One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

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Pink Warrior

June 28, 2018 by michelle 8 Comments

My friend died last week. I echo innumerable voices – victims, survivors, loved ones standing by or standing without – in saying, “Cancer sucks.”

It sucked when my friend was diagnosed 18 months ago and when she endured an aggressive treatment plan only to learn cancer hadn’t left, it just found a new place to reside. During her next round of treatments, I took her to Friday chemo and watched a day in her fight. Benadryl was first, a precautionary measure to keep her body from reacting poorly to the chemicals about to drip into her veins and sicken her for most the weekend. She’d sleep the weakness away, enjoy a couple good days, then go back for more. And after months of this, her body scan didn’t read clean.

There were hospital visits and texts. I rallied the prayers of family and friends while she rallied her war cry. She watched her son’s college graduation online and during the graduation party everyone ate and laughed while she lay in another room coughing and breathing from a tank, but she never complained. She allowed me in and we talked for a while about our kids, about their futures, about anxiety created by motherhood or breathing machines or simply by life itself.

When her husband texted ‘It doesn’t look good’, I didn’t finish drying my hair, I just left. ‘It doesn’t look good’ are words of urgency, not words to ready a person. And indeed, no one was ready. Not her children or husband, nor her mother and father, or her oncologist who’d been so positive last month. The fighter herself said it all morning: ‘I’m not ready.’ She’d intended to write letters to her kids. She’d expected to see her youngest through high school and she’d hoped to attend the weddings of her older children – grown, but not grown enough to be motherless.

I just listened and nodded my head because my mouth wasn’t working so well. The living don’t advise the dying, and anyway, it’s best not to speak about things you don’t understand. And I didn’t understand.

I’d prayed healing for my friend throughout her battle; many of my loved ones prayed too. Healing prayers and miracle pleas are natural prayers, natural as verbalizing hopes and admitting we don’t understand. But that morning, my prayers were for a soul, not a body. They were prayers my friend would be ready.

The previous Sunday, I’d listened to the words, ‘It is well with my soul’ and I’d tried to sing them, but I choked up instead. I’d never really liked the song that much, but I’d heard it and sung it since I was a child, and suddenly I couldn’t escape the message of it: Trusting God means ‘even though’ and ‘in spite of’, ‘but’ and ‘without’ must become ‘it is well with my soul.’ What if I lost plans, possibilities, people – would the song of my soul be peace? Could I trust Him enough to say ‘I don’t understand this world, but my spirit is good. God is good. It is well.’?

A week later I was watching my friend face those questions for real – no hypotheticals. The battle for remission was now the battle of reconciling finality. In our years together we’d talked about hope and living well, but we didn’t talk about God. We didn’t talk about God that morning either – we talked to God, together. She said her plans were different from God’s, but she’d trust Him anyway, and she gave Him the hopes she had for her children, knowing she wouldn’t be part of their futures. It was a big deal moment for the both of us. It still shakes me.

And then she got ready. She poured copious ‘I love yous’ on her family, righted wrongs, and let grace fall where only grace fits. She blessed her children and they sang her praises. She said things that matter, things we know we should live by but can’t because we’re busy taking life for granted. Things like, ‘Be patient with each other. Don’t work yourself to death. Spend more time with your family.’ Not a word was wasted, not a minute spilled. And the next day, she was gone.

Grief is a tragically brand new experience each and every time, and although loss is a universal language, there aren’t words good enough to explain it. When I pass my friend’s house or see her kids with my kids and think to send her a picture, it hurts. I expect it will for a long time.

Uncertain tomorrows are certain, so I’ll do my best with today. I’ll trust God more instead of trying to understand first. I’ll practice more patience, open my mouth for truth and grace, and when I’m brave enough, I’ll ask those close to me if I’m getting any better at it. I’ll spend more simple moments with loved ones and I’ll write more notes to my children. I’ll allow ‘it is well’ to shape my prayers. And I’ll look forward to seeing my friend again one day.

 

 

Passengers and the hope to see good things

December 28, 2017 by michelle 6 Comments

“Mom, do you know what I was thinking about last weekend?”

