A Comparison Confession

God, there’s so much ugly in me.

I’m so prone to jealousy and resentment. I see a sister receive favor from others or you, and I grumble when I ought to rejoice.

The older brother is alive and well in my heart. And this party isn’t even for a prodigal.

No, this celebration is for a sister who plowed and planted beside me. We labored together in Your field, both dreaming of a harvest–to bring glory to Your name.

And now her crop has come in.

I want to stand aside and count, weigh, and measure.

“Is it larger than mine?”
“Is it better?”
And the kicker . . . “Do others desire the fruit of her labor instead of mine?”

Oh, why God?! Why is the wheel rut of my should so entrenched toward pride? Comparison? Fear?

.

.

.

I glimpse the banquet table.

Her harvest center. The blessed fruit of faithful labor. Hungry souls, starving even, gather round. I listen as hearts sigh in relief.

A prayer answered.

A fear abated.

The dying flame of hope fanned.

I watch as light returns to dim eyes. Weary heads bowed low with sorrow begin to lift. Stern lips and clenched jaws soften. Smile.

I remember the day we dreamed. Side by side. Seeds sown in faith, fragile yet certain. Entrusting our sweat and labor, meager offerings really, to the One who can turn a seed into a feast.

I find a chair (the ones at the table are all taken) and join the celebration.

And we bring glory to Your name.

 

Photo credit: Hilary Hyland Photography

 

 

 

 

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