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Last week I told my email friends about the way I set my intentions each week. I don't call it goal-setting because I'm a recovering perfectionist and I tend to beat myself up if I don't "achieve" the things I've committed to as goals, and beating oneself up is neither healthy or productive.Read More
When I was in fourth grade, I told my teacher that I wanted to be switched into a different class because he wasn't serious enough about fractions. Basically, I've always had sky-high expectations and I'm a bit of an intense person. Also, I like to do things my own way, on my own terms, even when my terms don't make any sense.Read More
There's so much information on the internet about essential oils and most of it is conflicting, right? What's a concerned mama to believe?Read More
Do you remember when Pinterest was born? I do, because I remember thinking "I basically invented this." I mean, I didn't understand the internet or social sharing or anything like that, but the concept was there, taking up all my disk space.Read More
I blindly grab for my cell phone, making contact with the snooze option for the fourth time. Eyes still closed, I work up my best personal pep talk. It's going to be worth it. You're not that late. Do it for the kids, at least. Wait, isn't it your turn to greet this week?
An hour and a half later, we come quick-stepping through the church doors; bags and babies and coffee in tow. Exhausted before it's even begun. The hallways are silent; everyone else is already tucked away in the auditorium. The music tells me that worship has already started. Of course it has.
I offer a helpless shrug and an exhausted apology when we shuffle in late. Plopping down in a chair, I meet the eyes of the other tired mamas who just ran that same Sunday morning marathon alongside me. We exchange wobbly smiles and silent encouragement.These are my people.
I never really want to go to church. I just don't. I crave lazy Sundays with big breakfasts in our jammies. I don't like sitting in the bathroom to nurse the baby or apologizing for my toddler's very public meltdown. I like quiet and cozy and real and deep, and church is not any of those things for me.
I have a lot of big, weird feelings about church in general, too: some frustration, some hurt maybe. And I just don't really know where I fit in the whole thing of it - as a woman, as a young adult with radical notions about everything from politics to food, as a mom of little kids who are neither quiet or still. What is my role here? I will die if you tell me my place is in children's ministry.
A year or two ago, I would have said Let's just do home church. I'll make the coffee, you bring the gluten-free doughnuts; we'll turn the kids loose in the playroom, break out our Bible app, and talk about grace + politics + what a radical Jesus was. (To be honest, I still kind of want to. My house or yours?)
It took me awhile to reclaim church. Maybe you're wandering in that wilderness, too. Perhaps you aren't sure how church fits into your life in this season of career-launching and child-rearing. Or maybe you're lugging around some baggage that you definitely don't want to spill out in front of religious people, so you're avoiding the place altogether, busy or not.
I hear you.
I hear that you don't trust the people behind the audacious building programs or the rock-concert worship or the $5 lattes in the lobby. I hear that you love Jesus but His people exasperate you. I hear that you are lonely, and I hear that you think you're supposed to be because somehow, God made that your burden. I hear that you loathe giving up your Sunday morning for a few hours at a holy country club when you really just long for the nearness of Jesus and someone to share it with. I hear you, sister, because I'm sitting right beside you, out here in the vast wilderness of Who am I And Where do I Fit?
Can I tell you that there is hope? Can I tell you that Jesus loves His church even when she's arrogant and selfish? Can I tell you that you need Church, in any of the thousands of ways she exists? Can you tell it back to me? Because I'm desperate to hear it.
There is a holy rumble underfoot. Can't you feel it? The Kingdom is already coming; its showing up a little bit more every day.
Some people would have us believe that the world is going up in a blaze of sinful deeds. I choose to believe that we are feeling the final contractions of a long labor; a new iteration of the Church is being born.
This kind of growth has been happening for all of history; Every 500 years or so, the church contracts and then expands into something bigger, bolder, and more close to completion.
This is where we are at today, I think; in the transition phase of bringing this new thing to life. Any woman who has ever birthed a child can attest that transition is the most intense phase of labor, both physically and mentally exhausting. It's arduous work, this bearing of new life. But there isn't a mother anywhere who would tell you that she regrets her children.
We are the church, you and I. You cannot bail on church anymore than you can bail on your own personhood. You can stop attending the event, sure. But you're still a part of this ancient-future community of ragamuffin disciples journeying towards Home.
We've hit a hard stretch in the journey. It's hot out here and the water is running out and the leadership seems questionable at this point.
Stay the course.
The day is coming when the old, makeshift walls of a man-made Christian culture will come crumbling down. Like generations before us did, we'll sort through the mess, pick out the treasures, and build it back up again, bigger and more inclusive than before.
I want to be around for the rebuild. And I hope you will be, too.
When the real estate sign got jabbed down into the pebbly dirt at the end of our driveway, we knew it was time to really decide. We could stay or we could go, but which one was best? What was the Lord leading us into? Which choice would he have us make? He led us this far, but now he’s strangely quiet, expecting us to choose the next move.
The path diverges. Racing heart. Sweaty palms. Churning belly. Holy Spirit. Sure, we can take that dim road because Christ is our strength. But wait! I don’t want to go down that way. It looks scary and uncertain, this ribbon-thin trail through the trees. I can’t even see what’s around the bend. The paved path screams for our attention. Look! This way is clear and easy. Follow this road to the Ladder and then climb it all the way to the top and the world will be yours! Forget the Gospel Way, it’s much too narrow. And then a quiet, sure whisper: This world isn’t your home, dear one. Be not afraid.
We sit down at our rickety old kitchen table, catty corner from each other and with the baby in between us. The kids chatter and forks plink against plates, but our eyes meet, his and mine, and we silently agree to give ourselves some time before we have the hard conversation. To stay would mean continual housecleaning and interruptions on the spot, but we would still be in our own home. To go would mean becoming indefinite house guests. I wouldn’t choose either if the choice were mine alone. But God.