My youngest daughter and I were driving to who knows where, but it was just the two of us. The backseat empty of siblings, just mom and child side by side – there’s something magical about these conditions. The deep insights they share in that passenger’s seat! My son once confessed he’d been observing whether or not male drivers were smiling on their commute, and after many months of visual research, he’d assessed that men were almost unanimously smiling if behind the wheel of a truck, and nearly never smiling if driving a car. When I pressed him as to why he thought this might be, he had a ready conclusion. “I think it’s because men with trucks work with their hands and that makes them happy.”

It’s during drives like these and conversations like these when my gaze is pulled toward the passenger’s seat, toward the child and their quiet thoughts revealed, and my own silent thought is nothing less than, ‘Who is this beside me, really?’ So no, I didn’t know what my daughter was thinking last weekend, but I could hardly wait to hear what she had to say.

“I was just talking to God out loud, like praying, and I was thinking about how sometimes you pray for something and He works things out differently than what you’d hoped and it’s not what you wanted exactly, but it’s still good. Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded and she continued. “Like maybe someone asks God for a dog, but their parents won’t let them get one, and then someone asks them to watch their dog a lot and so it’s almost like they did get a dog. God still worked it out, just a different way.”

“So when we trust God knows what’s best, it’s easier to see His goodness in our situation, even if it’s not how we expected to see it?”

“Yep.” Her head was comfortably tilted toward soft desert landscapes and although I couldn’t see her expression, I sensed her contentment. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. I knew you’d love it.”

And I did love it. I loved that she shared her thoughts with me and I loved her understanding of God’s goodness, because what she didn’t say – what we both knew – is that in eleven years of living, she’s experienced her share of disappointment. She’s experienced loss, prayed for things she didn’t receive, and in several areas of her life, she’s still waiting to see God’s goodness revealed, but she’s looking. She continues hoping, and just as God promises, He continues filling her with joy and peace while she waits.

And for all these reasons, I’m glad it was my daughter explaining hope to me instead of the other way around. I, too, have had my share of storms, failures, and heartbreak, and I’ve come to equate hope with dreams unrealized and needs unmet, and honestly – sadly – I’d rather have the good life kind of faith where I tell God what I want and He gives it to me, and life is effortless and nothing but blessing and I can tuck hope in my Christian back pocket and never need it all.

Thoughts from the driver’s seat revealed. My faith is childish, not child-like.

But faith’s vitality is rooted in my ability to hope in Christ. Without hope, disappointment quickly becomes a crisis of faith. With Jesus as my hope, I have the hustle and sweat necessary to remain faithful. I have the courage to wrestle doubt and discouragement. I have the joy to ask, “Lord, give me today”, no matter how many sleepless nights. And when the smell of smoke is thick, hope keeps me breathing deep and steady, never wavering in belief that beauty is somewhere in those ashes.

Tuck hope in my back pocket? I can’t. I won’t have the endurance to make it through a single day.

I laid my hand on my daughter’s arm, glanced her direction as best I could, and asked, “What’d you say to God after He helped you understand all of this?”

“I told Him I was glad He’s with me and I never have to be alone.”

Simple goodness and truth from the passenger’s seat. I get it now. Hope doesn’t endure alone. God is with me, and when He is close, His goodness is, too.

——————

It’s been a few months since this conversation, and in that time, I’ve had some good practice with hope. I’ve asked some hard questions. There were quiet days and trying days, and sometimes God was asking me the hard questions. In all of it though, He was there. As the New Year approaches, I’m looking for God’s goodness, and I’m hoping with expectation. I’m praying you are, too.

 

The journey of faith, the surrender of prayer

November 10, 2017 by michelle 7 Comments

At the age of 64, my dad took a huge leap of faith and did something most wouldn’t consider at his age: he resigned from the church he pastored, and he and my mom moved across the country. My dad, the planner, mapped a six week road trip, a tour that wound them through the towns of their childhoods, national landmarks, museums, bucket list sights, points of interest, and thanks to my dad’s clever planning, they even trekked through the few states they’d never seen. By the time they reached my house – the last stop before their new state of residence – several things were certain: my parents could proudly say they’d been to all 50 states; they were eager to eat home cooked meals; and they were tired of living out of a suitcase. With so many miles and weeks and history between them and their old home, they were ready to venture the final 12 hours to their new home.

