I get angry at him oh so frequently. I have worked on him; punishing, lecturing, praying, cajoling, encouraging. And yet I can never seem to fully achieve my desired results with him.
No, he is not a monster, but he certainly is imperfect. And that imperfection gnaws at me, kidnaps my thoughts; I take it intensely personal.
I suppose I should, for he is me.
Growing up I always assumed that men of God had everything together, and thus were free to spend all their time straightening out others. They were the perfect husbands, the perfect fathers, the perfect preachers, the perfect friends. I suppose I should have paid more attention as I read my Bible; men like Peter and Elijah and Moses were certainly not perfect, so how could I expect lesser men to be so?
It may sound unrealistic, but I really do want to be perfect. I simply hate it when my words do not come out right, or when I forget something I was supposed to be doing for someone, or when I unintentionally hurt someone. Yes, I know that absolutely everyone does every single one of those things, but I want to be the one who doesn’t. I want every column to be perfectly thought out, with both the right facts and the right spirit. I want every message I preach to be accurate, powerful and compassionate. I want to always be everything my family and my church members need me to be.