One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

Routine, Challenge, and a Prayer for Lent

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During my late twenties and early thirties, I worked at a gym. It was a fantastic job for me, particularly at that time in my life. My kids were small and leaving them with my husband a few times a week so I could have grown up conversation and make a little money was a nice break.

I worked a set schedule every week, so it didn’t take long to learn the routines of our members. On Monday mornings, I knew the arrogant swim coach would be standing at the door waiting for me to open the club. On Wednesday evenings, after 6 o’clock, the effervescent sleep doctor would smile his way in, all kindness and gratitude. On Fridays, the basketball boys would come in, as would the woman who always read a new library book on the recumbent bike for exactly 30 minutes.

Humans are creatures of habit. I learned this in motherhood, first and foremost, but seven years working at a gym reinforced this lesson all the more.

But as much as we humans like our routines, we also like a challenge. The annual challenge the gym hosted was more popular than the first two weeks of January, when resolution makers would pour in, pump iron in quantities beyond their capabilities, and then fizzle out. Why? Because the challenge was well-defined, short term, and with a little extra effort, it was achievable. Do the specified activity for a set number of days and you win the right to say you did the specified activity for a set number of days.

Routine is good for us. Challenges are good for us.

The season of Lent blends both, giving our souls 40 days to reset. We may slow down our faith routines or change them, or we may challenge ourselves to go without something so we can stretch our understanding of who God is and how to trust Him more. Lent is a challenge with more benefit than bragging rights. Because when I reflect on the love of Christ’s sacrifice and the hope of His resurrection, one thing becomes perfectly clear: the gospel is indeed Good News. I can’t sit still on it and do nothing. I have to respond with faith that moves, trusts, and shares. Always a challenge.

That’s where I’m at this season. I’m not wildly disobedient and I’m guessing you aren’t either, but sometimes my faith is tepid. Hesitant. I sit still too long, get stuck reflecting rather than moving. When I’m challenged to trust and take action, I want to accept that challenge every single time. So this is my prayer for Lent 2021:

“Lord, remind me You are enough. Remind me all You provide is enough. And remind me I am enough for the purposes You have planned for me.”

During Lent, we’ll take a look at the reasons why we sit still, the challenges that prevent our faith from moving, and ways to overcome these obstacles so we can live like we believe Christ’s love and salvation really are as extravagant as we say they are.

 

What routine or challenge have you committed to for Lent this year? Share it in the comments. And as always, One More Truth is for everyone, so if a post resonates, share it freely!

Saying ‘Yes’ & Occasionally Feeling Like a Failure

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When I was asked to facilitate a recovery support group at the crisis center where I work and volunteer, I hesitated. My life was full and confusing already. I said ‘yes’ anyway.

The first week, COVID was paying my home an uninvited visit, so I facilitated the group over Zoom. I introduced myself and then asked the masked faces to introduce themselves. Nothing. Undeterred, I dove right into the first step of recovery and the supporting verses from the curriculum. Nothing. Thinking the audio might be an issue, I resorted to writing key words on separate sheets of paper, holding each sheet up to the tiny lens on my laptop.

Blank stares.

I wanted to believe the disconnect was caused by Zoom screens, my congested voice, or possibly, my illegible handwriting, but before that long hour ended, I’d figured out the reason behind the uncomfortable silence – every woman in the group spoke Spanish. Most of them knew a little English and some knew as much English as I knew Spanish.

I’d committed to facilitate the group under the assumption it would be effortless, but it would not be effortless after all. The leader’s guide had acronyms for English words – useless. The tabbed and organized supplemental material stuffed in a binder thick enough to stop a speeding bullet – useless. My conversational style of teaching that includes one question every five minutes – useless. The French I’d learned in high school, because I guess I thought I’d be spending large portions of my adult life in France – useless.

I’d need to employ small words and concepts, big gestures and facial expressions (with a mask on, Lord help me). I’d need the woman in the group with the best English to be a translator. I’d need the Spanish leader’s guide so I could write out acronyms that would actually benefit the women attending. All of this would burn far more mental calories than I had to spare. But when the center manager asked if I’d please give it a try, I said ‘yes’.

Again.

I’m a hopeful person.

I’m also a glutton for trying new things.

I’m also, like any normal person, highly motivated by positive outcomes.

Not sure what I thought these positive outcomes might be, but they did not include having my limits and weaknesses on display week after week while standing with a smile, a dry erase marker, and an infantile Spanish vocabulary. I love my ladies, let me make that clear. But I’m better suited for ‘jump in, jump out, move on’ kinds of things. At the very least, I’m better suited for work that doesn’t make me feel like a failure.

Nope. Not God’s plan. Instead, He places me in long game work where I can practice the plodding of diligence. I’m not the plodding type, but I value diligence, so last week, I prayed while driving, “Lord, I’m showing up in body with a little bit of heart. Please fill in the rest.” (And then I counted the remaining chapters in the leader’s guide next to me. Two more weeks of plodding.)

Ironically, grace was the week’s topic. It was a surprisingly easy topic to teach with only a body and a little bit of heart. We looked up verses that define grace (they looked up verses that define gracia) and I wrote the definitions on the markerboard.

Grace = not earned

Grace = paid by Christ

Grace = unending

I could have written, ‘Grace = Lord, please fill in the rest’, but I wasn’t sure it’d translate.

The discussion wasn’t electric by any means, but we were getting somewhere. Then my translator, a big-hearted woman who leaks joy, said, “God’s grace is…uhhhh,” she paused to find the English words. “Too much love!”

Too much love: the remedy for a lost perspective. Such good words to rally the wandering pieces of my fragmented soul.

When I live like God’s love is too much for me, I see diligence through the lens of hope. I see that plodding work is really planting work – and I’m grateful to do it. My work is obedience and God works the outcomes. In my weakness or strength (but especially in my weakness), I give Him my best and He makes it good.

I’m prepared for the lesson this week. Ironically, it’s about Gratitude. I’m sure I’ll butcher the Spanish language on accident, but I’m sure I’ll also hear some incredible stories and a beautiful prayer or two from the ladies. They call me ‘teacher’. Mmmmm…too much love.

 

 

 

 

5. Reflect

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Nine years ago this week, my children and I hopped on a plane and moved across the country. The sunrise was incredibly bright through those long airport windows that morning. The kids shared a bag of powdered donuts as we waited, each of us with our own emotions. I’d moved before, big moves from one state to another. The mix of expectation and uncertainty were familiar for me and I did as I’d done as a kid – did the only thing I could think to do in order to survive and not crumble into messy bits of fear and sadness – I thought about the good stuff and ignored the bad. Some parts were easy to ignore, like leaving a house behind. A new one was waiting. But other things had to be stuffed, like leaving my family and friends behind. When you choose change, you choose loss – that’s the exchange – and I knew that dealing with the losses would have its day. Like I said, I’d done this before.

A whole lot’s changed in nine years. My children have outgrown me in stature, so I look up more than I used to. I listen more than I used to. My children’s needs have changed and I still care for them, but differently. From a distance, I think. Independence grows when it has the room to grow. I still care about a clean house, but less. I still care what I look like, but less. And since these two preoccupations were obsessive once, I’m thankful for less in these matters. I will always be thankful.

The neighborhood has changed. The neighbors on all four sides of us are not the same families who welcomed us to the neighborhood. Mr. Mike, the older man with the Corvette, still waves when we round the corner, but he shakes a little now. The dad a few houses down used to play basketball with his preschoolers, now he plays basketball with his middle schoolers. And his hair is gray.

When we moved it was just a few neighborhoods, an orange grove, and a ten minute drive to a grocery store. We used to go out as a family after dinner, crawl up on huge beams of concrete stacked in the desert west of our house and watch the sunset, but then dirt pushers came in and paved roads. Houses sprouted up as far as the eye could see, covering the horizon. Shops, restaurants, and a Starbucks were built – all the things we were told would come, we just had to wait. So weird, waiting. It lasts forever and then one day, the wait is over. Expectation and uncertainty for months or years, and then one day, it all changes.

But nine years later, the eastern edge of my world remains the same. Lined by empty desert and an unobstructed view of the Superstition Mountains, I’ve biked and run countless miles on the road where those mountains stretch. I’ve watched the sun rise countless times out there, too, and I know the little crook where the sun peeks out in the winter and the high point where it pops in the summer.

I was out there yesterday evening. This morning. This afternoon. I can see those mountains with my eyes closed. Sometimes I think my insides are a broken compass that only points East, because I’m pulled to those mountains every time I can’t see clearly, or my heart is heavy, or my mind is full, or my body aches from loss or disappointment. I’m pulled to those mountains when the wild pony in me just wants to run, gasp for air, and hate it the whole time because it’s uncomfortable, but there’s no other way to feel the finish – to feel something. Endurance of the heart, of the mind, of the lungs. Each demands discipline, demands that life be drained so strength can grow.

Conversations about polarizing issues didn’t characterize this year for me, but I struggled through many a battle with polarized thinking. I woke up feeling defeated before my feet hit the floor some mornings. I often found myself believing that nothing can change in a day, because waiting is confusing like that. The girl with big faith and big hope – some days I didn’t recognize her.

But I always seem to find myself on that road lined by desert. Those mountains have heard all the chunks of my soul that have yet to be written. When I think of God, I see those mountains.

Every evening, there’s a window of only a few minutes when the mountains glow purple and orange at the same time, reflecting the last bits of sunlight before the day ends. I’ve seen that reflection more times this year than any other. It’s reminded me to stay composed and stay put, continue doing the hard stuff, because that is the good stuff, the stuff that matters. My life is only a reflection of His love; my faith a reflection of His faithfulness.

Step 5. Reflect. Reflect on who He is and who He made me to be, so I can reflect His love to others.

When I remember 2020, the ever-changing year of uncertainty and distance, I will choose to remember God’s faithfulness, because I have seen it. It just looked different. Sometimes, it looked like those mountains.

 

 

4. Respond

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A few years back, I ordered a trendy necklace that was nothing more than an engraved key on a simple chain. I ordered ‘TRUTH’, but when the key arrived, the word inscribed was ‘TRUST’. And I knew. Holding that key, I knew my endeavors in writing One More Truth had less to do with growing my understanding of truth, and everything to do with growing my trust in the One who is the Truth.

I’ve written at least a dozen drafts of this post. Some of them said what I needed to say. Some of them said what I needed to hear. I’m not satisfied until the page shows I’ve heard the truth, and by God’s grace, I’ve found the language to express it.

But what happens when I can’t hear the truth – when I can’t hear Him? What do I do when my questions don’t lead to answers? When it’s the middle of the night and the darkness is stirring every one of my fears, and I just want the comfort of a faith easily explained, how will I respond?

Will I demand the truth be wrangled into something palatable? Or will I trust?

Because the realm of faith is a mystery and I can cram all the knowledge, learning, and truth into my head, but at some point, I will be pressed to admit faith is not an explanation of all the answers, it is an invitation to come close to Jesus and experience Him. Faith is the distinction between mystery and confusion. I don’t have to know all the things to have faith; I have to know Jesus. If I know Him, that is enough. He is enough.

I think about Nicodemus, the teacher who came to Jesus in the middle of the night. He knew a lot, but he still had questions. “How?” he asked. That one word says so much – explain Your wisdom, explain the things that don’t make sense. Give me answers so I understand. Oh, the salvation of answers. Jesus says that’s not how faith works.

“Believe in Me,” He says.

Will I respond by believing before I understand?

I think about Peter, surrounded by darkness, fighting churning waters to come to Jesus, the One who says, “Do not be afraid. I am here.” Peter hears Him, sees Him, but the storm… Fears howl the loudest in the storm. Peter’s instincts are synced with a physical world, and everything he knows and all the forces he feels threaten to drown him inside and out, and only one prayer can do the undrowing. “Lord, save me!”

My understanding of a limitless God is limited – always will be – and yet He will continue inviting me to live in spiritual truth even though I can’t fully grasp it, even though adversity and uncertainty threaten to pull me under. Will I trust Him in the storms of crisis, loss, and pain? When there aren’t words to pray, in my weakness, will I sit with Jesus – the One who saves, the One who is there? Because that is faith enough.

True faith is a humbling experience.

Jesus smears mud on the eyes of a blind beggar – a baptism of living water and dust of the earth – and sight is restored. The beggar, once overlooked, becomes the center of attention and everyone wants to know the who, what, where, and how of the miracle and the Miracle Man. The man with fresh eyes admits he doesn’t know or understand the entire experience, all he knows is he was blind and now he can see. He knows God responds to worship and will – the two hands of trust, faith, and hope. He can’t explain the how, but he believes Jesus is who He says He is.

I confessed this series about having compassionate conversations would require the humility of working on oneself – on myself – but I’d be a fool to believe I can take credit for the work being done. Trust is my work. When I’m being asked questions I can’t answer, when I have questions of my own, when I know the Truth but can’t decipher the truths and lies of a broken world, will I feverishly pursue answers or will I persevere in the paradox of knowing Him and understanding little else?

Many are desperate to hear the right explanation, the real answers, the truth. But far more are desperate to see. When I don’t have the words, will I respond with confident hope in His power and promise? Will I live in the peace of understanding a fraction and trusting God with the rest?

My friend sends me a video of her little boys recreating the lessons of vacation Bible school. The older one says, “Trust Jesus”, and the younger one repeats it, and I watch – wistful and slightly jaded – as they repeat the words for a few rounds. Was it so simple once? I think about the many truths I’ve learned, the ways I’ve practiced truth by living it rather than explaining it. I think of my faith experiences and the times I was afraid, but knew Jesus was there. I think about the many times I’ve had to trust Him because there was nothing else I could do, and I remember His faithfulness over and over again. For what I’ve seen and what I can’t see, what I know and all I can’t know and may never know, the one truth most important is this: Trust Jesus.

Amen.

Step 4: Respond in truth by trusting the Truth.