But tired as they were and ready as they were, there was something unsettling about arriving ‘home’ – there would be no more map. Long as it may have been, the journey across America had been a predictable journey. They awoke knowing where they were headed, they could reasonably estimate how long it would take, and the destination at the end of the day was the destination they had intended to reach. Every place had its unique delights and surprises, but the road trip itself had been a month and a half of anticipated outcomes.

New home, however, was a blank canvas. There was a house to find and new employment to secure, and neither of these things would be a one day road trip. Months after settling into their house, my dad was still sending out resumes, interviewing, and making follow up calls. He kept in forward motion, volunteering and meeting new people. Some days offered new possibilities, other days closed the door on hopeful prospects, but every day was a waiting day. He could choose to do many things, but the outcome was out of his hands.

Empty feelings find us when we’re waiting in the blank canvas spaces, when we can’t see the big picture and we’re unable to paint our desired outcome. Weaknesses are exposed and fear and insecurities surface. My dad wrestled the fear that his age was an obstacle, a seeming disadvantage he could do nothing about. He concluded he had two choices: He could trust God, or not. There was no in between. He could feel powerless against disadvantages or trust God’s power. He could consider waiting as wasted time, or trust it was training. He could hold on to fear, or hold on to the God of hope. Following the example of his namesake, David, my dad took everything to God in prayer – his age, his efforts, the waiting, the disappointment, and the questions. He trusted God could take all the ungood and make something good.

Wide open spaces of uncertainty are the journey places we’d avoid if given the choice, but these tough places are trust places – places where the complexity and simplicity of faith stretch for miles and we must choose our form of surrender: give up or let go. We assume weakness or resume in His strength. Doubt consumes us or we let worry go. We claim empty and quit or we gather the full confidence of hope and continue trusting the God of our faith’s beginning; continue trusting that He sees what we can’t see. Surrender prayers are the privilege of faith, not because they assure certain outcomes, but because in prayer we are reassured that God – though unseen – is certainly with us, now and forever.

My dad is now the prayer pastor of a Christian radio station, where his job is literally praying for every request a listener sends in and personally responding to each one. I imagine those responses are read with a sigh of relief, not because my dad understands all the mysteries of God, but because He understands the heaviness of desperate prayers, and the importance of grit kind of scriptures that strengthen weary hands in waiting. His age is no longer a disadvantage, but a gift of wisdom and tenderness. God is using the trials of faith for good. And my dad, the prayer pastor, is encouraging others, by faith, to keep going and keep holding hope in the God who can be trusted.

 

My friends, One More Truth is 3 years old! Want to see where the journey began? Right here.

Prayer and the lasting legacy of faith, hope, and love

March 29, 2017 by michelle 10 Comments

Last week my dear Grandpa, a man who had always been so full of life, let out his final breath with peace and dignity. It was probably the quietest day he had ever lived. My Grandpa was an enthusiast, and being such, he sang loudly, made audible sounds of approval during meals and throughout his morning coffee, laughed with body-shaking exuberance, and talked as often and to as many people as possible. He even slept loudly, snoring from the bedroom he and Grandma shared downstairs, a clamor that floated easily on the summer air, up the stairs, and onto the ears of my sisters and me. His big personality was easy to spot in a crowd and his presence was always known without his trying. I don’t doubt that when his presence left the hospital room last week, his absence was immediately felt by my extended family waiting beside him, lovingly encouraging him to go home.

My Grandpa had always been on the other side of encouragement. He had 7 granddaughters and never let on that a grandson would have made the family complete – an encouragement in itself. Grandpa could give a pep talk like no other. It was always a long pep talk because Grandpa could talk the leg off a horse, but you’d walk on air afterward, not so much convinced you were the world’s most special snowflake, but confident you could acquire the strength and knowledge necessary to one day become what you hoped. As far as Grandpa was concerned, his granddaughters were going to change the world for the better. He believed we could, and he encouraged us to be individually awesome.

