The Actual Pastor | Living my life as is, instead of as if.

It’s Not a Competition

May 21, 2013 — 10 Comments

Confession: We use the “who can do it fastest” trick on our boys when we’re especially desperate for them to listen to us, because it’s hard wired into the male psyche to want to be first at everything. This is a proven fact.

“Guuu-uuys, I wonder who can be first to get their jaaaa-mmies on?!?”

Three elephants are suddenly thundering up the stairs, crashing into their rooms with socks and underwear flying in a blur of testosterone. Thirty seconds later, one of them is taunting, “I am the win-ner and you are the LOS-ERS,” followed by maniacal laughter.

Crying ensues, followed by an angry shout: “IT’S NOT A COMPETITION!!!”

It’s not a competition.

This is the white flag of surrender when you know you’re beaten. It’s a desperate plea for someone to change the rules, when you intuitively know the game is rigged and someone else will always win. We say this because we know that it actually is a competition, and we’ve lost.

Think of a time when you’ve felt less than. When you weren’t enough and didn’t measure up. What if we could stop and simply say, it’s not a competition? What if we actually said this at work, or at the gym, or ECFE, or any time a group of kids does artwork with their parents looking on, while comparing kids engaging in friendly banter?

It’s not a competition.

The thing is, we’d by lying, because it is a competition.

It’s a competition because you and I keep making it one.

I don’t know how to stop. One of my friends says that we all live our lives in a line, where we’re always looking ahead and feeling jealous of those who are in front of us, then looking behind and feeling superior over those who are behind us. And we like it that way, as long as we’re moving up. How else would we know if we’re enough?

I want out of the line. Someone needs to call a timeout, and make us all go back to our seats so we can play a different game.

Our friends Kyle and Megan are ninjas who make sure it’s not a competition. This is especially noteworthy because they’d win at most competitions. Kyle is a pastor whom everybody loves, and is the funniest person alive (sorry, Joel). Megan creates breathtaking art using mixed media, and she can write, and she balances one hell of a checkbook (it’s not a competition, it’s not a competition, it’s not a competition). Plus, their kids are freakishly talented and ridiculously good looking.

But when we’re with them, they fawn over us as though they’ve won some sort of prize just by being with us, even though one of us is screaming at the boys to GO BACK TO BED almost the entire night, and the other one has red-wine teeth, and we both start yawning at 9pm on a Friday night.

Their gift to us is that they can be as great as they are, but it doesn’t take anything away from how great we are. Their gifts don’t minimize our gifts. And our gifts don’t minimize theirs. They have the ability to say, “We’re great! And you’re great! And we’re even better together!”

It’s not a competition. Let’s wave the white flag of surrender, because we know we’re beaten. Let’s change the rules, let’s admit the game is rigged and everybody loses. Let’s say this because we know that it actually is a competition, and we’re not playing anymore.

The competition stops when I own my gifts and my limits, and when your gifts stop being translated as my deficits. It’s time for the white flag. It’s time to step out of the line.

It’s not a competition. Make this your breath prayer every time you feel like what you bring is less than, not enough, or that you didn’t measure up.

It’s only a competition if you choose to stay in the line.

As I walk out of the line, my wife’s wise words echo in my ears, softly falling on my shoulders like the day’s first sun:

I am good

I belong

I am called

Yes. Yes. Yes.

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In Spiritual Formation Belonging, comparing, competition, grace

From One Perfectionist Parent to Another

May 20, 2013 — 27 Comments

(This is my Daring Greatly Book Club, Week Seven – Chapter 7)

Perfectionism is a badge of honor in our culture. It’s the weakness that we’re proud to admit; like the answer, “Oh, I suppose I work too hard” when an interviewer wants me to identify a growing edge.

If the definition of perfectionism is “working hard until something is done right,” then it’s understandable why perfectionism is preferable as a weakness to, say… anything else.

I have never heard of a Perfectionists Anonymous meeting, but can you imagine how that might go?

“Hi, my name is Steve, and I’m a perfectionist (Hi Steve). This week I was on time to everything, my kids made their own lunches, I lost five pounds, and I’m going to give the best story of anyone in this room today.”

Brene Brown defines perfectionism very differently: “Perfectionism is not teaching them (your children) how to strive for excellence or be their best selves. Perfectionism is teaching them to value what other people think over what they think or how they feel. It’s teaching them to perform, please, and prove” (222).

