The foot of a buffoon

Lord, I am weak. I am a buffoon, a fool. I open my mouth and insert my foot, my calf, and at least half of my kneecap, like some sort of wicked ashtanga pose that no one else does nearly so well. If I knew myself (which, of course, I don’t—apparently no insight at all) I really wouldn’t like the old woman I am. Before attending a social gathering I might look at the guest list. If my name was on the list I would find any excuse to avoid the event.

I’m practicing my excuses:

“I’ve got a wicked hangnail. Sorry, can’t possibly make it on Friday night.”

“Oh, wait. Did I say I could come? How could I have forgotten that I’m supposed to be in Shanghai next week to negotiate the release of those pesky hostages? Sorry, I have to decline your lovely invitation.”

“I think I’m coming down with Ebola. Should be avoiding crowds, especially that miserable woman I can’t stand, so I must decline.”

“To be brutally honest, I won’t be in the same room with her. Disinvite her and I’ll come. So will everyone else.”

It gets complicated. How do I avoid my own idiocy? I stay at home, possibly in bed under the covers. I become a hermit, my house a cave, no iPhone (wait—already did that), no television (that’s already done too), turn off the phone (that’s easy), and remove myself from polite society.

Or the alternate view is that I turn it over to God. Trust Him. Turn over to Him all of my faults, all of my foolishness, frailties, my tendency to see the darkness instead of the light. Remind me once again, Lord, that I have been made in your image and that you did not create me a fool. You forgive my unending failures. Let me see your light in the darkness. Let me live in joy, let my spirit soar in the presence of your unending love.