One More Truth

Last week, I’m talking to a friend and we’re talking about faith, because that’s what I do with my friends. (We also happened to be eating, because I like doing that with friends, too.) I commented we often assume love is the focus of faith and we neglect our focus on grace, peace, humility, mercy, and patience – the virtues that made Jesus’ love so astonishing. I called them the ‘slow virtues’, because all of them require a person slows down in order to properly execute them, and she chuckled. Laughing is another thing I like doing with friends.

The next evening, my husband and I took our younger two kids roller skating. It’s something we like doing and used to do more often, and although it’d been quite some time since we’d hit the rink, we were still pretty smooth on those wheels. I’m not sure why I couldn’t have been that smooth in jr. high, when roller skating skill would have benefited me greatly, but agility wasn’t in the cards dealt my thirteen year old self, and I’ve made peace with that.

Now it happened we had a coupon for admission – a good one – and it didn’t take long to figure out we weren’t the only ones. The rink wasn’t overly crowded, but every parent with young kids must have seen that same coupon and said to themselves, “You know, my child is a disaster on wheels. Really quite terrible, actually, and it’s painful to watch, but heck, if it’s only $3 to get this kid off the Ipad and into harm’s way, then I’m all in. In fact, I’ll invite the whole neighborhood.” Mmmmmm…I’m so glad they did.

So I’m zipping around the rink the way I wished I could at thirteen, and the most clumsy children are weaving in front of me with walkers made of PVC – the roller skating version of training wheels on bikes or gutter guards at the bowling alley – and I’m guessing they probably know a lot about how to get around in virtual worlds on Ipads, but they are completely oblivious as to how to navigate the real world. They’re skating the wrong direction, either coming straight at me or attempting to dart across the rink rather than around, and I’m having to touch more stranger’s bodies than I’m used to, and even though the exercise was getting my heart pumping, there was another heat rising.

I did myself a favor and took a little time out – a few times.

And sitting there, it occurred to me – the slow virtues aren’t just the subtle disciplines that have a calm presence about them, they’re also the virtues I’m slowest in applying. They’re not my natural instinct in tight situations, when my rough edges appear. They’re the virtues I exercise sometimes but haven’t practiced enough to keep me from tripping over someone else’s cumbersome flaw or errant contraption.

When obstacles and hurdles blindside me and the heat starts rising, it’s peace and mercy that help me navigate better. When grace, humility, and patience are my consistent disciplines, I’m more agile and more likely to respond with gentle dignity and sincerity. Love is just how I roll. I think this is what Jesus was saying (and showing) all along, I’ve just been a little slow in catching the mission. Or maybe I need more practice. It’s a little of both, I think.

 

Truth is for all, OMT is for all. If it’s helpful, feel free to share.

I was supposed to write a book in 2018.

And in 2017.

And in 2015.

Because in 2013, the idea sparked and the dream continued burning.

It’s 2019.

Everything in me wants to delete the confession above, but it’s necessary I share it, because the shame is holding me back.

Writing is easy for me, but sharing isn’t so easy. I’ve got real world experience with sharing that resulted in blank stares, being interrupted mid-sentence, being questioned, having my thoughts misinterpreted as feelings, or maybe the worst of all, being told what to do and how to do it, even though I never asked.

I carried all this experience to the keyboard, uninvited and unchecked. I questioned if what I had to say had any value, let my perceived inadequacies weigh me down, and my typical writing posture became tense shoulders and tightened intestines, at which point, there was little chance I’d squeeze out a paragraph, much less a book. Things got complicated.

When things get complicated, I pray and keep on. It’s a good practice and I recommend it. When things get more complicated and I realize I’m getting in my own way, I ask myself an important question: “Michelle, is this working for you?” This too is good, so long as I answer truthfully, which doesn’t always happen right away. I usually pump out rainbow answers of hope and good efforts for a while, deciding on stronger, faster, and smarter because tomorrow might surprise me, and then off I go in a frenzied gallop. I call this mindset ‘striving’.

I’m going to shatter your whole world for a minute. Diligence is honorable. Obedience is fulfilling. Faithfulness is beautiful. Endurance is inspiring. Striving is none of those things. Striving has unchecked insecurities and unchecked motives, resulting in a feverish chase for all the wrong reasons. Striving is an exhausting list of ‘supposed to’, and on my own personal timeline there are several periods of striving, every one of them ending with me taking a flying leap down a rabbit hole.

And when I find myself in a rabbit hole, finally willing to admit things aren’t working for me, I do what I did in 2013, 2015, 2017, and countless years before that – I get a job or I get a new hobby.

So as 2018 wrapped up, I got a job. Actually, I prayed for a job that would light me up and delight me, and within a few days, the Lord brought me a job that feels nothing like work, just as I’d asked. Ironically, most of my responsibilities are writing. ‘I’m using all those years of practice,’ I told myself. Then I did what I do when I’m tidying things up, and I gave the burning in my bones the ol’ brush off and assured myself writing was a useful season and maybe I’d do it again sometime, but for now, I was fine.

I was a liar, liar, bones on fire.

I experience life in thoughts, so when feelings intersect, I have to sense my way through it. More often than not, I dream. I dreamt I was sharing my heart when a girl next to me started talking over me. I did what I usually do – I leaned back, shut up, and thought what I usually think, ‘This is why I don’t do this.’ A girl across from me held up her hand to the noisy one next to me, looked at me and asked, ‘Did you get to finish?’ I raised an eyebrow and woke up, breathing fast and choppy.

