Sometimes I feel like I'm a little kid who found a knife (as my two-year old mysteriously did a couple days ago), and I knew as soon as I found it with its wooden handle and shiny blade that I was not supposed to have this knife. But it was pretty, and I was sure I was old enough to manage it just fine on my own. So I started cutting at a stick with it and watching the bark shave away in satisfying, if clumsy, manner. Until the knife slips (it's not that sharp), and I cut myself.

So I run to my Father, bleeding and crying, and my Father gently reminds me that I knew better than to play with a sharp knife, but He also bandages up my wound and hugs me. He takes away the knife that I should never have had, and I am upset by this because I am very small and foolish, but I also know I did this to myself. And even though I am sorry for what I did and say I won't play with knives in future, I still have this cut that aches and hurts.

It keeps me up at night stinging and there's nothing that can be done about it, it just has to heal. If I mess with it and poke it, it hurts; if I mess with the bandage too much, it might get infected and need antibiotics. If I let an infection get out of hand, it could result in an amputation or even gangrene and death, so the bandage is important. I also won't be able to do things for a while. Maybe I won't be able to hold a pen right, or play piano well. It will hurt when I use it. These are the natural consequences of my choices. My Father loves me and has forgiven my folly and poor choices, but the consequences are part of the choice.

The worse situation is that perhaps, instead of cutting myself, you came and sat beside me. Maybe you knew I shouldn't have the knife, or maybe you assumed I was old enough and knew what I was doing. Maybe you jerked my arm or maybe you were just watching. And maybe my hand slipped and instead of cutting myself, I cut you.

Now you are the one in tears, who is restricted in your activites, who can't write or play piano. Maybe you need stitches, and maybe you're not very good at leaving the wound alone. In this way, somebody else suffers from my poor choices. This is how I feel when my bad decisions, my sin, hurts my children.

My Father probably gives me consequences. Almost certainly I lose your trust in me, a more precious thing than I can possibly know. But the pain is not mine to bear, and if I don't value the things I ought, I may not be sorry for what I've done. I may go on to hurt other people.

This is mostly me coping with the fact that the God I turn to when I sin and when I don't is a good and loving Father, and the struggles I have are the results of sin. Sometimes (usually) mine, sometimes others', and sometimes just the sinful state of the world. When my sin wounds my children, that's the worst of all. I'd rather go through years of pain than see my children suffer from my negligence, selfishness, anger, unkindness.

There's no moral here. No pat wrap-up for it all to end on a high note. This is where my head is right now and I am grateful for a Father who lets me cry in His lap and Who bandages my wounds, and Who loves me no matter the state of my heart.