My fig leaves don’t work. They don’t last. My feeble attempts to cover up are only patchy fixes at best. Why? No matter how hard I try to deny it, my conscience bears witness to the reality of my impurity, guilt, and shame. Like Lady Macbeth, I can’t get out those damned guilty spots.
Sometimes I am disheartened by how little God seems to be changing me. I still see so much of my selfish nature; its desires still often direct my life. As a young Christian, I had expected to see my sin decrease, but it seems that the more I mature, the more I am becoming aware of the depth of sin within me.