What Happened After the Prayer

One week into taking this thing seriously: I'm purging the house. Before you think I'm getting bogged down in minutia: I assure you, this is just a logical Step One. A physical cleaning out that mirrors what's happening in my heart, if you'll humor me. Mostly, this home's gotta lose some junk before it finds another kid. So after dropping the boys at school a few days ago, I burst in through the front door, slamming it into the door of our coat closet, which was open. Because this is where we keep our dvds, several popped out and clattered to the floor. My husband was innocently standing there, pulling on his coat (One of SIXTEEN coats! I counted.), about to head to work. I noted the wayward movies.

"Those are dead to me!!" I told Willie with crazy eyes.

"Okey doke." He slipped out the front door, making a mental note to have me committed before grabbing some take-out for dinner.

 I discovered that I own enough scarves to fill a 12-gallon plastic tub.

Nothing goes to Goodwill (not that there's anything wrong with that). Everything goes to a person with a face.

Passages that have stuck with me this week:

Saying "I meant well" is not going to cut it. Not with God screaming, begging, pleading, urging us to love mercy and justice, to feed the poor and the orphaned, to care for the last and least in nearly every book of the Bible. It will not be enough one day to stand before Jesus and say, "Oh? Were you serious about all that?" --Jen Hatmaker

We cannot think our way into a new kind of living. We must live our way into a new kind of thinking. --Richard Rohr

It's easy to visit the bottom with works while our hearts remain higher up. That's just charity. It's a moment, not a permanent relocation. It is something entirely different to adopt the mind of Christ. --Jen Hatmaker (I hate you, Jen Hatmaker.)

If anyone serves Me, he must follow Me. Where I am, there My servant also will be. --Jesus

Today I tried to explain my changing state of mind to an old friend. I didn't do a very good job.

Her first question: Are your hormones maybe out of whack?

Yeah, I know right? I sound crazy to me, too. News flash, guys: this is why I've always struggled to share my faith. The moment I open my mouth, I sound tragically inauthentic. I have a youth's worth of ammunition to regurgitate from sermons, devos, and weekend retreats, and not once in my life have I actually, literally stepped out in faith. I would shame Abraham, shame Moses, shame those first precious and curious disciples, as I have never once found the courage to just GO. This is not just my story. It's the story of everyone, everywhere, for as long as God has been beating his head against the wall attempting to communicate with humans beings. People: screwing up the world since Forever, B.C. Here's a summation of the last five or so years of my life, since I started really talking to God:

Me: God, I know now beyond all doubt that you are real. I know that I never want to be far from you again. So, what's next?
God: Go into the world. Make disciples. Feed my sheep.
Me: Okay, so I'm reading the Bible here, and I'm trying to figure out what this means for my life. I'm noticing a lot of confusing talk about sheep and goats and cutting off offensive hands and bridegrooms and light. What the crap, God. How is this relevant today? Maybe if you dropped a homeless person or orphaned child on my doorstep, I would feel a little more comfortable with your directives. Possibly a sign through The Husband? Maybe you could direct him to take a new job across the country. Whatever you think is best.
God: Go into the world. Make disciples. Feed my sheep.
Me: Still waiting for a sign over here, God. Whatevs. No rush. Your timing is perfect......by the way, what should I think about this Phil Roberston thing? And about hell--is that still a real thing? Cause I've been spending a lot of time reading Rob Bell....
God: You're really killing me.

The thing is, I love Andrew Peterson. (Yes, that's right, Andrew Peterson. You are to blame for all of this.) I love his music, his stories. They conjure images of peace and serenity and communion with God and all things pastoral. They make me want to move to the end of a lane and name my house something cute like Little Fergus and string a clothesline between the two maple trees my kids will spend their days climbing. There I will spend my days basking in the breeze and listening to Andrew Peterson (duh) while I make bread and find perfect harmony with God through the work of my hands. It's a vision I can grasp. If I opened my Bible and felt this directive or saw a door open in that direction, I would SOBETHERE in heartbeat. I can see myself there now, swinging in my hammock.

And these days, I can see me being restless there in the shade of the maples at ye olde Little Fergus.

It's in my bones, at this very moment, to humble myself, become uncomfortable, dirty, low. To maybe see the face of Jesus clearly for the first time in recent memory.

My answer to my friend was this: I have different levels of emotional response to what's happening to me, it's true. And that may be a result of my hormones. But what's happening in my core isn't changing.

As soon as she walked out the door, I rushed to the computer to change my blog tagline from: Irrational. Reckless. Deranged. Faith. (Heroic!) to: Painful. Stumbling. Awkward. Obedience. (Lame. And accurate.) If one thing is certain, it's that my life is just drab and inconsistent enough for God to be thoroughly glorified through it.

Hello, my name is Crystal, and I am a mess.