On Sin And Blood...

We sat on the couch, my dad and I, and we talked about true annual interest rates, and square feet and inches. My engineer dad grew frustrated with the way the book handled annual interest rates, and he tried hard to show me what I really needed to know. So many of our talks have felt like that– "yeah, there's fluff, but here's what you REALLY need to know, Rachel."

We needed to leave for the concert, Mom is playing in it, and we need good seats. So I pull up off the couch and slide new bandages over the cuts on my hands. Washing dishes turned bloody when I crashed the pitcher into the sink wall this morning. And so much of life feels like that– slipping bandages over the broken parts.

Oh, what a reminder– when everything seems hard and my hands hurt... This is the result of sin.

Ugly sin that I tell myself is OK. Sin that (because I committed it) nailed my God and Savior to a cross, and that was far more bloody and painful than my hands are right now.

In fact, my hands are clean. In the glorious paradox of the Gospel, my hands are clean, even though they are covered in His blood. Hands guilty of death.

Because they are covered in His blood.

And even today, I can rejoice in that.

And hate the sin that brings separation from God. Because that is what pain is from.

Oh, and Dvorak performed tonight...I'm thankful. =)