At the End of My Life
by Jon Acuff.
Lately, I've been thinking about a few simple things. Lately as the volume of things turned up, there's a bit of a whisper that won't leave me alone. Here's what's bouncing around my head:
If at the end of my life, the only thing I've accomplished is a comfortable life, my days have been wasted.
If at the end of my life, the only thing I've fought for is my own name, my days have been wasted.
If at the end of my life, the only thing I've cared about is my own care, my days have been wasted.
If at the end of my life, the only thing I've stood for is my own reputation, my days have been wasted.
If at the end of my life, the only thing I've traded are works for rewards, my days have been wasted.
May we not go to the grave quietly.
May we not make refuse of the gifts we've been given.
May we never chase the shiny in place of the holy, the trend instead of the Truth, the immediate instead of the eternal.
Arrive empty to the grace, having given all you were given, stewarded all you were tasted with.
Give the grave only bones.
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