Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

faith & spirituality

When I let you enter my mess

I crawled back under the covers as the first of a waterfall of tears spilled out of my eyes and onto my face. I had woken up several hours earlier unready, unwilling, to face the day, but the kids were awake and moving throughout the house and sometimes they just need a little supervision to keep the fighting at bay, so I had gotten out of bed, made coffee, eaten breakfast and now here I was back in bed before it was time to walk to the bus stop.

The night before, I’d cried a bucket of tears, releasing all the feelings I’d invited to a party I didn’t know I was hosting. For several days, I’d felt everything, or close to everything, a person can feel: anxious, afraid, jealous, disconnected, insecure, unwanted, unloved, incapable, frustrated and well, all of it. That night, I just had to let it out and the next morning, I needed a moment to keep letting those feelings out.

“God,” I whispered through the tears. “I can’t do this. I can’t get out of this pit by myself. I need help. I need You.”

(I’ve never been diagnosed with depression or anxiety, partly because doctors’ offices bring out the liar in me and mostly because neither are frequent or debilitating. Diagnosed or not, I think we all deal with these in mild form in some way or another, but I believe medication can help some people and I believe others don’t need it. I’d group myself in the latter.)

I pray this way sometimes. God, get me out of this mess. God, help me change. God, I can’t do it. And sometimes I expect a quick change and it doesn’t come and other times I expect nothing to change immediately except that I’ll have had a good cry and voiced my needs and can stumble through the rest of my day.

That morning, I didn’t know what to expect. Aside from getting my daughter to the bus and my husband to work, I had no plans, so I could wallow in my mood all day if I wanted. But when the words and tears came out, I felt the sadness leave, too. At the same time, my mind began composing words and thoughts, some of which you’re reading now. I was writing in my mind–I’m almost always writing even when I’m not parked at the computer–and I was being soothed in the process.

I got out of bed, dressed and completed the morning’s errands.

Where my mind had been clouded before, there was now clarity. And peace. And though the circumstances that brought on the anxiety and depression hadn’t changed, I had changed. I still carried a lingering sadness but it wasn’t overwhelming.

This is what it’s like inside my head some days.

—

Why do I tell you this?

To be honest, I have no idea, except that I don’t want you to think that what I write here is the work of someone who has it “all together.” I would hate for you to read these posts and think that I’ve arrived or that I’m better than you or that I can’t relate to your struggles.

I don’t know if that happens when you read this blog, but I know it happens when I read other people’s blogs and books.

Which is why I was deeply moved by this series on the Momastery blog recently. The Sacred Scared invited a handful of people who are speakers, bloggers, writers, and kingdom builders to share their fears to prove that no one has to be perfect to show up and do the important work. Many of the women who shared are writers I admire. And all of them–all.of.them–shared a fear that I can relate to. Insecurity, body image, social settings, how ministry will affect my kids. And in the sharing, they are no less inspiring.

Through them, I see that God is not waiting for the “perfect” or “all together” or “right” people to do the work. He wants what I’ve got. Even if it’s a mess.

—

If you walked in my house today, the smells of last night’s homemade cheeseburger mac would greet you. Our back door, the door we always use, opens into the kitchen and I’m never caught up on dishes. By the time dinner is over, I have no more energy to clean so I always leave the dishes till the next day. (Our dishwasher’s name is Lisa and she easily tires of housework.)

mess house

If you made it past the toys scattering the floor into the dining room, you’d likely step over more toys the kids had pulled out in the 15 minutes a day they’re together to play. (Seriously, how does it happen so fast?) You’d see unpacked boxes (we moved here in July) and random papers strewn across the coffee table. You might crunch a fish-shaped cracker or notice crumbs in the carpet.

Look too closely and you’ll find dust in the corners and on the electronics. If you came today, the bathroom might still be clean from a recent scrubbing. But I wouldn’t let you in to either bedroom for the piles of laundry that might greet you.

It’s safe to tell you this on the Internet because you can’t see it or smell it for yourself. And all of that mess is one reason I’m reluctant to have people over.

I’m embarrassed that my house isn’t clean, that my dishes are dirty, that we’re not completely unpacked from a move that happened more than six months ago.

But I’m beginning to wonder if being embarrassed by the internal state of my house says less about me and more about what I think of other people.

Do I think they’re going to judge me? Or not want to come over? Or be disgusted by it? Do I worry that I’ll look like I don’t have it all together? Will they think me lazy because I can’t spend hours every day cleaning my house? Will they think I’m a bad parent?

I do not judge a friend by the state of their house. At least I don’t think I do. Chances are if I come over, they’ve cleaned ahead of time. I know how this works. In the 10 or 15 minutes prior to arrival, there is a mad scurry of cleaning that accomplishes more than a day’s worth of housework. Never do I “drop in” on someone’s everyday mess because I know how I would feel if that happened to me.

And yet. We want our house to be a place where people can come. We want to have people over. And we have neglected this vital part of our life because … I don’t even know anymore.

—

So, maybe if I let you see the mess inside my head, I can let you see the mess inside my house. The truth is: life is messy. And sometimes I think I’m a mess, too.

But as the Momastery founder once shared: “You are not a mess. You are a feeling person in a messy world.”

That changes everything for me.

I have a lot of feelings. And life is messy.

And it’s messy for all of us.

And I need to let you in.

