Category Archives: Invitations to Spiritual Intimacy

Morning Pages

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Writing and prayer are, for me, inextricably linked. Pat Schneider said it well: “When I begin to write, I open myself and wait. And when I turn toward an inner spiritual awareness, I open myself and wait.”

In the course of living, I often disconnect from myself. I disconnect to stay operative, and it can be difficult to coax my spirit out of hiding. If I feel, will I still be able to function?

I’m reading two of Julia Cameron’s honest and encouraging books on the creative pursuit, and have been initiated to Morning Pages. Julia swears by them—three pages of longhand, stream-of-consciousness writing every morning, for the rest of your life. This practice puts you in touch with yourself, clears the racket in your head, lets you listen to the Spirit and to your own heart. “As we write,” Julia says, “we come know to ourselves, and increased tenderness to the self we are discovering is the reward.”

I’ve not made Morning Pages a daily habit, but when I do them, I find they deliver the promised effects.

My Morning Pages on June 2 were a ramble about ducklings and the kids’ last day of school. I wrote one page, then got scared: “How do I feel inside? Time to go shower …”

The next morning, it was time to come out of hiding.

June 3, 2023
I guess I’ll start today where I left off yesterday. With my heart. “Go ahead and come out, heart. This is a safe place.” Did some fear send my heart packing? When? How? It seems sudden that I have lost access to myself. But I know it can’t be. Am I running from heaviness? How does one keep a practical balance within one’s heart? Listen and feel, but not descend into the heaviness, never to rise? Maybe I’ve forgotten about my center. Is there really a still place in the middle of all this drama? A place to rest without shutting everything down or solving anything? “The present is safe,” Spirit says. My head is trying to protect my heart. My heart is trying to be small so I can get things done and look functional. But I am not lost in this stormy sea. The girls came downstairs so I moved upstairs. I sat down in my “prayer chair.” I turned my chair to look out a different window. I’m fantasizing about the marriage book I’m going to write. I’m listening to the ducklings and thinking they need their water refilled soon. I’m staring at nothing. I’m listening to the ceiling fan. I’m closing my eyes. I hear the mourning dove and think of the nest we had this spring. K is calling me from downstairs. Now she has come to ask if she can watch PJ Masks with her sister. She’s dressed only in underwear, and in their pretend game she has just hatched from an egg. She holds her hands under her chin in a chipmunk-like pose and speaks adorable gibberish, until I decipher “watch” and “PJ Masks.” It’s before 8am on a Saturday and I’d have to give special permission on Kayt’s iPad, so I say no. I’m starting to thaw here a little bit. I am safe with myself, my journal, God, Michael, and ultimately, with everyone and everything. K’s caterpillars are getting fat. I think God saved their lives. I guess (know) it’s safe to be me, and this day is very doable. Just show up, and then again.

Morning Pages are wonderful, rambling therapy. They are the healing experience of being seen. They are a permission slip to be human. Writing is a gentle and whimsical pathway to the inner self, which I once thought to access with a hammer and chisel, but which actually comes forward like a squirrel—shyly, with worried chirps and false starts. I must sit still. When the squirrel’s tiny paws rest on my fingertips, I feel a sense of wonder. I—brute that I am—receive the trust of another creature. So it is with my own spirit. I cannot use force to gain passage; I must sit quietly and observe with rapture that I am alive. And when I see myself alive, feel the pulse in my own fingertips, I know I will probably be okay.

~ Quotes are from Pat Schneider’s book, “How the Light Gets In,” and Julia Cameron’s book, “Write for Life.”

Holy Homemakers

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Holy Homemakers

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for taking up residence in me.
I don’t think You are an implant,
sewn to the tissues of my brain, or heart.
You must live in that part of me
we humans fail to define,
the spirit or soul,
breath of life first passed
from Your lips to Adam’s
all those years ago.

Blessed are You for co-signing
on the mortgage
for these bones and flesh,
and putting Your name
next to mine
on the mailbox.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for showing me how to belong
here in myself,
trusting what Your presence indicates—
that this is home—
my spirit, my body, and Your divinity
as homemakers.

