Such is the fate of the foolhardy, the end of those who are pleased with their lot. Like sheep they are appointed for Sheol; Death shall be their shepherd; straight to the grave they descend, and their form shall waste away; Sheol shall be their home. But God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me.
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Given that the psalmist wrote centuries before Christ and that the prevailing understanding of afterlife was pretty final, the psalmist still makes a bold statement. God will receive me. On the most part, we all walk around with a load of shame that feels
like an itchy wool coat in the middle of a suffocating summer. We walk around that way because we don't know what else to do. We walk around that way because we have pronounced a sentence on ourselves and it feels right to feel awful. Perhaps what, in the end, labels us all as fools indeed is that we think that having shame means we have to melt into a puddle of our own human
swill. The psalmist models righteous living for us. Not dripping with shame but standing boldly in the presence of the one who can show us where to hang our coat and help us live. *
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Free us from shame and help us laugh again. Amen.
Deb Grant, resilient child of God, creative tinker of paper, ink, wood, shiny things, paint and words. The human amusement of a parrot and a dog.
Writer, poet, artist, human, citizen, learner, scruffy, goof.
Word Food by Deb is randomly published. More than weekly, less than daily at the following media sites: