One More Truth – Page 3 – Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

Sunrise and sleepy souls

February 1, 2018 by michelle 4 Comments

It’s 7:23 and the chill of asphalt is traveling quickly through my flimsy flip flops. I lean my bike against my body, the cold metal causing my legs to protest, and now my torso is chiming in about the coat I left at home, but I’m not about to go get it. I look out over the desert. The mountains are hiding the sun, but its fire can’t be hidden, and electric clouds light the horizon. It won’t be long.

Within seconds, the sun pops from valley folds, and slightly blinded, I breathe in sunshine for as long as I can before my veins turn to ice and I can’t pedal home. I never once question if witnessing this every day happening is worth standing in the cold.

It’s worth it.

For years I enjoyed watching day break, but sometime last winter, I stopped making the time. It was probably too cold, too inconvenient, too common. Another rotation of the earth, another sunrise. No big deal. The sunrise alarm would jingle my phone and I’d silence it, get back to tasks consuming my attention, and that was the daily routine – jingle, swipe, back to life. Routine had absorbed my soul.

This went on for quite a while, until one day – unable to recall when I’d last seen the sunrise – I deleted the alarm altogether. And part of me was really sad about it. Not sad about the absent alarm (less noise is always welcome) but sad that God was throwing color on waking skies and I’d lost delight in it all. I didn’t want to forget, but I apparently didn’t care to remember either.

The funny thing about the soul is, it remembers. Its cravings can’t be silenced with distractions or the petty sustenance that quiets mind and body. There came a morning when gold leaked through my kitchen windows and not a task or duty could hold me indoors. I ran the few minutes to my familiar spot, and as light filled the sky, delight filled my bones, and I stood in awe once again. Next morning, same thing; then the next, and the next, until I’d established a better routine of go, see, delight. I’d snap a picture for my sisters, sometimes send it with a verse or encouraging word – a little good news to break the monotony and monotone that soon fill a day – and it’d be back to life, just like before. But unlike before, now I had fire in my bones.

God is called the ‘Father of Light‘ only once in the Bible, but I think it’s my favorite name. It fits Him, and it explains why I need Him so much: His light wakes every facet of my being. The world’s darkness lulls my soul to sleep with bleak news and dull talk from dim minds. It’s a cynical forecast of gloomy attitudes telling me it’s just another day of drudgery. But God invites me to come and see His graces. If I silence His reminder, I’ll forget to delight in who He is. And when I forget Who God is, I forget who I am – a soul with a purpose, not a human with a routine.

Which is why I keep going out, watching melon clouds and violet stripes as the sun carves its path across the mountains. Nature’s beauty is a rhythm of thanks to its Creator – a song of gratitude – reminding me it’s another day to recognize God’s wonder and reflect His splendor with gladness.

Thanks for sharing:

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.

Thanks for sharing:

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.

Thanks for sharing:

Wisdom: the subtle fall trend

September 22, 2017 by michelle 5 Comments

My children wanted haircuts over the weekend, so being the mom I am, I took them to the salon that had just mailed out coupons. I brought nothing with me – no books, no half-fleshed writing, no unopened mail – so I could enjoy a little one-on-one time with each child while the other one was being shorn, and wouldn’t you know, they both got seated in a styling chair at the same time. So I glanced through the fall trends of a magazine instead. A few paragraphs into the cover article, and I was immediately reminded why I let my past subscriptions lapse: I’m embarrassed by my own gender.

Of course a magazine isn’t to blame for the embarrassment – it only reflects the times. And oh, these times. So many women celebrating the discovery that they have a voice, but they haven’t figured out what they’re trying to say. Millennials acknowledging that yes, they have a body, and they’re proud of it, and – oh, look! – they’re posting pictures because it’s empowering, but empowering them to do what? Wear a bikini? Cool. Anything useful, though? Do they have the power to end toxic behaviors or break disordered habits? Moms my age deadlifting like a boss, celebrating muscle because it shows their strength, but they’re not strong enough to show up in the gym or anywhere else without false eyelashes, full makeup, and cosmetic surgery. Middle-aged women are pleased with expressing themselves as a contribution to society, but their contribution rarely has much benefit other than garnering applause, and I wonder, if they received no attention for their contribution, how quickly would they express their displeasure?

There are many conversations being had, with people ‘joining the conversation’ and whatever, and everyone seems to have a strong opinion with dislikes that trigger them and likes that suit them, and these preferences seem to make saying the same 8 buzzwords about the same 3 topics very exciting, but no matter the word choice, the message is clearly, “Me. More.” The communicators are attractive and privileged, revered as authorities on authenticity (behind the guise of contouring and spanx, or manscaped beards and expensive suits) and they speak of ideals without understanding the ideas behind them, without any clue which weak ideals we’d need to strengthen right now in order to build a perfectly impartial world. Everyone’s talking, but nothing being said has any utility. It’s a just tangle of prophets with unprofitable declarations, valued quotes without value, and many (so many) words without wisdom.

But no need to despair. Wisdom is still alive and well, because here’s the truth about wisdom: it has a subtlety to it. It clearly communicates without speaking a word. Wisdom understands that being fair, staying disciplined, and doing what’s right is more useful than talking about it.

When the wisest man in the world wrote Proverbs, it wasn’t to highlight his opinions or exercise his privilege. He shared his wealth of wisdom so that anyone could enjoy dignity and honor, and he did it radically…by personifying wisdom as a woman. It seems equity is alive and well, too.

And I can’t help but smile because I’ve known and I know women who personify wisdom. They are single moms proudly putting food on the table, regardless the size of their paycheck. They’re former victims who’ve learned to cope, heal, and grow, and they’re ending the cycle of abuse by looking out for vulnerable girls in their neighborhoods. They’re women whose bodies have been weakened by cancer or disability and they aren’t strong enough to lift their own legs most days, but they’ve lifted their chins with resolve and they are leading and loving with tenacity. They are grandmas raising grandkids and hardworking women who are respected because they deserve it, not because they demand it. They are women encouraging their friends, wives supporting husbands who want to go back to school, and marathon runners who don’t run from difficult discussions with their children. These women are comfortable in their own skin, comfortable with making tough choices, and comfortable with being sincere. They understand that patience builds peace, self-respect nurtures love, and outrage is most often a mask for unchecked self-centeredness. They’re not grabbing for privilege, they’re gripping dignity and they’re keeping composure instead of folding like a lawn chair every time they don’t get their way. It’s an honor to know these women, and I’m equally thankful for the good men who adore and applaud them – because I know full well there are many.

Men and women of wisdom, much love to you. You aren’t busy defining yourselves – you’re letting the distinct features of wisdom classify you instead. You know how to stand together and you know how to confidently stand alone. If I could put you on a magazine cover, I would, but just know that I see you, my children see you, and we are learning wisdom from you, so carry on in your subtle teaching.

Please and thank you.

Thanks for sharing:

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