There are mornings I wake up and immediately believe two lies:
1. That today is just another day.
2. That I am jut an ordinary human being.
I forget:
1. I am breathing. Life itself is a miracle.
2. I am a hero on a journey.
3. Everything is mine, because it was given to me.
I want to believe these impossible things before breakfast.
And the list continues:
4. All things worth having are a gift.
5. I already have everything that everyone is searching for.
6. Nothing is worth more than this day.
7. Epic stories are in me, waiting to be told.
8. I am loved extravagantly, I with all my counted flaws I stupidly keep track of in the darkened mirror.
9. Everything is finished. The struggle is believing that.
Speaking of number 7, all this feels like a fairy tale at times, a place like Narnia or Middle Earth or Oz, like falling deeper down the rabbit hole or taking the red pill.
Can I believe in what seems to be a story? Or is it that the stories tell a greater Truth that our world can’t grasp?
What is the reason these stories seem more alive than our “mundane” lives?
Why do they resound so deeply within our broken frames?
Could it be because they are the way we understand The Story?
And so I bring you number 10:
10. God came as a human infant; bloody and screaming, into a dark stable reeking of manure. He grew, walked among us, healed the sick, mended the broken, tore down the old system of religion, ate with the whores and criminals, loved all. He was murdered and came to life, defeating death forever, giving us the greatest gift: himself (true life) to all who believe.
Because of #10, because I am a character in This Book, I can believe the other 9 impossible things before breakfast.
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