the grapes

I'm sick, I'm sick of this lie that my mind tricks me into believing- of thinking that I must do all these things to be okay. That I must spend my money here, and I must read this book and I must go to this church, and perhaps after the discipline of all of these things- maybe then I'll be okay. Because I live such a hard life here, with everything at my finger tips- it's a ruff day to wake up and drive these streets, oh it's a tough job to put up with the people around me. No really you just don't understand how tough I have it, its such a "struggle" day to day I can barely keep a smile. I "struggle" with my attitude, with my job, with my paycheck, with my less than perfect body; I struggle with the highest fashion. I struggle and you can't tell me any different, because you don't know what its like to be me. When did this became the truth from our lips it sounds more like obscurity to me, when did I become so consumed with me, the definition of the word struggle is to contend with an adversary or opposing force: to advance with violent effort…….against myself? Against my problems? I don't think so. I don't think that's how its supposed to be. I want my eyes to get off of myself just for one second, I want them to get out of this American society rut. If I could I wish I could throw all my money away, if I could I'd run, I'd run away I'd drink coffee all day and play on the cobble stone streets of Verona, I'd squish the grapes with my bare feet- but instead I feel won over. I have been won over by the very one I am supposed to be "violently advancing against", I have believed that before I can even see the grapes I must buy the products, learn about the products, then I must scrub. I must scrub my dirty feet until they are perfect- and after all of that I get the feeling that I may not even be very good at what I'm about to do. Why. Jesus why do I not see, why to I strive for the perfection that will never come, why is it that I think that before I could even see you from a distant I have to become the best. Why do I feel like even after all of my striving, all of my struggle all the money spent, books read, and songs sang I still may not be good enough to do the job.  Jesus why have I believed the lie, if I am called to be like you and if I was made in the fathers image, then why are your feet dirty, why are you doing all the things that my heart longs for while I sit here and scrub. I see your feet and they are dirty- why am I so consumed on my own perfection.  Jesus, show me the streets, take me there …Jesus let me taste the grapes.