Talking To God

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“I know a lot of fancy words. / I tear them from my heart and my tongue. / Then I pray.”

Mary Oliver, from her poem “Six Recognitions of the Lord”

It’s odd, the ways we address God. “Please do this.” “Please do that.”

We thank him for the sunshine yesterday, and for finding the lost car keys.

It’s almost like we’re addressing a child.

Or, we talk to God with pomp, in a weird religious way we’d never use with a human we defer to or respect. “We praise you for …” “We come to you with our petitions …”

When I take a moment to listen to myself and the pray-ers around me, the way we Christians talk to God sounds bizarre at times. Yet, at the same time, it is familiar and comfortable.

Sometimes I talk to God like a human. I ask a question and I use the usual inflection—you know, where the voice slides to a higher pitch? “Lord, will you give me peace?” (pitch goes up). Instead of “Lord, I ask you to give me peace.” (pitch goes down).

Sometimes I tell God what I want. I want a better relationship with so-and-so, or to not get sick on vacation, or for people in pain to know they’re not alone.

I try different ways of addressing God.

I test his sense of humor.

I ask him to excuse me when I burp.

I ask him what he thinks of human bodies, or what he did on Sabbath when he was a kid in Egypt.

I detail my grievances or process complex emotions in my prayer journal, knowing he’ll show up.

I avoid certain subjects because I don’t know what to say. How could I have the audacity to ask God for my own travel safety when vulnerable children are being sold into sex slavery as I pray? It feels wrong somehow, like praying for one specific friend to be healed from terminal cancer when the whole world is terminal and countless folks suffer.

My safest prayers center around gratitude: “Thank you for kittens and homegrown grapes.” “I’m so grateful you’re with the friend-of-a-friend who is being air-lifted to Seattle. Thank you for holding him.” “Thank you that love is big enough.”

I have worried about the “right” way to address God, knowing there is no right way, but wanting to know what it is just the same.

I have wondered why we tell him so many things he already knows.

I have waited in his presence for my soul to catch up with my body so we can all be together in peace.

I have kept silent because nothing I could say made any sense.

I have babbled on senselessly.

I have shared my most intimate thoughts and feelings, but I have not dared to ask for much. My excuse is that God is already at work and probably knows what he’s doing. But I wonder if I’m missing out on answered-prayer stories or a deeper trust of God.

I have more questions than answers, and I’m getting comfortable with that. Curiosity and not-knowing are a space from which to talk with God, to add my voice to a conversation as old as time, the one between a potter and his clay, one that will not often make sense but will always be sensible.

I Cannot Dilute Him

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The point is not that I need to lie down naked in front of God. The point is that lying down naked in front of God wouldn’t change anything. His dignity toward me is steadfast, no matter how many layers I choose to wear or not to wear.

The factors that calibrate human relationships cannot manipulate God.

I cannot change His thoughts toward me with a face—my pleasant face, neutral face, tired face, or I’ve-had-it face.

Makeup or the lack thereof, pimples and scars and freckles and wrinkles, splotchy or smooth skin—these do not inform God’s opinion of me.

Nor does greasy, flat hair or frizzy, wild hair affect the space between us.

No item of clothing in my wardrobe will invite Him closer, or keep Him at a safe distance.

I cannot chase Him away by being dull; nor do I keep Him close with intelligence or charm.

I cannot stun Him with silence, nor overwhelm Him with words.

I cannot frighten Him with cursing, nor improve His esteem by sharing my deepest insights.

All the ways I present myself to the people around me are no presentation to God. He sees it all, for He is keenly aware of me. And, with or without it, His embrace remains.

I cannot control Him, for He is not human, but divine.

His first ingredient is love, and I cannot dilute Him.

To Love God

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What a strange truth that we are called to love God. What does that look like?

For a decade or two I thought being “good” equated to loving God. Like that children’s song about the Father up above looking down in love, so be careful.

