I was slicing it into pasta with tomatoes and basil, chopping it into Cobb salads with no bacon, baking it, pan-frying it. I woke up tired.
Here's a confession: the first thing I do every morning is
But what sometimes happens is that I end up reading things when I'm only half-awake. That can pose a real threat on even a Thursday or Friday. Just imagine the stakes when it's only Tuesday, and a rainy one, at that.
This morning I had an email from a name I didn't recognize, with a subject line that sounded only vaguely familiar. Turns out, it was in response to a guest post I wrote for The Art of Simple, The Weird Route to Real Community. The timing of being reminded of my own words was...not ideal. Because if what I said was true, if I'm a woman who believes we all land more softly in authentic community when we're willing to be the truest version of ourselves, then I was going to have to get a hold of myself and live like my words have a heart and soul, that they're more than one more attempt at making myself look good.
This might go down as the very fight of my lives - to continually back myself into the corner of being forced to believe the truth never loses its flavor. I'm brilliant at finding opportunities to cop out and retreat to a place of false security, where I prop myself up and pray my legs don't give out, at least not until the crowds have dispersed.
I know I cannot live that way, I can't possibly bear my own weight, yet I find myself inching up on the tips of my toes, over and over again.
My wise, true-blue friend D.L. Mayfield says in her mic-drop of a book (one of my favorite reads ever,) Assimilate or Go Home: Notes from a Failed Missionary on Rediscovering Faith,
I am poor, in that I do not know how to love people just as they are. I am poor, in that I do not know how to love myself if I am not actively giving something. I am poor, in that I do not know if I have the strength to see the kingdom of God as it was meant to be played out. I have a poverty of relationships, in that the more I try and forget about the evils of our age and my own responsibility to them, the more my heart is revealed for what it is. In reality, I am impoverished. I am starving. I am weeping. I am oppressed by a world that runs in opposition to the dreams of God. And only when I recognize how poor I really am do I start to understand that I am right where I need to be.So, what can I do to recognize and own my poverty today? How can I sweep my DIY support systems under the rug, stare hard at the face of Christ, and dare to believe He is enough? I honestly don't know, and I'm already afraid of failure. I know myself too well.
But I pounded the chicken thin, and though it won't be fancy, it will be enough.
I walked around quickly with a dishrag, daubing at the most egregious spots on my kitchen floor, and it will be enough.
I hauled four boxes from the mud-room to the basement, and it will have to be enough.
Here I am, neighbor. There is nothing perfect about me, my family, or our home. I value the hope for a relationship with you far too much to pretend otherwise. Come on in. Have a seat at our table, the one scarred from years of art projects and scorching hot soup. I want to see God's glory reflecting off your own scars.
I need His hope and see it so clearly when we come together and dare to be awkward humans, in need of pretty much everything.
Assimilate or Go Home releases today! I cannot champion this book enough. I find myself in every page and though really seeing myself can be painful, DL's story points straight back to the grace and hope of Jesus. Do yourself a favor and order a copy of this stunning work.
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