Shame is fuel for the perfectionist. We drink it as a smoothie for breakfast, chop it up on our salad for lunch, and drink four glasses of it after dinner to wind down. Shame is the reminder that I’m not worthy of love and belonging as I actually am, so shame keeps me on the treadmill of trying hard and succeeding, ravenous for the approval of others. But shame is a merciless taskmaster. It motivates by whispering lies, and with every lie we believe, the fog gets thicker, and it gets harder to find our way home.

An evocative picture of shame is represented in The Two Towers, in the form of Grima Wormtongue, the slimy chief advisor to King Theoden of Rohan.

It is interesting to note how Gandalf treats Grima once he sees what has become of Theoden, who was a shell of himself after years of listening to Grima’s foul whispers. There is no compassion, only swift rebuke and action.

“The wise speak only of what they know, Grima son of Galmod. A witless worm you have become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man till the lightning falls.”

And with that, Grima is kicked out of the hall, and Theoden becomes whole once again.

I am a perfectionist, and I walk around in a fog of anxiety and insecurity that is almost paralyzing at times. Don’t be fooled by my charming and confident exterior. Preaching that you are loved and valued by God for free is one thing; living it is another.

After a recent bout of crippling shame, I reached out to some friends, and did what perfectionists don’t do, which is tell the truth of what was actually happening in my life, with no shading or hiding.

One of them texted me: “Shame is a liar; you’re a good man, and you, in this, will come forth as gold.”

Another emailed me what he sees in me; a long, truthful email that drove the lies back.

Another drove 30 miles to sit beside me before I preached last Saturday.

Another printed out the Daring Greatly manifesto, laminated it, and put it on my car with a note that made me cry.

And a group of my closest friends just listened to me for over an hour, as I poured out my shame recklessly but honestly, and as I struggled to make eye contact. But I knew I needed to say it more than I needed to appear perfect. I needed help. Perfectionists don’t ask for help.

I couldn’t talk myself out of this bout of shame, I needed some friends with the Spirit of Gandalf to kick it out.

Parents, this is really important work, because perfectionism is contagious. As Brene writes,

“In a dozen years of studying worthiness, I’m convinced that perfectionism is actually contagious. If we struggle with being, living, and looking absolutely perfect, we might as well line our children up and slip those little perfectionism straightjackets right over their heads” (221).

Yesterday, Mary and I took Isaac out to celebrate his sixth birthday. He loves Legos, and so we went to a coffee shop and sat with him while he finished building a set. Isaac can get frustrated and give up easily when he doesn’t know how to do something perfectly (sigh). But yesterday, we had fun together, and he finished building it. He did it by trying, failing a few times, asking for help, and getting encouraged by two people who think he’s the best six year old on the planet.

Building shame resilience is also contagious. We’re going to be okay, friends. We’re in it together. We’re going to parent our kids imperfectly and learn lots of things along the way. Let’s keep daring greatly. Remember, it is not the critic who counts…

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In Daring Greatly, Parenting parenting, shame resilience

Your Life is Your Curriculum

May 17, 2013 — 21 Comments

Everybody’s looking for a curriculum that will teach them how to live the life that’s really life.

So we write & buy books, we create elaborate life plans, we change our bodies, we change careers, we change families. We secretly read People Magazine, gazing and laughing and longing.

We change Everything. In search of Something.

What if your very own life, the one you actually live, is the curriculum that will most help you to become the beautiful, imperfect, integrated self that you long to become? All the shiny graduation moments alongside all the shameful secrets. All of it. What if the first step towards the life that’s really life, is to finally stop running?

To stop.

And to start embracing your life. The one you’re living, right now.

What if leaning all the way in to that life is what will most help you and heal you?

Leaning all the way in to your actual life is not accepting what is evil, or living with what is unacceptable. You begin things and end things. You make difficult decisions. Leaning into your life is owning your life. It’s not passive.

Owning your actual life means first that you embrace your story; the whole one with no shameful bald spot or gut wrenching regret left out. What if doing so creates a mosaic, that when put together and healed by God, becomes beautiful, and radiant? These people become a gentle, healing presence in the world. Honestly, more than making an impact or changing the world, what I most want to be is a gentle, healing presence.

Here’s the beautiful secret: Leaning into the curriculum of your actual life happens moment by moment; that’s all there is. And the more we learn to live our moments – not in some ridiculous carpe diem sort of way, which denies the pain of leaning into the incredibly difficult ones and just creates pressure – the more we understand that every moment is a beginning. The beautiful secret is that ours is a life of endless beginnings. And that’s what gives us grace when we inevitably reach for the thing that will take us out of the moment. Like waves rolling in, a new moment will crash on top of that moment, inviting us back to our actual lives, and they come with a single question: Will we live it?