Be oh, so, careful.

It has been thirty years since I sang that song, and I wonder if I’m ready to move out of the Kindergarten Sunday School room.

So, I asked God a real open-ended question the other day. “How do You want me to love You?”

In time, a response came to my spirit, unexpectedly tidy, with three main points:

– Love me with humility. I don’t need you to be arrogant that you worship “the one true god,” and I don’t need you to know or understand most things about me.

– Love me with loyalty. Not loyalty to the Biblical narrative or to your belief system, but loyalty to our relationship, to me as you know me.

– Remember that I am bigger. You really don’t have to worry or hurry. You don’t have to fear yourself. I am bigger than you and bigger than anything you may fear. It all fits inside my love. Let me be big.

I hear You. I love You.

Sometimes I Feel Like a Black Hole

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Often I have felt there is no cure for being me. I see my struggle—a desert stretching to the horizon. I feel like a black hole.

We’ve all had a friend who seems forever hungry for more attention and engagement. If we devoted every waking hour to their needs, they still would not be satisfied. I have felt that way about myself—like I will never get to the point where I am full and I can sit down with a sigh of contentment.

I suppose this is what some call the “God-shaped hole.” Since I’ve been a follower of Jesus my whole life, I thought didn’t have a God-shaped hole. Then I began to wonder. When I became still and thought about who I was, I cried. Evidence suggested that I did indeed have a hole, and it was not filled with God.

This was a disheartening realization, and a relief. Instead of assuming emptiness was all I could expect out of life, acknowledging the hole gave me hope—eventually. It took a while (years) to adjust to having a hole, but it was better than pretending I didn’t have one. I had put cones and yellow caution tape around that hole, keeping both myself and God out of it, not knowing my mess was inconsequential to God. I forgot that He willingly envelops me in Himself, and willingly lowers Himself into my frightening black depths.

“God meets our intensity of longing with intensity of longing,”* wrote Father Boyle. During this intensity I feel, this drivenness, this scrambling because I can never be satisfied—God moves toward me with equal intensity, with drivenness, with purpose, because He loves to satisfy me, and indeed He is satisfied with me. With Him there is contentment, enjoyment.

Do I still have a hole? Yes, but it’s not as scary and not as empty. It can be uncomfortable and unpredictable. Some days I still put up the orange cones and play it safe. But even on those days, I know that if I fall in, I’ll be okay. And most days I live life in that hole, because I’m not as scared of myself as I used to be, and it turns out that when I inhabit my own self and I hold hands with God, having a hole is not so bad.

*Gregory Boyle, The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness

State of the Union

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Marriage is inconvenient. I have to check with my husband, Michael, about lunching at a different-than-usual time. I can’t turn the bedroom light on in the mornings because he’s still asleep. If I want to be alone, I have to announce it and arrange for it (children are also culpable for this one). The bedclothes are always in disarray, the toilet a mess, and one word at the wrong time can tip us sideways for a day or three.

Michael has his own list of inconveniences, probably much longer than mine—if he took the time to write them down. But he doesn’t keep track much. I know marriage counseling was (mostly) fun for me, but inconvenient for him—more nerve-wracking and stressful than interesting or inspiring. He participated nonetheless, and we sorted some things out. We talked about allowing ourselves and each other to “just be.” In fact, we talked about this for years. I can’t say exactly when or how it moved from an idea to a reality, but I know that facing our most terrifying fears was a long stop on the way to freedom. Our marriage is buoyant now in a gracious and spacious way that allows for inconvenience. Relational blood pressure is down to a healthy range.

Our counselor had a Gottman Institute resource for everything, including a weekly marriage check-up titled “State of the Union Meeting.” The basic idea is to have a weekly, guided conversation about your marriage. The first bullet item on this handout is, “Start with what is going right in the relationship.” Next item, “Give one another five appreciations each.” Of course we disagreed on whether these were actually one item or two. Were we to start with what is going right by sharing appreciations? Or were we to make some general statements about what we felt was going right, followed by five specific appreciations? We haven’t settled that yet.

