One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

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What Grows in Waiting Spaces

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I met with a new friend yesterday. We’d scheduled to meet twice before, and both times we’d cancelled – because work, because travel, because life. January became July, and we finally made a date we didn’t have to break.

We were just two white gals with our laptops in Starbucks, still strangers, but deep in conversation, deeply connected by the conversation the Spirit of God had been having in both our hearts since January. And I realized while sitting there, in those six months of broken connection, God had been breaking common ground within us. There was purpose in His timing.

A few months back, my daughter and I strolled to the mailbox in the dark. I’d been waiting for the magazine that had printed my words, and for 7 days at least, I’d hustled to the mailbox in expectation, all the while, tamping my enthusiasm, just in case. On the way, I said I’d give up waiting if it wasn’t there.

It wasn’t there.

And on the way home, I said I’d keep waiting after all, because I’m wired to be a hopeful dreamer, even though sometimes, I wish I wasn’t. Carrying hope is tiring. Endurance exposes my weakness.

But that’s just it – I practice endurance. I finish my chores all the way before I cross them off. I get 5 hours of exercise a week, no questions asked. And when something comes out of me that isn’t a fruit of the Spirit, I give my heart a full examination, confront the problem, and dig it out. I take risks that could end in crushing disappointment – and sometimes they have. Endurance and waiting should be easier by now.

I took a risk last week and now I’m in the restless space between hope born and hope realized. I see it on the horizon sometimes, and I nod. I like seeing it there, expecting something ahead, but for now, I’m in the waiting space, the space of dependence, the space of patience. The space where I find out I’m not that patient.

These are the times when I when I chew gum like fiend, my jaw pounding harder than my heartbeat. These are the times when I criticize my body, holding the old lie that if I looked better, life would be better. These are the times the doubt voice is loudest and the accusations make more sense than the truth. These are the times when I wonder why I fiddle with hope at all, because courage takes guts and guts require hustle and sometimes I’d rather just wrap myself in the comfy blanket of apathy and drink my coffee without a single thought in my head, for heaven’s sake.

It’s a lie though. Who would I be without hope?

The journey of spiritual growth doesn’t have blankets, it has covers – of peace and strength, patience and ridiculous courage. Faith assures us what we see isn’t the whole picture and what we can’t see yet – the purpose and good of it all – will push through only if we do. Enduring hope is the journey; hope realized is hindsight. It’s when we see the gathering of many pieces in His perfect timing. It’s when we see ourselves at a table, connecting with someone of similar spirit, saying things we couldn’t have understood without the journey and the space to grow.

The spaces in which we wait aren’t times, but timing. I struggle to believe it in the waiting, but it always proves true in the end. God has the supernatural ability to finish everything He starts. We carry hope and He carries out His purpose – every time.

In all that you wait for and hope for, be encouraged, friend. And keep on.

 

Everyone needs truth. If One More Truth will encourage someone you know, feel free to share. Find weekly posts on Instagram: @onemoretruth

 

 

The Pleasure of Burning, and Plot Twists

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I’ve loved reading since before I could read. In elementary school, I was the girl reading the dictionary at recess. In junior high, I was the girl reading every Nancy Drew the library had available. In young motherhood, I was the mom reading stacks of books before nap time, and as long as my voice didn’t give out or I didn’t fall asleep before the person to whom I was reading, I’d read through whole stack, plus a few extra. Now that I’m in a later season of motherhood, I’m the mom on the go listening to audiobooks – the silver lining on the dark cloud of driving. Not my preference, but it squeezes books into my busy life.

But every once in a while, the ol’ book nerd shows her face, especially when one of my children is assigned a book. So when my son’s teacher sent an email requesting all students order a copy of Fahrenheit 451 – a book I never read in high school – I placed the order within approximately 7 seconds, and when it arrived (used, of course), I practically Hulk ripped the package open and did what all book nerds do: I inhaled it while flipping the pages.

While huffing the book in my kitchen like some kind of book junkie, geeking out over a book I wouldn’t be reading, I thought of my son who doesn’t geek out over books, because he hates books and hates reading. In fact, the last time he shared his enlightened opinion it went something like, ‘Books are dumb, reading is dumb, honors English is dumb and mom never should have signed me up because I’m going to a college where they never make you read, etc, etc, blah, blah, blah.’

I was holding a book with ’60th Anniversary Edition’ printed boldly above the title and I knew, sadly, my son would make it through one paragraph of decades old language, and then he’d threaten to poke both his eyes out.

I thought of my ninth grade English teacher reading Romeo and Juliet aloud to a classroom of fifteen year olds, defining ancient vocabulary, pausing to explain context, going only as far as the next sentence before pausing again to answer questions. Weeks or months later, she finished reading us the entire play, and all of us understood every section of the Shakespearian tragedy.

If there was any chance the concepts and imagery of a sixty-five year old piece of literature were going to sink into my fourteen year old’s head rather than fly over it, and if there was any hope my son would one day appreciate books rather than loathe them for all time, someone would have to read his book with him, explaining every difficult piece of text. I decided I would be that someone. I would become my ninth grade English teacher.

So my son and I camped out in the front room together and I read the first line, “It was a pleasure to burn.” My son was scowling; I was salivating. We were off to a great start.

Over many hours and weeks we followed the character as he encountered questions and people and ideas that challenged everything he thought he knew about pleasure and burning, about life, about himself, about the truth. Eventually the character must choose: Does he want the answers he’s always been given or does he want to find answers for the questions he’s burning to ask?

Life is in the questions – truth is in the answers. That’s why God, as Father and as Son, asks so many questions throughout the Bible, and that’s why when I’m in a quandary over answers and ideas, I let His Spirit ask me questions. Because in answering Him, the truth is revealed about whether I’m pulling closer to Him or pushing further into myself – am I pulling toward truth or pushing into delusion?

I’d once heard an author say there are seven basic plots for any story written or told, and each of those seven can be boiled into one question – will the character choose the truth or a lie? In the story of my life and in the story of your life, we each must make the same choice. There’s the soul saving choice made to accept Jesus as Savior, to accept the truth we need saving. There are moment by moment soul sustaining choices that are equally important, when everything we hear and see must be checked by the question, ‘Is this God’s truth?’ (If it’s a lie, don’t keep it – especially the lies about who God is and who you are.) And there are soul bearing choices, too, the choices of thought, word, and action that prove the truth of what you believe and who you are.

The character of Fahrenheit 451 chooses to leave the flash, dazzle, and floating ash life to follow the burning in his soul, sensing it will lead him to truth. I paused multiple times in those final pages to make sure my son was listening, and to promise him his mind was about to be blown. (He was half-listening and fully resistant toward having his mind blown.) I clapped with enthusiasm after reading the last sentence, and my son peeled himself from the floor saying, “Cool. We’re done.”

He still claims it’s the worst book he’s ever read (Ok, son, for real?! You’re going to claim you read it?), but after watching the movie version in class, he’s decided the movie is worse. He says the movie didn’t stick to the true story, and I find it interesting he even cares about the true story of the worst book ever. I find it interesting he remembers the true story enough to recognize a false one. Seems my son may have learned something.

And I find that to be a true pleasure.

 

 

Slowing My Roll

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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.

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.

 

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