I told my husband about the dream and asked what he thought. He said, “I think you better answer the girl in your dream.”

I think he’s right.

I made a list of all my reasons for writing a book, all my sad little reasons for striving. I’m not proud of what’s on there, but I’m thankful I finally dug them up and exposed them. Whether job, dream, or hobby, I can’t be faithful if I can’t be honest first.

Truth is, it’s not writing a book that burns in my bones. It’s His Truth and all the ways it’s changing me from the inside. It’s His Word burning in my heart and mind, refining me. It’s that urge to share real life in this space right here, because it strengthens me and encourages you.

So, no. I’m not finished. I’m not finished sharing, complicated as it is sometimes. I’m not finished sensing my way out of or through thoughts or feelings, whatever the case may be. I’m not finished learning to fling off insecurities and keep self-doubt in check, either. But I’m finished choking on fire.

I suspect both those girls in my dream are me. My mind is the one who can’t shut up, my heart is the one giving me permission to speak – and I’m the only one who can decide if I’m going to hold back.

I’ve decided I’m not holding back.

 

One More Truth is for anyone and everyone. If you find it useful, share it!

I’m 40 today.

I’m not afraid of the number, nor am I disgusted by being this age. I’ve always been an old soul who enjoys simple things and as far as I’m concerned, laugh lines are a history of many laughters and forgetfulness is the result of a brain full of fantastic memories, so I’ll take these as gifts. And anyhow, I said goodbye to a friend just a few months ago, and although I don’t believe I was ever one to take life for granted, it’s less likely I’d be able to now without being reminded it’s a privilege growing older.

Birthdays are good days for reflection – on a year, on a season, on the interesting timeline of twists and turns that one calls their life. When I look at mine, I’m thankful. More than markers for a span of time, many of my birthdays are bookends, and in between are the volumes of a soul searching for God in certain places only to find Him somewhere I wouldn’t have expected. These are stories in pictures rather than words, in a song rather than a telling. There really isn’t a way to explain God experiences other than in musical poetry that opens and lilts, but never closes. I mean, to go searching for God and find Him is a story that ends with another beginning. Am I right?

A few days before my 18^th birthday I stood at the side of the road answering questions for a police report. I’d pleaded with God for months, asking my boyfriend’s heart might be changed by my birthday, but instead, he’d left me at the side of the road in a banged up car and a very pregnant belly. A friend had recently overheard a girl in her class forecasting my degenerate future – “Did you hear Michelle’s pregnant? She’s going to end up on welfare in a trailer park.” – and I’d shrugged it off because what did she know of my future? But police reports and hit and run accidents and questions about domestic violence sounded like the dismal ‘once upon a time’ story I wasn’t willing to live, so I went into single motherhood without a clue as to what my future might look like, but knowing full well it wouldn’t include abuse and addiction and promise after empty promise.

And God saw me there, forgotten at the side of the road. He saw me in the delivery room, eating my lunch alone, fighting the urge and instinct to imagine what it might be like to be one of two parents hovering over the tiny person sleeping in the bassinet, making all the observations two parents make when studying their cells amalgamated into one new life. Sometimes you just need a God who will help you forget, so you can see all the other good things He provides – like impossible safety and incredible opportunities, and the love of family and friends.

On my 22^nd birthday, the guy on one knee was taking quite a risk asking a girl he’d known for 3 months to be his wife. I was taking an equally big risk saying yes, but he loved me with the kind of love that let me be me (which is the best kind of love, if you ask me) and he loved my daughter as if he’d been curiously restless since the day she was born until the day he met her and it all made sense. We exchanged vows the next month, but no lawyer in town would do a legal ad adoption. I told them I wasn’t asking anyone’s permission to put a name in the blank ‘father’s name’ space on my daughter’s birth certificate, because blank spaces unpursued indicate invisible people and invisible help and I wouldn’t waste questions on answers I didn’t need.

And God provided. He sent a patent lawyer who had no reservations about legal ads and rights and signatures that technically aren’t needed at all, and the process was nearly a year long, but a few weeks before kindergarten, my daughter’s last name was legal. Yesterday was ‘National Adoption Day’ – another day to be thankful.

I was pregnant on a few birthdays, held babies on other birthdays – more grace, more abundance from the God who gives both and is both. There was a house contract written the day after my birthday and One More Truth came to life the week before another birthday, confirmation that God is the God of surprises and the completely unexpected. ‘Things can change in a day,’ He’s reminded me on crushing days. The better news, of course, is His faithfulness never changes.

The God of the Old Testament was God among His people – in a temple, in a cloud, in fire. The Savior of the New Testament is ‘God with us’, and when He sent His Spirit, we were given the privilege of accepting God in us. Throughout Scripture, there is one promise: when we search for God wholeheartedly, we find Him, and find He isn’t far off.

What can I expect in the year ahead? I’m not certain. Whatever I find myself doing, I know for Whom I’ll be doing it, and perhaps this more than age or knowledge or success is the best measure of where I’ve been or where I’m going. Perhaps when we speak of a person’s authenticity, we’re referring to their song. I pray mine is a song of overwhelming thankfulness.

So looking behind and looking ahead, I expect one thing for this year of 40: God will be there, and so will His goodness.