We have a decent snow base in the Colorado Rockies now thanks to a little storm last weekend. Mine were not the only prayers of thanksgiving for this watery, God-given gift.
When it snows, I cross-country (XC) ski. Downhill is for the more balanced and adrenaline-saturated. I stick to a swooshing, deliberate, cardio-pumping
walk slide in the park, regularly passed by diabolical children and crazed geriatrics. Dang it.
But as I rocked along humming disparate tunes (I Will Wait for You by Mumford & Sons, Angels We Have Heard on High, the 1812 Overture), I thought about how much I improved the more I practiced (DUH) — right before Methuselah flew by. How much easier it was to slide, almost gracefully, body centered over skis, motion steady, thanks to experience.
Between Methuselah and Dennis the Menace, epiphany struck. (It didn’t knock me down.)
The more I practice, the easier it is to slide. The more I sin, the easier it is to sin. At this point, I stepped from the course to avoid being creamed by a speeding bullet or skate-skier. (Never, before you ask.) Although I have a sin nature, sin is a practiced art. (Avoid discussion of commission versus omission.) I become progressively desensitized with each missed opportunity to seek forgiveness and repent. To continue my bobbly XC analogy, I got further from the clubhouse — God — with each smoother stride.
I have much to learn and winter will draw to a close in a couple of months. Until then, I’ll swoosh/crash pondering my sins, asking for forgiveness, surrounded by God’s magnificent general revelation of Himself.
And I’ll include thoughts about rotten little kids and immortal geezers laughing happily over their shoulders as they careen past on their speed-addicted ways. Dang it.