Last week I was sitting in my ugly, brown prayer-chair, when God asked me out of the blue, “What do you think is going well in our relationship?” I was surprised and delighted. The question itself, even unanswered, was joyful, even celebratory. I immediately thought of the Gottman worksheet, and began a list:

– There are deeper roots. I don’t have to hover over our relationship like it’s a new transplant.

– We like to be together, especially in stillness.

I paused—peaceful, grateful—and wrote, “I’m just so happy about the question, I can hardly think of answers.” But more answers came.

– We assume the best about each other.

– We at least interlock pinky fingers in the situations that seem to drive us apart.

– Our dialogue is not as one-sided as it used to be. We hear each other better and don’t miss the mark in our communication as much.

– I’m more willing to engage with what is, instead of what “should” be.

– I’m more aware of the fears I bring to the table.

– We don’t always try to make sense of each other or understand everything between us.

– We’re getting better at feeling, together.

Underneath the list I wrote, “I’m blown away. We actually have a better relationship than we used to. And it’s certainly not from trying hard.”

I used to do a lot of what I call “pre-work” in my relationship with God. When I sat down with Him, I’d fret and plan and beg and argue, read or study the Bible, and write long pages in my prayer journal. In most of this I avoided the real issues—albeit unintentionally. I wanted God to make me patient and happy, and show up in a predictable manner. Christian theology had taught me these were reasonable expectations in a relationship with God. But in all of this “work,” I avoided the real work. As I noted in my journal, growth in my relationship with God is “certainly not from trying hard.”

Dealing with the real issues—deep anger, fear, disappointment and depression—was hard, but all I had to do was show up. I didn’t try hard. I accepted hard. I allowed myself to feel a lot of hard things, and learn that I was not in control, and neither was God—at least not in the ways I wanted Him to be. I released my knotted “try hard” mentality and accepted that life is hard, and no amount of trying hard is going to fix that. To my surprise, I found God in the real work of accepting and walking through the stuff I didn’t want in my character or in my life. No holy avoidance or miraculous patience. Instead, a togetherness that gifted me a sense of belonging.

Here I am, healthier, mostly because God and I agree that it’s okay for me to be a mess, and for life and love to be, at times, a long list of inconveniences. I can “just be.” The state of our union is, “spacious enough for inconvenience.”

When I Grow Up I Want to Be Roy Kent From Ted Lasso

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When I Grow Up I Want to Be Roy Kent From Ted Lasso

Journal entry, March 2023

I don’t feel on top of things, but I also don’t feel run over by things. I feel alive, real, and less scared.

Feeling on top of things is always about ego. Feeling run over by things is also about ego, but it feels like depression and stress.

I’d like to be like Roy Kent in the TV show Ted Lasso—fully present, wise, honest, and not connected to people because I’m nice, but because we’re connected. I think that’s called “secure attachment.”

Papa God, thank You for inviting me to this place and waiting—for years—while I hesitated outside the door. Thank You for sitting there outside with me, and for keeping the door open. Thank You, Spirit, for intimacy.

Journal entry, May 2023

I feel lost again. Depressed, I guess. I notice myself trying harder in some areas, and not trying at all in others. My mental space feels foggy and disconnected. I want to stay present, but being present feels like one more thing I “should” do that I’m terrible at. As I showered this morning, my mind was sluggish, but restless, like a tired housefly. I told God I feel out of practice at being present, and I don’t know what to do.

God told me the present is safe. It’s safe to be with myself in this moment. The moment I’m in is exempt from evaluation. I don’t have to carry a ruler—dual purposes of measuring and punishing. Instead, I receive the “we’ve got this” look from my Father.

Until my shower-talk with God, I didn’t realize I live mentally in the past or the future because it feels safer than the present. The past is over; I can fret about it all I want, and my judgement and worry give me a sense of control. The future is coming; maybe if I plan it just right my life will be better.

If I’m thinking about what’s next I reduce the pain of knowing I’m not showing up how I want to right now.

