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I quietly ask God to help me become what He had in mind for me to become.
I ask God to empower me to practice what I preach.
To help me be real.
If I am not real, I am nothing. My life will be a charade.
I dread this thought, that death will come to me like the final curtain of a command performance. I will then wipe off my stage make-up, take off my costume, give back my lines to the author, while the audience continues to applaud me for being someone I never was. I know that when I come to die, God will look for scars, not medals. When I am dying, I want to remember the times when I was real and honest, when I shared myself in an open self-disclosure as an act of love. I want to remember the times when I gave to those who were hungry the food of my sharing, to those who were thirsty the drink of my listening and understanding, to those who were locked inside themselves the gentle, extended hands that said, "Come out. You will be safe with me." I want to remember the times when I offered the healing gift of loving and caring to those who were sick.

It sure beats a charade.


John Powell
Will the real me please stand up ?

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