Here is what Carlo Carretto writes, in Letters from the Desert:

“Joy or sadness, war or peace, love or hate, purity or impurity, charity or greed, all are tremendous realities which are the hinges of our interior life. Everyday things, relationships with other people, daily work, love of our family – all of these may breed saints.

Jesus at Nazareth taught us to live every hour of the day as saints. Every hour of the day is useful and may lead to divine inspiration, the will of the Father, the prayer of contemplation – holiness. Every hour of the day is holy. What matters is to live it as Jesus taught us.

And for this one does not have to shut oneself in a monastery or fix strange and inhumane regimes for one’s life. It is enough to accept the realities of life. Work is one of those realities; motherhood, the rearing of children, family life with all its obligations are others.”

What reality do you need to accept about your actual life? What gift of grace do you need to lean into it and live it?

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In Spiritual Formation Discipleship, Life plans, story

Accepting Your Season

May 16, 2013 — 27 Comments

In Minnesota, Spring came unacceptably late this year. Winter was like an odor in the walls which we couldn’t get rid of, and it evoked a kind of rage normally reserved for axe murderers and politicians.

None of us wanted to accept it. We Minnesotans are hardy and proud about the bone chilling, below zero days in January and February. In March, we laugh at Winter as it dumps inch after inch of snow on us, dusting off our flip flops and anxiously awaiting that first 50 degree day, where we’ll unveil our unsightly toes with pride and glee.

But it snowed in April. And May (which I believe is illegal in most states). So we just kept trudging through it, angrily snapping our overused ice scrapers over our knees, while mumbling through our scarves about God’s wrath and global warming gone horribly wrong.

We human beings have a hard time accepting the season in which we find ourselves, unless it’s 72 and sunny. We don’t like being out of control, and we don’t like it when things don’t go as they should. We don’t like being pruned, and we don’t like failure.

We prefer to see fruit on the trees of our lives, all the time.

But not all of life can be successful and fruitful. Sometimes we need to accept a season of pruning, defeats, and lessons learned the hard way.

What season of life are you in right now? Instead of fighting it, what might it look like to lean into it?

I recently made a difficult decision that has yet to work itself all out, but it seems to have been the wrong one. And it’s been costly. And all my usual questions have shown up – what if and why not and if only - and none those questions have helped. They have only swirled around me like an April snowstorm, piling more and more unwanted weight on ground that is already covered.

What if, right now, my season is one of pruning, of learning, and of leaning into the hard stuff? It sounds very sexy and spiritual formation-y to say that, but it’s so unbelievably, gut wrenchingly difficult, because I honestly just want it to be sunny again. It’s a battle to lean into a season of pruning so that more health, more life, more growth, can come… at some undetermined season in the future, which is coming much, much later than I’d hoped it would come.

Here’s what is helping me, as I mumble through my proverbial scarf, and trudge through this difficult season:

I am trying to ask, “God, what do you have for me, even in this?”
I am trying to spend as much time as possible with nourishing and life giving friends.
I am trying to make small choices which feel purposeful, which remind me that not everything is just happening to me in this season.

What season are you in right now? How can you lean into it and learn from it, as hard as it may be?

In Spiritual Formation failure, growing, learning

Everyday Human

May 15, 2013 — 8 Comments

by Mary Martin Wiens

(Every year, Mary gives a Mother’s Day Blessing at our church. Below is what she prepared for this year. I love this woman).

Last year, on Mother’s Day, I wrote a blessing to share with our community called “The House of God.” In the time following that, there was one line that seemed to want to live on in me and it was: “When you stand exposed by the limits of being human.” I knew that something more was there for me and for us. But, it first began to manifest itself as a question that tortured me, really. I kept asking myself, ”How do I stand up under the weight of affecting generations to come with my mistakes, successes, failures, my healed and not healed self?”

But then as time passed, the question changed. Thankfully, it became broader and gentler…I began to ask: When the work is deeply meaningful and we know we will not complete it or do it to perfection or do it like anyone else… how do we find the courage, hope, and energy to still walk into it? And from there I began to ask: What does God do when we encounter our limits and our fragility?