Grandpa had built his family’s house and instinctively knew how to fix anything. I’d bring him my broken, damaged somethings and he’d say, “Grandpa fix.” And he would. His basement workshop had every tool imaginable, all of them organized and stored with care, oiled, cords carefully wrapped, and ready for the next project. I was not allowed in the workshop – it was not a place for a child – and I only remember looking inside from the doorway, eyes carefully surveying the secret room of mystery and metal. I knew my wooden sandbox and tiny dollhouse furniture had been crafted in that workshop.

Toys, playing, and the easy enjoyment of youth was important to Grandma and Grandpa, and their house had plenty to do. Depending on the season, the backyard had a plastic kiddie pool to splash in, a stomach-dropping hill for sledding, or plenty of room for chasing lightning bugs. If the Ohio weather wasn’t conducive to outdoor play, which it often wasn’t, there was a piano in the living room (but no pounding the keys), a collection of old records, and a drawer of antique games. There were dusty stacks of National Geographics – saved with the intention of sparking wanderlust in each granddaughter – and shelves of classics, biographies, Golden Books, and comic books. Grandpa and Grandma’s house was unrushed and easy like a library or a museum: Content today; inspired for tomorrow.

I wonder if Grandpa’s satisfaction with today steadied him all those years when Grandma’s hands, crumpled with arthritis and rendered quite useless, required Grandpa to be Grandma’s hands. Little Grandma, a quiet, mild-mannered sweetheart and retired elementary school teacher, a loving wife who had taken care of Grandpa for many decades, needed his help for the simplest of things. He never complained. Even without Grandma, Grandpa remained upbeat and life was good. For real good. “Well, I can’t complain,” he would often say, followed by, “But what I want to know is, how are you?” That was Grandpa. He wanted to hear all about you, about something you’d learned or something you read, about a skill you’d honed, or a place you’d been, or the exquisite dinner you had last night. And of course, he wanted to hear about his great-grandkids. He wanted to know anything and everything, if at all possible. Grandpa loved learning almost as much as he loved people.

But the image I’ve recalled most over the years is the memory of Grandpa and Grandma at the kitchen table after breakfast, Bibles open, united in prayer. Those prayers were loooonnng. My sister and I would respectfully stay hushed and out of the kitchen for that sacred hour, wondering if Grandpa and Grandma were going to pray the entire day away. We couldn’t understand how prayer could take so long. As children, we didn’t understand the immeasurable value of those prayers, that those specific prayers for each of us were love in action. We understood love in physical action – our grandparents had that down – but what we would come to understand as we grew older was that those wonderfully selfless prayers, with eyes closed and nothing moving but mouths, were a beautiful picture of the heart in action. Every morning the words of Scripture were being written deep on the hearts of my grandparents, so that encouragement and patience, satisfaction and gratitude, joy and love were genuine and pumping through every vein. Daily prayers for their children and grandchildren were a discipline not for the sake of discipline, but for the sake of love. They were building a legacy; something that would last. For each of us.

My grandparents loved us in the right now moments, they hoped for our futures, and they prayed passionately for our faith – a distinct family trait of faith for generations, a faith so strong it would join us all in forever. My grandparents understood what we all know, but don’t dare think much about: Grandparents aren’t with us long enough.

The legacy and lives of every one of my grandparents continue to encourage me and remind me that for all our efforts here, all that will remain is faith, hope, and love. Life is a treasure, people are a treasure, and our best investment is prayer. Let’s continue the legacy together.

 

 

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Michelle

Hi, I'm Michelle. Some of the best things I've ever done are the things I never planned - teen mom, women's mentor & advocate, becoming the writer of One More Truth. Yep, these pursuits found me, and fortunately, they fit. Much of life is unplanned, but we have choices for how we respond. Want fresh approaches for seeing differently, finding a way through & living integrated? You're in the right place. I'm glad you're here.

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