The Spirit fills every space around me until I can’t even get breath. The tension hums and crackles, power yet unleashed. A whispered, “Yes, Lord.” Air whooshes into my lungs. Tension snaps and ushers in powerful peace. I have space to breathe and move once more. I baby step down His untidy but certain trail. Trusting but not seeing. Over my shoulder, my own rose-lined pathway looks so promising, so easy. Covered in hidden thorns. Clutching faith to my chest I keep on walking, looking neither left nor right, choosing to step into the freedom of obedience. Until the path splits once more and I must make the decision all over again.
The opposite of control is not chaos.
Next steps are hard, aren’t they soul? For much of my life, I've spiritually scrambled to make sure that I was doing what God would want me to do – you know, making sure my next move is God’s will for my life. That’s what all the good church people said I should do, and so I tried. It seemed like a good, Christian thing to do. But do you know what that pious plan-making was disguised as? Control.
I had debilitating need to know every next step, and to be certain that it was the right one because a wrong step must mean that I’m not walking with God. I thought the opposite of control was chaos. I thought the opposite of right was wrong. I thought the opposite of sin was making the right choices. And so I clung tightly to my control, sought hard after rightness, and labored anxiously over every life choice I ever had to make, all in the good name of Jesus, of course.
Stop worrying about understanding God’s will
In all my wrestling with rightness, I never did get the upper hand on God. He is still a mystery to me. But I've learned to hold the mystery sacred. It's much like falling free and knowing that your parachute absolutely cannot, will not fail. It's all the fun and none of the anxiety, and it's something you can choose. Did you hear that? You can conquer spiritual anxiety by choosing to experience God rather than trying to understand it all.
It's really a matter of obedience, isn't it? Such an antiquated word; and I know, obey brings up all the feelings about free will and equality and empowerment, not to mention a slew of questions about hearing from God. Hear me out.
I have this definition of obedience that I sort of just arrived at one day. One day when I was anxious and agonizing and imagining that God was probably so disappointed in me because I couldn’t figure out what he wanted me to do next. There was no voice, no pillar of light, no burning bush. How can you obey when you aren’t given a command?
Because, quite simply and also not simply at all, obedience is acknowledging the promises of God, and then living like you really believe them.
All of this pandering, this wandering, this searching for a smoke signal from the heavens, it’s really just fear isn’t it? It’s really just the fear of making a wrong choice, of disappointing God, of being judged by your people for it. Isn’t that what you feel, right there in the center of your chest, just behind the gold cross you wear around your neck? Oh girl, please know this truth: That cross was for your freedom. You are loved so tenderly, so fiercely. You are no disappointment to God. He’s not sitting in the heavens with a stubbed pencil and a tally sheet, putt-putt style, marking down your inadequacies. He’s a much sweeter father than that. Just look at all he promised you.
Trust yourself as much as you trust God
It's kind of easy to trust God; because then, as long as you don't hear from him, you don't have to actually do anything. You can say that you are waiting on the Lord, that you are praying about things, that you are sure his timing will be perfect. You can convince yourself (and sometimes everyone else) this way that you are good and obedient and faithful. But you still haven't done anything; you haven't even moved. I know nothing about this, of course.
Its much harder to trust in your own self, because then all of the potential for failure and blame rides on your own self's shoulders. If I call the shot, then I can't point to God and shrug my shoulders when things go south because this was all his idea and who am I to question God.
Failure is the mouse that morphs into a lion in the shadows of my mind. And the lion is hungry, always roaming around looking for what he can devour; crumbs just won't do. The lion wants meat. Substance. The weighty satisfaction of consuming real nourishment.
Our souls are a bit like lions then, aren't they? Hungry for wholesome bites, we wander about tasting a bit of this and a morsel of that, looking for that one thing that satisfies. What on earth am I here for? Maybe the lion is always hungry because we are always feeding her crumbs. Maybe we're always anxious, frazzled, worn because we're working so hard to reach a finish line that was never ours to gain.
Trust yourself. Trust his spirit within you. Stop wavering. Stop wandering. Make a choice. Take a step. Then take another one. Step back and go left a bit. Then another step. And then another. Keep going.
Do the next right thing in love
Every Thursday morning, I wake up extra early. Sip my coffee, write some words, read the Word. Before my babies open their sleepy eyes, I'm in the garden cutting collards and arugula, plucking turnips and oranges. I wash and pack the veggies, cook the breakfast, check the email.
A few minutes of snuggles and then we're out the door for the preschool program with our favorite librarian. Stories and crafts and goldfish for the letter G, then its home for lunch and rest time. In the afternoon, I load the car with kids and vegetables and we deliver our grown-with-love food to the customers who believe in this dream with us. Cook supper, finish barn chores, bathe my babies, kiss my hubby, and we all fall into bed tired but content.
For a long time, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be doing with my life. Where was the purpose, the meaning? What does God want from me? Surely it's not wiping noses and bottoms and skipping daily showers forever and ever amen. Surely there's a reason I'm obsessed with food and poverty and kids and business and creativity and women. Surely I'm not supposed to feel so torn in two between the right now days and the someday days.
And now, somehow, after lots of wandering in the wilderness but no pillar of light, I feel purposeful. Not like I have my life figured out, but like I'm just getting on with the task in front of me. Maybe that's all God ever asks of us, to just get on with the work that's right there. Perhaps obedience is just doing the next right thing, and then the next one. Could it be that God's will is simply for us to cut away the parachute chords and free-fall right into Him? This is faith; just trusting and stepping and sometimes jumping into the next right thing.
What decision have you been putting off? What dream have you avoided? What next right step will you take?
I bet it will be the right one.