Why the Gospel isn't a sales pitch

I sat on the porch soaking in the warmish temperatures while the kids rode their bikes back and forth, back and forth. It was the best we could do the last weekend of February, and we desperately needed relief from cabin fever.

Patches of grass peeked through the mounds of snow, a sight we thought we might not see again until the calendar officially said “spring.” With my nose in a book, I barely noticed the cars passing by. We live on a busy-ish street on a lane that accesses a business behind our house, so traffic is normal.

A van with a glaring advertisement on the side whipped into our lane and parked. The driver hopped out and immediately began shouting at me about the delicious meat they were selling and how they’d just struck a deal with a Mr. Frank down the street and do we eat beef and would I be interested in seeing some steaks? megaphone

My protests went unheard as a second man got out of the van. They opened the back and each lifted a box of meat. I watched amused as they tried to find a way to the porch that didn’t involve walking through a yard full of snow. To their credit, they forged ahead, making witty comments about the snow.

They dropped two boxes on the porch while I sat on the glider, still holding my book open while the kids stood frozen in place. The second man introduced himself while the first man retreated to the van and made calls on his cell phone. I shook his hand but didn’t offer my name because I didn’t want this to get personal.

He handed me a brochure and said to not worry about the prices because he was like Monty Hall. (Would someone my age even know who Monty Hall  is? He’s lucky I watched a lot of old game shows as a kid.) Then he made me promise that if we made a deal I wouldn’t tell my neighbors what I paid for this delicious meat.

He opened a box of steaks and showed me the color of them, told me how his “lady” makes meatloaf out of the burgers but he just cooks burgers because he’s lazy in the kitchen. He pointed out the date the steaks were packed and slammed grocery stores for their labeling practices. He used the words “all natural” numerous times, as if to convince me of the meat’s quality. The same meat that was riding around in the back of a van.

He asked if we had an extra freezer and while we do, it doesn’t work right now so I told him “no.” He offered me one for free.

When he finished his presentation, he asked how the meat looked, and while I couldn’t deny the pleasing appearance of the beef, we honestly don’t have the money to buy a freezer full of meat right now. I told him so. He looked insulted. “You mean if I sell you $300 worth of meat for $150, you can’t help me out?” No, I couldn’t. $150 pays the bills right now.

He packed up his boxes, called his associate over, and they tromped through the snow with one open box of beef and an unopened box of chicken. They offered a half-hearted “have a good day” as they left.

I breathed a sigh of relief and told my kids that if anyone ever approached them like that and I wasn’t outside that they needed to come get me. Right away. I didn’t want to scare them because I don’t believe life should be lived in fear, but I wanted them to know that not everyone who seems friendly is friendly.

—

Sometimes, I think we try to sell the Gospel like this.

We look around us at the people in our path, and we try to find a willing victim customer. There, that person’s not wearing a cross or I’ve seen them working in the yard on Sundays or I’ve heard them swear. They need Jesus, and I have Jesus, so I will offer them the best gift ever.

I agree that people need Jesus. I do. Every day. That hasn’t stopped because I call myself a Christian. I still do un-Christian things and rely on the grace of His love and another day.

And I agree that we have good news to tell people. It’s the best news there is. But somewhere along the way, it’s become more like a sales pitch.

We barge into someone’s space and plunk down a box of good news. We open it up and ask leading questions that have them nodding. We’re slick and polished, but we’re also in a hurry because the world is dying and we’ve got to sell this Gospel before it all goes to hell.

We make promises God can’t keep.

And we walk away stunned when our offer is rejected.

Why wouldn’t someone want this good news?

—

The hard part is that I don’t have any answers. I have no earthly idea why some people choose Jesus and some people don’t. And I have no idea the best way to share this good news so that people will respond.

What I do know is that I wouldn’t buy steak from a guy in a van unless I knew personally someone else who had. And I wouldn’t spend what I didn’t have. The truth is, if I’d had the money to buy the meat, I still would have had to get our freezer fixed to make room for it. That doesn’t mean I don’t like meat or don’t want a deal. It just means I have some business to take care of first.

Maybe that’s how it is with the Gospel.

For some, maybe there’s some business to take care of first. Maybe they’ll ask around and find others they trust who know this Jesus. Maybe nothing will ever convince them that the news is actually as good as it sounds.

Maybe instead of trying to sell strangers a box of steaks, we need to take it slow. Get to know them. Let them see how we live. Grill out and let them smell the steak cooking over hot coals. Invite them over for a meal, without any thought to whether they’ll buy the meat we’re so ecstatic about, just because we think they matter.

Maybe we leave people with love, instead of fear.

Because I’d hate for someone to have to tell their kids not to talk to me because I tried to sell them Jesus.

—

Jesus got my attention when I was 19 and brokenhearted. Lonely. Miserable. I was looking for Him but was too afraid to tell anyone or ask if they knew the way.

He broke through those fears with a whisper in my heart I was sure everyone in the room could hear.

All that matters is what I think of you.

I didn’t answer an altar call. In fact, in the years that followed that internal decision to live for Him, I felt guilty that I hadn’t ever walked an aisle and publicly proclaimed my conversion. I was baptized, yes, but it was not in a church. It happened in a pond and I was surrounded by family and a few close friends. I don’t have a certificate to prove it. Maybe by some standards my conversion is invalid, but I’ve felt the changes over time. I’ve heard His voice, felt His leading, and when I look back on the journey, not once did Jesus ever sell Himself to me.

He simply said, Come. Let’s walk.

And I did.