In the end, I realized just how very human it is to feel, at times, like life is asking of us more than we have and more than we are, to feel life is big and ourselves small in the face of it, to know that what is before us is important but to feel we can’t do it or aren’t doing it or that it is too hard. With that understanding came a deep desire simply to bless humanness.

I don’t have a complete answer to any of those questions I have been asking, but I want to share with you what I have heard in my deep heart as I have wrestled and listened. On Mother’s Day, especially, I am well aware that my words fall on a wide array of emotion from celebration to grief and every combination in between. Please know that no matter your story, your age, even your gender, no matter if the children you hold are in your heart, your arms, or the work of your hands, these words are aimed to bless the human heart. So, here they are like a letter to myself but also to you…

Repeat these words to yourself

I am good

I belong

I am called

Today, you can accept that

From beginning to end

We are all light and dark

Like those who went before you

And those who come after you

Everyday human

Not the whole picture, not the whole story,

and not meant to be

You were made to be one person

With something to contribute to the whole

And it is time

Time to own that you are here now

Own your gifts

Own your shadows

Your insecurity and maturity

Your true capacity

It’s expanse and it’s limits

Your place, because

No one else can be what you are here to be

So listen to me:

Take yourself off the hook

Do it now

The meat hook, the fish hook

Go back to the field, and back to the water

Get yourself out from under the microscope

Sit up, jump down, be moved to a spacious place

Leave the room where you sit under the jurors gaze

Stand up, walk out, return to your home

And arrive there hearing the voice of God saying:

“Just rest, daughter

Just rest, son

You are good

You belong

You are called

I am giving you all you need

To do the work I have for you

You don’t have to be enough

You don’t have to bring something for everyone

You just need to do what I am asking you to do

You are exactly who I need you to be

For the tasks that are yours

I am not afraid to watch you walk out your calling

Along this unfamiliar path

I will lead you gently

I will gather you in arms that can hold

Severity doesn’t serve

Knowing how is not your savior

Worry doesn’t guard the sacred future

Put down those heavy bricks

I will complete this

I am carrying this

All will be well”

And in answer you say the only thing you can say:

Here I am

I will give myself

I will do it as me

And you hear back what you most need to hear:

Here am I

Here I am

Yours and God’s simultaneous

And you will be able to say what you most need to say:

Children, I honor the life of God in you

Repeat these words with me

I am good, I belong, I am called

(And this is the video of Mary sharing this blessing. Watch it – her presence is powerful).

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In Guest Posts Belonging, limits, Mother's Day

Psalm 55: aka, Praying While Wishing Others Were Buried Alive

May 14, 2013 — Leave a comment

If Psalm 55 were a blog post, the comments would be merciless. The writer might be reported to the police. But this wasn’t a blog post; it was a desperate prayer from a king who was at the end of his rope.

It begins with honesty: “Hear me and answer me. My thoughts upset me. I’m very troubled.”

Prayer is a time to bring to God what actually is, where you reveal the unvarnished reality of your life. And sometimes, the reality is: I’m not doing well. My thoughts upset me. I’m very troubled.

In this Psalm, it’s as if David sensed that God leaned in, paid close attention. This gives David freedom to be even more honest. It turns out his opening lines were a bit too edited.

In verses 4-5, David gets very real and very dark:

“I feel great pain deep down inside of me. The terrors of death are crushing me. Fear and trembling have taken hold of me. Panic has overpowered me.”

If this were your friend, you’d be alarmed. You’d start offering ridiculous and unhelpful things just to stop the hemorrhaging. You’d start looking for the little button underneath the desk that calls in the experts.

In verses 6-7, David seems to be suicidal, or close to it…

Click here to read the rest of this post. I’m guest blogging today over at my friend Steph Spencer’s inspiring site, Everyday Awe.

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In Spiritual Formation

The Question that Leaders Need to Ask

May 13, 2013 — 13 Comments

“A Daring Greatly culture is a culture of honest, constructive, engaged feedback. Without feedback, there can be no transformative change.”

– Brené Brown, Daring Greatly

(This is week 6 in my Daring Greatly Book Club)

As you think about your leaders and supervisors over the years, who has helped you to give or receive honest, constructive, engaged feedback? How did they do it?

Years ago, I was told by my supervisor that he was very disappointed in my speaking. I remember him wincing as if he was in pain, waving his arms around and talking in a voice that was TOO LOUD. He gave me this feedback:

“YOU HAVE NOT FOUND YOUR VOICE. IF YOU ARE GOING TO FILL A ROOM THAT SIZE, YOU HAVE GOT TO HAVE MORE ENERGY. YOU ARE WAY TOO CALM.”