The present is wobbly. It slips away like kite string, pulling, whimsical. It doesn’t behave, doesn’t let me nail it down. Qué será será? Not on my watch.

This awareness I’m afraid of the present, and God’s assurance it is safe to be present—these are my invitation to relax. Like a massage, the words “present is safe” loosen the tightness underneath and free me to move and breath. And who knows, maybe if I receive this moment and accept safety in being present, I’ll have less to fret about in the past and the future. Maybe it’s all okay, even when it’s not okay.

Like Roy Kent, I can be angry and pessimistic if that’s what I experience in the present, and I can also be generous, compassionate, and honest. All of these are safe experiences for me, and receiving them open-handed is what steadies me for the next moment. I don’t need to worry. It is both safe and brave to be present, and I have a growing appetite for safety and bravery. Now is where I belong.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part Two

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In this post—as in last week’s post—I use words like “Evangelism,” “Witnessing,” “Christianity,” and “Religion.” Each reader will have a different understanding of these words, both in denotation and connotation. Personally, I’m in the murky depths, somewhere between a conservative upbringing and an emerging mystical faith, still feeling around for a vocabulary that doesn’t cause pain.

***

“Aren’t you the one with a blog talking about Jesus?” Khalid asked.

I was at the home of my friends, Khalid and Tiffaney. They’d been to a concert earlier that week, which I avoided because of the musician’s evangelistic bent. “I don’t like evangelism,” I said, which prompted Khalid’s question about my blog.

“I certainly hope people don’t think I’m evangelizing!” I deflected the question.

It had not occurred to me that my blog (and my social handle @jesusmyfavoritesubject) could be viewed as evangelism. I have written over 100 blog posts, with the premise that talking about Jesus is one of my favorite things to do. What is that, if it’s not evangelism? Suddenly, I needed to answer this question.

I asked my husband if what I’m doing is evangelism. In his typical style, he looked up the word on his phone and found half a dozen definitions, all of which involved the concept of convincing another person. A Google search tells me that to convince is: to bring (as by argument) to belief, consent, or a course of action; persuade; cause (someone) to believe firmly in the truth of something. Combine this with the gospel of Jesus Christ, and you have evangelism: teaching or preaching about Jesus with the aim to bring about belief or action. Is that what I’m doing? I don’t want to answer.

A gray Jeep with a “Jesus Loves You” bumper sticker kept showing up on B Street last week. I passed it on my way home from school pick-up, and it got me all up in arms. Rather than joy at the sweet reminder of how loved I am, my response was irritation. People have all different conceptions of Jesus; the person displaying the sticker has no idea how many painful ideas he or she is promoting along with the positive ones. “Jesus Loves You” doesn’t see people, it talks at them. It doesn’t have any idea what tragedies or triumphs are on the reader’s mind, and it cannot weep or rejoice with them. The sticker is evangelism. I don’t like that I don’t like it … but I don’t like it.

One Friday afternoon, while chatting with my friend Celina at her dining room table, I brought up the question of whether I’m evangelizing. She asked, “If you’re not trying to convince when you write, what are you trying to do? What do you hope will happen when people read your blog?”

“I want people to feel seen,” I said. “I want them to be able to take a deep breath. I want them to know they’re okay.”

If God is in the picture, I hope people will see God seeing them.

On the eve of my recent 38th birthday, I spent a couple hours making a mental list of 38 people who have influenced me. It included coworkers, authors, family, and friends. Every influence was gentle; not one produced an about-face change in my life. They were quiet but strong: my boss—Jerry Mason—who believed in me, gave me responsibilities I would never have pursued on my own, and whose confidence in me was a steady presence in my life for over eight years; the authors—Gregory Boyle, Barbara Brown Taylor, Anne Lamott—who gave me permission to breathe, to try life open-handed; our mom tribe—half a dozen ladies who see me and allow me to see them. This is the kind of influence I hope for in writing.

