be rewarded at all. Or if it will, it won't be with much. From a human to human kind of perspective, that is.

I have cleaned grubby toilets that the last visitor hasn't flushed or cleaned in a while to the point that faeces actually needed to be scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed... Nausea has been my constant companion. I have cleaned all kinds of hairs from all sorts of sinks, trying really hard to keep them all contained in my doubtful cloth and to then throw them in a bin or down the toilet. I have soaked dishes that haven't been washed in more than 5 days and waited patiently for the sloppy water to make me vomit so that I know for sure that been primed enough to go down the sink with hot water and a generous helping of liquid detergent. Yes, I am on a soapbox.

In the little time that I have spent as a married woman, I have learned some painful lessons. Justice has never been much of an issue for me until I have found myself in unjust situations. Painful. It's then that I've mostly been confronted with some of my ugliest demons: pride, envy, hatred even. I've let them fester and tamper with my soul until I woke up to the sore reality of my joy to live being taken away. By something that I've allowed - even invited - into my life. Until one day when I couldn't take it anymore and I went to look for God and tell Him how I felt. That day, the toilet was the only private place that I could find. And He found me there. And He comforted me. "I am the Lord that healeth thee." (Exodus 15:26)

The gospel, the way I know it, is the way to happiness. It's not the easy way. Because it doesn't focus on dispensing justice only but mercy also. Would I like to be judged by the standards of mercy? I'll probably choose to plead for mercy. Because justice is cruel. I may want it if I feel like I am being wronged but what about when I am the wrongdoer? Will I be as quick to ask for justice?

I am learning that life, as I know it, is not about ducking and diving, having stuff or jumping from one bed of roses to another. It's about becoming with the view of being. Being something better than I am now. And that will not happen when I need to clean a toilet that is already clean or a pair of pants that's already been laundered and nicely folded. It happens when the man that I love the most is hurting and I can't do anything to change that and when I have to forgive the wrongdoer as not doing it will fill me again with crap I don't need and which soils my soul. It happens when I am backed up to the wall of faith and where logic and reason tell me differently from what my faith is telling me. It happens when I need to say I am sorry, when I realise that wailing about the injustices of life won't help me have a better life.