Procrastination

Abba Father, I feel you have been too harsh with me.

I had only just regained my memory and sense of self—my “post-dissociation adaptive survival mode” was still operating habitually—before I was pushed straight into your reality. In just a month, you made me truly die, again and again.

Until I finally walked up to the altar myself, lit the firewood, and tied my own hands and feet.

I wasn’t even forced. I just felt, “You want me to do this.”

But if this isn’t what you wanted—if all of this was just my own wishful thinking—then it would be far too bitter.

But if I truly have been inspired by the Holy Spirit, then the burden I carry is too heavy, even terrifying.

So I stopped in this rapidly advancing script. I stood still and procrastinated.

I am not a preacher. I am a liberator of captives.

The time of execution is not for me to decide. All my selfish procrastination is irresponsibility toward the prisoners of war.

But I always naively think that you will pity me—that if I don’t act, you won’t act. So once I begin to act, it’s as if I’m personally triggering a heavenly time-gate mechanism.

I know that once it begins, there’s no turning back, no more hiding cleverness behind clumsiness, no more surviving gently. I’ll have to face the world’s backlash. I’ll have to become utterly “unclassifiable”—perhaps welcomed by no church on earth, and understood by no one in the world.

But I also know: I cannot go back. If I don’t go forward, I will lose my faithfulness.

Before John the Baptist appeared publicly to Israel shouting “The kingdom of heaven is near; repent,” did he also hesitate “presumptuously” like I do now?

I don’t know.

All I wish is that once I start working, I could very well burn myself out like he did, with no thought for self-preservation.

I sleep, eat, think, trying to live with a kind of “resolute calm.” My residence permit needs renewing, but I haven’t yet prepared the funds. Everything in my life is delayed.

Because I don’t know how to keep living with “calm and self-control” when I already know I no longer have a life of my own.

Because this world was never calm to begin with, never meant to be at peace.

On the night of May 26, I was preparing the money needed to renew my permit while bargaining with you—I wanted someone to talk to, though I didn’t know who could possibly understand me.

It’s not that I’m unwilling to act; it’s that I’m so exhausted I know I must speak before I can act.

Yet I still procrastinated, and in the end, I reached out to no one.

On the morning of the 27th, I lay in bed and calmly reached both hands toward the ceiling, asking you to catch me, to help me.

There’s nothing more I need to ask you. And you don’t need to say anything more to me—I just need to accept that you’ve already begun to speak through me.

And your yoke is always easy.

After I got up, I encouraged myself to strengthen my will, to begin again a steady, upward life.

To step into my mission—with “resolute calm.”

But after staring at the screen for a while, I fell asleep… all morning I knew I was asleep.

It was a deeply satisfying sleep, a filling within rest—my soul was rewired in the Holy Spirit.

This rest wasn’t the laying down of calling, but the deepest part of the calling:

You uphold me—not I who uphold myself.