I suppose I’m inviting people to be at home in themselves, rather than reject themselves to be at home in Christ. Krispin Mayfield, in his book Attached to God, writes about the Christian experience of sinfulness, and compares it to the pain of disconnection described in attachment theory.

It struck me that the theology I’d been given and the attachment literature I was reading seemed to be describing the exact same thing but offering different explanations. The theology taught that this awful feeling of ‘inner deformity’ was because of things we’ve done—lying to our parents, disrespecting teachers, sneaking extra candy. The psychology suggested that the terrible feeling came from what has been done to us. … (pg. 169)

When we have an insecure attachment, we feel awful inside not because of our sin but because of our unmet needs. It is the feelings of distance and separation that create the intense pain of shame. … (pg. 170)

“We think that if we can get a little bit better, a little less sinful, we will feel better about ourselves. In reality, true connection heals shame. (pg. 173)

True connection. That I might be willing to shout from the rooftops. I want to offer the things I thought I had because I was a Christian, but slowly and devastatingly found out I didn’t have: hope, peace, love, joy. These are almost synonymous with Christianity, but they evaded me for decades. So as I’ve found them, I’ve also found different language. When I share hope, I talk about how it’s okay to not be okay. When I share peace, I talk about disentangling from perfectionism. When I share love, I talk about expansiveness. When I share joy, I talk about coffee and friends.

I guess I’ve always wanted people to know they’re loved, and for a long time I thought telling them about Jesus was the best way to do that. But I was “the blind, leading the blind.” Religion created a structure in which I could feel my way around while my eyes were closed. But at some point I started bumping into sharp corners, and I didn’t feel safe any more. God suggested I sit still and open my eyes. In that terrifying posture of stillness, I learned to hold hands with myself, let myself be loved, and let life be both brutal and beautiful—“brutiful,” as Glennon Doyle would say. The structure of religion was an external protection. The beauty of loving and being loved is an internal strength. I’m learning to be strong rather than safe, and that’s what I want share. Is that evangelism? I still wonder about that.

A Need to Need

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A Need to Need

Reflections – week 7b

Welcome to week seven (part two) of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. Next Wednesday’s post for week 8 will conclude this series.

I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

Father’s House. Lesson seven. Myth #41: God turns His back on me when I have needs—especially needs that are annoying or ongoing.

Having needs is a no-go for me, for many reasons. Needing is vulnerable. If I need, I’m giving another person the opportunity to help or ignore me, and that’s way too far out of my control. Needing is weak; it happens because I didn’t plan right, or I made a mistake. In short, needing is never safe. Never. If I’m not strong, I’m worthless. Needs are more likely to create distance than bring connection. I don’t feel safe within my own self to have a need; heaven forbid I need something from my husband or friends, or from God Himself.

Father’s House points out that, “Everywhere Jesus went we encounter His immeasurable goodness—healing ALL who came to Him, delivering people from demonic torment, raising the dead, forgiving sinners, loving the unlovely and dining with the disreputable.”2 Yes, but this is all about doing, and I get hung up there. It sounds like Jesus went around fixing things, but my spiritual experience tells me that’s a mis-read. God hasn’t been much into fixing me. I think the Bible, the way people talk about the Bible, and the way I understand Jesus have given me the wrong idea of Father.

There is a God I know and trust, a Father I have encountered in my anger and fear and self-loathing; in music and friends and words and quietness. I have found His abiding presence in my knotted heartstrings, and in the cadence of my day. But there is also a Father who isn’t going to help me live my life, who is okay with me running on empty and doing only what I can do in my humanness. I am terrified to approach Him with deeply felt needs. Does God actually respond to a person’s real, tangible needs? What about the intangible needs I don’t even have words for? How often will God “meet” my needs, whatever that means? If it’s one time out of ten, I’d rather not ask.

I want a loving Father’s help, but the stakes feel high. I always end up angry at Him, at me, or at both of us—probably because I have expectations. I want a contract. In fact, a prenuptial agreement would be nice. I’d like to know what I get out of this when God stops showing up.

But I also want to know what it’s like to be cared for. I want to trust, to settle into what is better than a contract.

