portrait of a life: measured

Last night, I typed twice on my phone “What if God is never disappointed,” and each time, the predictive text on my phone suggested the word “measured.”

What if God is never measured?

Although not what I was trying to say last night, it struck me, and I have been mulling it over in my mind and heart since. It may not have been what I needed to say last night, but it is certainly what I have needed to say for a lifetime.

How can we measure the divine? The infinite? I make him too small.

And once I start trying to measure God, I begin to measure everything else in my life. What a horrific mess that always turns out to be. It turns me inward, desperate and scratchy, reaching maniacally for whatever promises to be a key to the next rung in the ladder of value. Dope-eyed and ashamed, I always deny my truest and loveliest self for the fleeting moment of being impressive. At least, whenever I’m measuring.

I have struggled the past month, deeply, feeling discontented and rushed. Feeling the exhaustion from those mad-grabs at illusions of worthiness. Bone-weary from the snatching.

Today, I ask: what standards am I using to measure myself and God?

What would happen if I stripped them away?

I will keep asking. Keep searching. Keep asking God to remove the metrics.

In the meantime, more cozying down in my blankets as I am now, listening to a summer night whistle from my sound machine, Monsters Inc. playing on Disney+.

What if God is never measured?

What if, neither am I?

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