h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

AS YOU LOVE YOURSELF


The hidden crisis of love is
whether to love oneself.
There can be no love for my neighbor
when the burning secret of my heart is
loathing for my being and rage for
my inadequacy.

If i hate my self i hate the one who made Me.
In no way can I be intimate with One
who made so botched a job of me.
i will not believe Him - i will not honor Him.
i will pour contempt on Him
by my disgust with His Idea of me.


To disdain the gift is to criticize the Giver
as a stupid bungler.
"you should have done it better!"

And any gift He sends me, be it glorious,
be it extravagant, i will refuse -
and even despise.

i will return it to the Sender,
without opening its mystery.
my answer is this:
"it is not enough to
make up to me the fact that
You forced me to live
in this paltry shell
of 'me'!"




His proofs of love will be the object
of my special scorn,
in secret disdain, as though
He made a cruel joke. . .
merely to increase my torment.
And so I will call His Love - hatred,
His goodness - evil
His generosity - stingy.



I will pay that monstrous Maker back
by pretending to be His friend,
and then wallowing
in my martyrdom at His malicious hand
before an audience I gather.

"Ah, let me deliberately live in a dire want
that disproves His lie that He is
good"

i will seethe and contrive my case in
buried files of my mind.
Scream injustice over every
slight of humans He
has treated better than
He ever treated me.

Above all, i will believe every vile
suspicion about Him,
pet every grievance.
Keep my wounds as the
victim of His crimes
fresh and bleeding,
just to make that God of Blunder
miserable.



As i hate me, so i will especially hate
the ones He touches with His favor,
a favor He denies to me
and throws in my face as
a mockery to my torment.

i will want to smash and tear
their gift i should have had
and punish them for the theft of it.


By the cauldron of my buried malice,
i will scald those innocent of
my condition and
force them to share my hot tantrum.

This is my special delight. . .
to get at God, my enemy,
by the torment of His favorites.

i will drag them down from their
precious illusions about Him
and expose His true malevolence.
i will discourage their silly faith and
make my gloom and grief
their burden.



But the most delicious revenge
i heap on 'me.'
i will turn on me with every vicious slash,
in endless mutilation.
my failures raise a tide of fury, unleashed
to drown my stupid self.
my inadequacy is a blistering fire of hate,
fueled by my cruel rage
with 'me'. . .
and never doused by any
sip of mercy.

And should that Awful Inventor send a
messenger of His Real Love, I will hate Him
for disturbing my safe fortress
and spew my hate on the messenger
who would bring the cruel tempting of
my forgotten hope.



Who am I? Why am I?

I am the gift he gave me.
Mine is the life and being,
conceived out of
His Vivid Imagination
and summoned into existence for
some mysterious
Adventure of His Delight.

I am the gift He gave me. The only Life I will
ever live, the only individual whose
heart and being
I will truly know.

I am a Fascination of His Originality
I am a design out of
His Unfathomable Thoughts.
I am an expression of His Genius.



I am a treasure hunt of His Secrets.
Not a being belonging to me,
or made by humanity,
I am a Divine Idea. . .
apart from my 'self'
and may not abuse my being
with hatred. I have no such right.
I am not my own.



I am a mystery of His Intelligence.
A secret of His originality.
Who am I? I am so vast that
I cannot know
except my Maker explain me.

He holds the first patent to my design
and the only guideline to its function.


I cannot discover me.
I cannot dwell with me.
I cannot decipher 'me.'
I discover this Wondrous God
and He reveals
His Idea called by my name.

So I do not marvel at the "me."
I am filled with amazement
at His Perfection
and find I truly like His blueprint
and dance with joy
over the 'me' who
is God's Invention.



WHY am I?

I am a plan of His universe where
even the molecule has its home
and intention.

I must find the map
of my hiddeness
and the design of my dignity.

My commonness, my ordinary self
is no indicator of His Creation.
For He must spark to life what He
buried in me and resurrect
His Motive for my breathing.

I AM a clay pot, common dirt and spit -
whose existence begins only
as He breathes into my mouth
and fleshes out the bare bones
of my naked solitude.

So I love my self as a commitment to Him
as an honor responding to His Goodness,
as an obedience to His gentle leading.
As a recognition of
His Sovereign Superiority.

I allow Him to change
my thankless estimation of me,
to His Gracious Vision and Boundless Hope.
A hope of His Satisfaction in Himself
in no way needing my capability. . .
only my consent.



By a deep acceptance of my ordinariness,
needing not to be special or different.
Needing only my Creator to interpret me,
to energize me with the fire of
His Love which was my origin.

Love was my inception.
By Love I was a Vision,
not a human plot
nor a living accident.

And by the power of that
Original Love
I am borne up to bear myself,
to live with me by the peace
of gracious reconciliation. . .



To hope for my specialness
and wait for my fulfilling
by the molding of the One
for Whom I am was - and am -
a Delightful Dream.

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Copyright © 7/8/99 Martha Blaney Kilpatrick

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thats beautiful hun