Father’s House. Day Two. Page 125: “Now climb up in [Papa’s] lap in His big chair and tell Him what you need from Him. Lay it all out.”3 I’m terrified to admit that I need to be lavishly loved, that I want to be celebrated. But I know I will settle for less if I keep clutching my needs, unwilling to hold them out, to allow someone else to see them. So I follow directions. I make a list of what I need from Papa.

I need You to bless me.
I need You to see me.
I need Your seeing to precipitate action on my behalf.
I need You to remind me it’s okay not to be useful.
I need You to move toward me with interest and intention.
I need You to want to hear from me as much when I’m doing poorly as when I’m doing well.
I need You to like being with me.
I need You to behave extravagantly toward me.
I need to be wedded to You—a forever kind of togetherness.
I need “enough” to be out of the equation—no evaluating.
I need to order takeout and waste time with You, in my pajamas.
I need to hold hands with You.
I need You to ask how I’m doing and listen without an agenda.

My list surprises me. It seems I’m more interested in being seen and loved than being served or dealt a fair hand. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I know relationship is better than rules, but sometimes I want God to follow the rules. Sometimes predictable feels safe.

Maybe predicting is rather like weather forecasting. You end up with a mix of everything, undefined no matter how hard you try to define it. But, every day we know there will be weather. I don’t know how God is going to show up today, but I know He’s going to show up. It might not be the sunshine I prayed for, but I need never fear I’ll wake up to a day with no weather at all. God is alive and I am alive, and there are days when all that aliveness is unpredictable, stormy, maybe even disastrous. But no one will wonder if anything happened that day. We’ll know. So I don’t need God to run my life, or predict my life, or change the forecast to be in my favor. I just need Him to like me and see me and bless me, and keep showing up.

It is safe to have needs in Papa’s house.

Gregory Boyle writes that when we are “held by a no-matter-what-ness” we can “reidentify and accept [ourselves] with a mystical wholeness. You can then discard all those things that previously you held back. The places where you used to get stuck. … After that, it’s not so much smooth sailing as it is resilient and integrated enough to deepen the sense of your own truth.”4 My truth is that God’s Spirit joins with my mine to affirm that I am His child (Romans 8:16). I hear His affirmation, and I make another list.

God says,
I’m so glad you’re here.
I love holding you.
I love being with you.
I am and I have all that you need.
Together, let’s rest in what is finished. Let’s rest for a long time.
Let’s be together with no distractions. Let’s have fun together.
Let’s go for a walk, get ice cream, love every person we see.
Let’s enjoy and create.
Let’s take everything that burdens and stresses you and put it on my docket. You’re free.
Let’s do relationships together. Let’s parent together.
Let me spoil you. Let me do more than you “deserve.”
Let me warm you and feed you and provide a feast of beauty for your eyes.
Let’s be alive together. I release you from the identity of responsible servant-child and name you sparkling heiress. I’m your Daddy. I made this world and the people in it. You can’t break anything or anyone in a way that I can’t re-make.
I always have your back (and your front and sides).
I know you. You don’t ever need to hide, or explain yourself to me. You make perfect sense.
You’re exactly where you need to be. Every moment.
You are not bound or caged. You are wild and free and alive.
You cannot lose my favor. I would never think to say that, because it seems silly to me, so thank you for letting me know what you need to hear.
“I’ll love you forever. I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living [which will be a long time], my [daughter] you’ll be.”5

I have believed I am worthy of having what God perceives as my needs met, but not worthy of having what I perceive as my needs met. Now I’m less sure that’s an important distinction. God is listening and loving. He is not measuring and monitoring. That’s about as safe as it gets. So I will practice bringing my needs to the table, and I will take comfort in being “held by a no-matter-what-ness.” In Papa’s house, needs are a point of connection. They are a meeting place for intimate friends. They are safe.

Endnotes:
1See Father’s House, page 120
2Father’s House,page 127
3Father’s House,page 125
4The Whole Language, page 110
5Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch