I told Kirk the other day that I couldn’t see what trading in my dancing shoes would do. I know what they say—that God’s fixing to help us find His valuation as our greatest treasure, the truth we hold most deeply in our inmost being. And I know some people can’t help but weep at the invaluable grace of it all—the relief of this highest prize—their hearts blowing wide open that this captured hope was poured out into the world and over us for no apparent reason, other than that He rendered it good.

But I don’t see it that way yet. If God doesn’t change—if His love is always constant and can never go any higher—that means I can never wow Him or be held higher than I am right now, even if just for a moment. It means, ultimately, relinquishing my addiction to that skyrocket high that comes when someone thinks I’m great, a high I get to shoot into anytime I want, up to 10 times a day, even, just to feel I’m alive and good. A high that’s akin to standing at the sheer edge of a mountain’s starkest ledge, shocked into momentary madness at the marvel of its 4500-foot-drop and the massive roll and tumble of hills and sky just within reach, I can almost reach out and touch them.

Who wants to give that up? Not me. Because what do I get in return? Absolutely nothing near it. Just the constancy of God’s love. Just the same old me when I wake up, day after unending day, never getting to be thought even better. Compared to the thrill of being thought to be the bee’s knees for something I did, this life of constancy with God just doesn’t sound that exciting.

After sharing this thought with the friend from my last post, I said, “So, what do you think?” It seemed that they got it when I shared it, them nodding their head in all the right places, that they got how the high is such a rush and such a hard, hard thing to give up, and maybe not even worth it. But after thinking for a minute, they said, “It makes me sad.”

Why? Because I’m such a mess for being addicted to it? No, they said. For the fact of this never resting. For having to generate to get results. For not realizing the deepest love is experienced in our weakest, most vulnerable moments.

Our weakest, most vulnerable moments, I protested—who wants that? Why should our weakness be the connecting point for love? Isn’t weakness what caused Adam and Eve to fall? Why would God want to reinforce that? Drawing us into love through our weakness couldn't possibly be what He has in mind—right?

Well. I’m beginning to think maybe it is, but it’s going to take one more post to untangle this web of questions. I hope you stay tuned.