The Ick.

I picture my hands holding this big mass of black, tarry, sticky, messy, foul-smelling, disgusting ick. I had gotten really good at hiding my hands from just about everybody, so nobody could see this mass of ick that I was holding onto.

One day, God asks to see my hands. It's not like I can hide my hands from him; he already knows what's there, and the light reveals everything. He just asks me to show him, so, with great hesitation and shame, I show him the mass I'm holding.

He doesn't scold me for my hands being so full of ick. He doesn't ask where it came from or why I'm holding onto it. That was never his concern.

Instead, he asks for it. He asks me to let go of it and let him take it. And he waits. It's not a command, not a forced transaction. It's an ask.

I may insist, "this is my ick and I'm not giving it up!" and try running away. But no matter how far I run, at any destination I try running to, he's there. His own hands extended, waiting with infinite patience for me to just give him this ugly mass of ick.

And here's the thing—as long as I'm holding on to this ick, I cannot receive or hold onto anything else; I'm holding on to the ick; there's no room for anything else.

But eventually, I give up. I hand it over and let him take it.

Now my hands are open, empty, able to receive from him that which is bigger, better, all-satisfying. That which the ick could never be.

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. 9 If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. 10 If we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us (1 Jn 1:8–10 ESV).