So, Jesus has risen. The palms have been mulched, the forty days are over. It’s a cheeseburger Friday. No more mandated restrictions. Not that I have ever given anything up for Lent; I’m a recovering alcoholic, for Christ’s sake.

Step 2: made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.

Here’s the deal: I’ve never been able to give myself over to anything completely. I’m not an “all-in” guy. There’s always hesitation. Even when I think I might be all-in, another thought pops up to remind me that having even one thought that isn’t one-hundred percent pure means my commitment isn’t true.

Now, I’ll readily admit I’m not totally sure about the math on that. The keeping-everything-at-arm’s distance isn’t necessarily the greatest strategy to ingratiate myself with the normals. Understand, I’ve always received my meals in solitary, with infrequent visits to gen pop.

But living inside a self-imposed Stockholm Syndrome is no way to go through life. I mean, everyone sees the pain, and no one can figure out the point. It’s like my alcoholism: why don’t I just stop?

Well, for one thing, not drinking requires the physical act of not doing. Being a part of the world requires effort. More to the point, positive effort. And not doing bad isn’t the end game. It’s a nice start, to be sure, but it’s something I can ride for only so long before it becomes old hat; expected.

Which is great news: the idea that I’m not constantly getting in my own way anymore is a miracle in itself. And having seen what’s possible the more I let go, the more willing I become, at least for today.

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