One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

Looking for Jesus When I Don’t Understand

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On Ash Wednesday, I awoke in the dark, and clumsily made my way toward coffee. While I’d slept, a vulnerable post had been released into a bigger sphere than my normal audience, and there was no taking it back. Strangers, loved ones, or acquaintances were reading the delicate story my mind had kept in sounds, feelings, and colors. It’d taken a long time to find the language, but somehow, 700 words made it to paper and the sensory story I hadn’t known was there had finally been told. It was healing to honor it and let it go, and as a gift, the Lord saw fit to have it open my Lenten season.

I didn’t yet have a practice for Lent, but I was chaperoning the 6th grade zoo field trip and I figured the zoo gardens were the perfect setting for a soul retreat and the revelation of a meaningful practice for the next forty days. But before we boarded the busses, it was announced my daughter would be a soloist in the upcoming spring concert, and in the few seconds it took to say her name, my soul took a long sip of disappointment.

My daughter had tried out for countless solos and it was happy news she’d finally been chosen, but without knowing the date of the concert, I’d already said ‘yes’ to attending a conference that would fall on the same day. In twenty-two years I’d attended at least 2 million games, concerts, assemblies, science fairs, leadership days, rehearsals, speeches, awards ceremonies, presentations, dance performances, and parades. I’d spent my life being there, even when it didn’t seem to matter, and now that it was the big solo that mattered a lot, I’d be absent.

I was confused, maybe even indignant. I was annoyed that the God of all time and goodness couldn’t work things out a little better. I was afraid my daughter would need therapy for the rest of her life because of my absence. And I was uncomfortable with these unpleasant feelings. More than that, I was discontent with forty years’ worth of other confusion, disappointment, hurt, indignation, annoyances, and fears. I didn’t want them anymore.

So I wandered into the forty day season with a promise rather than a practice, the same promise throughout Scripture: if I look for God – even in the midst of things I don’t understand – He says I will find Him.

Forty is the number of years former slaves wandered in the desert; the number of days rain fell and swelled around one boat holding all the world’s remaining life; the number of fasting days for prophets, and for Jesus Himself. Forty is the number of days I stewed and worried and overate to avoid the hard work of letting go of old grievances (and of watching a solo on Duo rather than from the front row).

When counted as a number, forty is the timeline of hardship and nearly losing your senses. But when viewed as a process, forty is a number of healing.

Newly freed slaves wander, and in the process, learn to trust the provision of a new Master. Water covers everything, and in the process, the earth is made clean. Prophets and the Messiah go without, and in the process, they draw closer to God and find He is enough – He is everything.

I unbury the hard stuff I don’t understand, and in the process of confronting and forgiving, I see what I hadn’t before – healing. In the Holy practice of looking for Him, I find Him, as He promised. But the Easter story I’ve never seen until last week – Holy Week – is that in the process of looking for Him, He’s healing my heart, healing my mind, and healing my senses, so that when I find Him, I’ll see, hear, feel, and know it’s Him. And I’ll recognize He’s the Savior He says He is.

 

 

Fire, Dreams, and All the Reasons for Not Holding Back

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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!

The Steady Climb and the Sweetness

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This post is featured on Ruminate Magazine.

Cruising into Manitou, the Incline comes into view. Once an old railroad, the narrow path is etched with more than 2700 railroad ties – an intimidating and seemingly endless stairway to heaven. It’s less than a mile to the top, but the distance isn’t the threat, it’s the steep and severe grades of incline.  We were three brave souls on our drive, but now, peering toward the sky, we begin doubting our readiness.

The August sun is menacing, but other adventurers march ahead and we take flight with them, making bets as to how long before we stand like kings at the top. We agree to one rule: we are here together, but we journey alone. I make a personal rule: no breaks, just constant motion. Slow and steady, or even slower and steady – but always steady.

Eight minutes in and I’m sweating as if the sun’s only target. Accustomed to running in the fire wind of a Phoenix July, I remind my screaming muscles they’ve felt worse. I keep climbing. Before long, it’s my lungs complaining, heaving in and out as if they’re being crushed, and in truth, they are. I want to breathe deeply, but the thin air burns my nose and insides, making me want to empty my lungs completely, but when I try, I choke. The elevation is a menacing resistance. I’ve no music on this trek and I’m forced to step in time with my own wheezing, and my lungs and legs find harmony in the rhythm…

To continue reading, click here to go to Ruminate Magazine.

 

 

Ukulele strings and the youthful joys of procrastination

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It’s Sunday morning and I’m in my closet, deciding if I’m changing my outfit or not. My husband and I are in casual conversation about the different people we were when newly married compared to who we are 17 years later. I used to drink sugary mochas with my carb-filled bagel and didn’t think twice. He used to view work as a specific place with specific hours, and now his weeks look like an endless string of tasks. And both of us seem to be wondering the same thing: How do we get back to that ‘Life is delicious, I can’t not do this fantastic thing, Whoa, what just happened to the time’ kind of life?

Our younger two barge in, holding ukuleles.

“Hey mom, look what we’re bringing back! We’ve been practicing.”

My kids know they’ve got an old school mom who loves watching them do awesome things – and yes, that includes playing ukulele. Not long ago, these two took ukulele lessons and the house was filled with singing and strumming, but the lessons ended and practicing dwindled, and the island sounds disappeared. Occasionally, I’d suggest they pick up their picks again, but I dropped it knowing music – true to its name – is a muse, and one day, it’d draw my children back.

This is that ‘one day’.

This also happens to be the day my son must finish reading the remaining 100 pages of his book, because the 24 hour countdown for the book report he was assigned last month is running out…and he’s playing ukulele.

This is the morning after a student election poster-making extravaganza, when my daughter promised to clean up the bottles of paint and layer of glitter strewn over my dining room floor…and she’s searching ukulele chords on YouTube.

I shake my head at my husband who’s smirking much like I am, because what else can we do? A procrastinating minstrel is smiling at us. They know they have deadlines, and we all know the clock is ticking, and it seems there will be rushing in the final minutes, but somehow, the important things will get done. My husband and I aren’t angry – proof we’re not the same people we were years ago. And yet simply by enjoying a ‘right now’ moment, without thinking any further than this minute we’re living, we’re assured that somewhere in these older bodies, we’re still the same people we were once.

I tell my kids I love hearing them make music and they nod, and I remind them there are only so many hours in a day and they pluck their way out the door, humming as they go.

By bedtime, the report is printed and the dining room looks less like a construction zone. I finish a few important things and push off the rest. They’ll get done. The sibling duet is camped on the landing, playing their newest favorite for the 67th time, and I sit on the step next to them, not wishing to be anywhere else. ‘One last time’ turns into 12 more times, but eventually, they lay down their strings, promising to practice again in the morning.

It’s late and my husband’s in bed, but he smiles when I come in the room. Our morning conversation was never resumed, because in some strange way, music answered our question. There will always be plans and busyness, and the clock will continue counting the minutes until something, but those are precious minutes. We’ll just keep practicing the balance of important things for as many years as God allows, giving time an occasional glance, and giving more attention to the songs being played in between.

 

Jesus modeled a full life, not a busy life. Want to model that kind of balanced life? My guest blog on TheBetterMom.com may help!