It was very direct. It was honest. It was engaged. And he he was right, I hadn’t found my voice. But his feedback didn’t help me. Instead of noticing a problem and helping me see my potential to change, I felt small and exposed. I remember walking out of that room feeling deflated and hopeless.

I wish he would have first asked me what I thought about how my speaking was going. Then I wish he would have taken the time to write down three specific areas where I needed to improve, and then walked me through those three areas (writing them down communicates that this isn’t an off-the-cuff conversation). Lastly, I wish he would have asked me what I thought I needed in order to improve. Even though I still would have felt the sharp sting of not measuring up, I think I would have known how to move towards improvement. This is what I needed from him, but I was afraid to ask.

As a result, for many years now, I try to ask all of my direct reports this question, each time I meet with them:

What do you need from me that you’re not getting?

I like this question because:

It teaches me how to lead people uniquely. The temptation as a leader is to lead everyone according to how I’m wired, rather than how a particular person responds best. But everybody loses when the leader insists on leading according to her own preferences alone. Leading people uniquely means that the leader moves beyond “How do I want it done,” to “How can I help this person thrive while they do what they need to do.” That’s when leadership becomes fun.

It teaches people that they’re responsible to ask for what they need. On our staff, we’ve been trying to instill the value that you’re responsible to ask for what you need, versus getting frustrated because your supervisor isn’t reading your mind. Now, just because someone asks for something doesn’t mean they automatically receive it, but it opens the conversation so that we can work towards a solution together. I remember recently telling the person that I report to the way I like to receive feedback. It was very helpful for me to say it out loud and remember that it’s my job to say what I need, and it was also helpful to her because she wants to lead well.

It promotes vulnerability. In simply asking the question, I am opening up the possibility that I might need to change something in the way that I lead, versus assuming that the person I’m leading is the one who automatically must change. This changes the temperature in the room, especially if something really does need to change in how I lead.

What has helped you as a leader to build trust and help people grow and engage in constructive feedback?

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In Daring Greatly, Leadership Feedback, Leadership, Listening

The Name of Jesus isn’t a Magic Wand

May 10, 2013 — 6 Comments

There is a startling and beautiful story recorded in Acts 3, where a man who hasn’t ever been able to walk is healed. And so he walks.

And runs.

And jumps, thank you very much.

And praises a God whom he’s just recently met.

This man had spent every day of his life asking others for money as they go into the Temple, a place he wasn’t allowed to enter. But on this day, instead of getting a few pennies, he got legs. And so he did what anybody would do.

He runs in. After a lifetime of being out, he’s now in. It’s breathtaking.

And it all happens because someone prayed “in the name of Jesus.”

For most of my life, I have prayed prayers like this, and have been taught to pray “in the name of Jesus.” To be honest, I have had mixed results. What does it mean to pray “in the name of Jesus?”

Is it a magic wand for getting what we want? Do we have to say it really loud? Or really soft? Or a certain amount of times? Or in a southern accent?

It’s not a magic wand.

I have come to believe that before healing, preaching, or doing anything else, the bottom line for Jesus was this: He simply had an unwavering belief that he could do nothing on his own, and an unflagging commitment to doing only what he saw God doing (John 5:19). The vulnerability of this way of living is so striking that it’s hard to look at; like something that’s altogether too bright. Unlike wielding a magic wand to get what you want, it’s coming empty handed and depending on God for everything. In the garden, Jesus prays, “Not my will, but yours be done.” This is a prayer that is filled with power because it is empty of agenda.

When we begin to approach that kind of dependence, we are living in the name of Jesus. And paradoxically, in our dependence, a power is available from God to do things that we could never do.

And that’s the pattern we see in Acts 3. Peter tells this disabled man, “I don’t have any money. What I do have, I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.” Peter knew what he didn’t have; he knew what he couldn’t do. But he knew what he did have, and it was so much bigger than anything he could ever have done on his own.

To do something “in the name of Jesus” doesn’t mean that you can do anything you want as long as you tack the name of Jesus to the end of your prayer (even if it’s a good thing). It means you’re carrying with you something that is bigger than you. It means that you have decided that whatever God wants done is what you want done. And we get there inch by inch, prayer by prayer, confession by confession.

Last weekend, I gave a talk on that text. If you have 25 minutes, have a look. Enjoy.

In Sermons Authority, healing, Name of Jesus

We Lost a Giant

May 9, 2013 — 5 Comments

Dallas Willard, 1935 – 2013

“Not even Jesus got a resurrection without a death, and he’ll be at your side when you surrender your old life. Trust me on this. If you die with Jesus Christ, God will walk you out of your tomb into a life of incomparable joy and purpose inside his boundless and competent love.” (Dallas Willard, Christianity Today, 2008)

Dallas Willard died yesterday, and has been walked out of his tomb into the life he so vividly described to us; the life he saw dimly, he is now experiencing fully.

I had the unexpected pleasure of spending a weekend with Dallas and a few others in 2007. There were lots of deep conversations, but what I remember most happened during a bathroom break.

I was walking towards the bathroom, and Dallas was a few steps ahead of me. I was feeling a little awkward, because being in the bathroom at the same time as Dallas Willard is not really something that was on my bucket list.

But then I noticed that he was whistling. He was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant philosophical and theological minds of our time, and there won’t be another one like him. And he whistled when he walked from here to there. His spirit was light and care-free. Whimsical, even.

I did not know Dallas Willard; I only spent a few days with him. But during that time, he laughed easily. He walked slowly. He seemed to have all the time in the world. He listened as if you were the only person alive.

Perhaps this one quote sums up what I believe Willard lived and taught:

“Jesus’ enduring relevance is based on his historically proven ability to speak to, to heal and empower the individual human condition. He matters because of what he brought and what he still brings to ordinary human beings, living their ordinary lives and coping daily with their surroundings. He promises wholeness for their lives. In sharing our weakness, he gives us strength and imparts through his companionship a life that has the quality of eternity.” (Dallas Willard, The Divine Conspiracy, page 13)

I’m told his last words were, “thank you.”

Thank you, Dallas.

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In Spiritual Formation Dallas Willard, Spiritual Formation

House of God

May 8, 2013 — 13 Comments

by Mary Martin Wiens

My wife Mary gives a Mother’s Day Blessing every year at our church. Last year, she gave this one, and it was so breathtaking that I asked if she’d share it here, on the week leading up to Mother’s Day. She graciously agreed. Enjoy.

Whether we are women or men, whether we mother children or mother in other ways, Mother’s Day is one of those days that can highlight our needs. You may come to this day with the need to remember. To forget. To be remembered. To be honored. To be comforted. To be forgiven. To be given hope. To be given an “A.” I am more convinced than ever that we are to take our needs and run to our Home. Our Home is within the One who made us and loves us and in that place we are tenderly, intimately cared for like the best of parents would care for a child, but oh so much better. So, I want you to imagine with me that in the MIDST a long journey (perhaps the long journey of parenting, of infertility, of grieving, whatever the long journey of your life is right now) you suddenly arrive at the place where the heart of God dwells. And God, like a Mother—but the kind of mother God would be—meets you at the door with a look of unabashed welcome and invites you in. What might that be like?

When you come to the house of God

With the mud of trying dripping from your sleeves

Covered in cruelties

Your own and others

Obscured by false agreements

She cleans your clothes, shakes them out and hangs them up to dry

And you she washes, washes, washes

Like water lapping on rock saying

Let me get that off of you and

There you are and

Now do you remember?

So let us run to the house of God

When you come wounded to house of God

She builds a circle around you

She stands guard and houses your pain

She holds your weeping head in her lap and

Whispers, I know

Gently, methodically she tends each hurt saying

All is well

You will be well

At all times I work to make all things well

So let us run to the house of God

When you come undone in the house of God

She gathers you up

She remembers who you are

She breathes vitality back into you saying

Here. Here is your body

Here again are your hands, are your feet, is your mouth

Here is your mind

Here is your spirit

Here I am

Here you are

So let us run to the house of God

When you are hungry in the house of God

She sets out to nourish you entirely

She satisfies and delights your whole being

She heartens you with substance saying

Take your time

Listen to me

I have all you need

It is free. Free. Free.

So let us run to the house of God

When you are naked in the house of God

When you stand exposed by the limits of being human

What you can’t make happen

What you can’t stop from happening

What you can’t know

She covers you

She sees you and

She clothes you saying

Here is safety

Here is grace

I know how you are made

I call you good. Good. Good.

So let us run to the house of God

And, When the time is right in the house of God

She does a dance

She opens wide the doors

She presents you to the world saying

Here is my Beloved with whom I am pleased

So pleased

So very pleased

In Guest Posts, Spiritual Formation God, Home, Mother's Day

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