The ugly truth

I've been working on a post for more than a two weeks. Every day I'd tap out a few lines, tweak them, delete them. The writing was good, but something didn't seem quite right.

Some of you have already heard the story I tried to blog. How a faculty member thought I was an undergrad student, how his comments jerked the band-aid off my carefully-concealed insecurities and desires for a second degree. How I felt devalued.

"Oh," he said, once he learned I worked at the front desk full time. "I see. So what are your career goals? What's the plan?"

I thought I was simply insecure.
I thought it was an example of secular "success" clashing with the things God had called me to be successful in.
I thought it would make a good blog, neatly tied at the end with something pithy that would make me sound mature.

The truth is far uglier. I'm proud.

The realization came last night like a 5000-watt spotlight, piercing past my self-deception into the muck I'd hidden from myself. I was listening to this podcast by Nancy Leigh DeMoss titled, appropriately, "A Pride Test". With each convicting question, I cried harder into my tortilla soup.

Do you think of yourself as more spiritual than your mate, your co-workers, other Christians you know?
Are you quick to find fault with others and then verbalize those faults to others?
Are you proud of the schedule you keep? How disciplined you are and how much you are able to accomplish?
Do you give undue time or attention to your physical appearance?
Are you a perfectionist? Do you feel irked with people who don't do things as well or as quickly as you?
Do you often complain about the weather, your heath, your busy-ness? (We will complain if we think we deserve better). 
Do you talk too much about yourself?
Do you get hurt if your accomplishments or contributions are not noticed or rewarded?

Pride thinks it deserves respect, and is easily injured when it isn't taken seriously. This is what I felt that day as I tried to explain and defend my career. I should have known: one of Pride's favorite costumes is insecurity.

ouch.

And it's a good hurt. I need to feel it, to look the ugliness full-on in the mirror and recognize it as me.

So here's the thing. Please don't write a comment and tell me I'm not proud. I know you'd be doing it to be kind, but it would be way too easy to believe you. Self-deception is so attractive. CS Lewis wrote this about pride:

"If you think you're not conceited, it means you are very conceited indeed."

God doesn't flatter me. He aims the spotlight on the muck so that my disgust will bring me to Him, the Cleanser who already paid an ultimate price for my shame.

It's a severe mercy. But I need mercy in every form.

Being a one-car family

For three weeks last month, my faithful little car sat inert and unresponsive in the driveway. Inserting the key did absolutely nothing--not a flicker of light or sound.

It was like a car coma.

We tried all the normal stuff--battery checks, tightening of connections and cables, even a battery swap with the running car--but nothing worked.

 #firstworldproblems

We were puzzled, but since we have a second car, life went on.

Actually, it went on beautifully. Each morning my sleepy, scruff-faced husband drove me the short distance to work and dropped me off at the front door.

Because I didn't have to trek the quarter mile from my parking lot to the office, I was able to leave the house ten minutes later. And when I was ready to leave, there he was with curbside service. So luxurious!

I started to look forward to those drives. Ten minutes of connection to bookend the workday. Who knew that living with less would feel like being spoiled?

Of course, getting places took some planning. There were some conversations that went like this:

"Wait, were you going somewhere? I was about to go to the--"

"Oh, ok, well...can you drop me off?"

"Maybe, but I don't finish my thing until--"

"Ooooo, that won't work. I'll call so-and-so. Maybe they can bring me home."

We have been talking for a while about downsizing to one car. Less gas. Less upkeep. And the thought of slashing our car insurance by 50% makes those Geico commercials look like amateurs.

But my weekend out-of-town plans couldn't happen without my car, so we finally had her towed. Sixty bucks later, I had wheels again.

During those three weeks, I felt God whisper to my heart: "I am all you need. Reconsider what is 'essential'" 

I want my life to be oriented toward things that will last, stuff that isn't stuff, you know?

I want to be distilled,
pruned.

Even if it means I'll need a ride. 

Never Thought I'd Use Facebook for This...

Four months ago, I was on facebook, staring at a blinking cursor with fingers poised. I was about to apologize to someone I hadn't seen in six years.

My thoughts were nervous, skittish of the message I was about to write. 

She won't even remember this. It was so long ago! She'll think I'm weird for dredging up the past. Worse, it might make her feel bad, maybe even create wounds where none existed. 

But I couldn't shake the conviction to make things right.

I'd been sitting with God, venting to him about someone who frustrated me. Eventually, the venting had given way to softness, me confessing the prickles in my own heart that were bristling in frustration. (Isn't it cool how that works?) 

Suddenly, in the clarity of that softness, I saw myself six years ago. There I was, frustrating someone with my own immaturity. I sat still in the flash of realization: the flaws in Past Cherise were the same that made me bristle with irritation now. 

Takes one to know one. 

So there I was, typing an apology halfway around the world. 

"...I know it has been many years, but would you forgive my arrogance from that time?..."

Her response came within five hours, full of forgetful grace and forgiveness. My heart basked in the glow of her words from my facebook screen. I felt light.

Then, two weeks ago, a conversation jogged another memory of another hurt both received and given. This time it was from even further in the past, a time before puberty, braces or the end of fifth grade. Really, God? 

Obediently, I tapped out another facebook message. I received another surprised, grace-filled reply less than a day later. The sweetness of the exchange made me wish I had sent it sooner, felt the freedom years before. But until that week, I hadn't remembered.

In our apartment, there are certain little piles that have always been there--part of the decor. Technically, they're clutter, but they no longer register as mess in my brain. 

In my heart, it's the same. There are certain character issues and wounds that feel like part of the landscape--part of me. Invisible until my Healer says "See that?"--then it's suddenly there, conspicuous. 

I am so thankful that He is gentle, showing me the piles one by one. 

Ignite: Then and Now

Have you ever tried to water a potted plant that was bone-dry? The water beads up and splashes off the dust with no effect.

Only small drops, patiently dripped, get through the crust.

Just after Christmas, the hubs and I squeezed onto a bus with 56 other people and drove to Indiana’s capital for the Ignite Conference. Ignite is a bit like a family reunion for the several hundred college students and staff who gather every two years from all the churches in the Collegiate Church Network. For two days, we worship, barely sleep, hang out, and hear dynamic teachings designed to re-ignite our hearts with love for God and for people.

When I went to Ignite two years ago, I was like a waterless plant that had forgotten how to drink. Starved for friendship, terribly lonely, and laboring under a false weight of expectations, my hard protective crust blocked out the love I needed.

I'm not saying love was not offered--it was. The sweet women in our group welcomed me, sat by me, chatted as we made coffee. But the wounds I nursed were so painful that I was unable to soak it in. Love splashed off, ineffective. 

This time was so different! The acceptance got through this year and soaked my heart. 

To all the women who loved me that weekend, thank you!
When your engagement secret was shared, I squealed as I anticipated your joy to come.
Adoption hopes whispered over our pillows thrilled my heart for you and your future family. 
You came on an impromptu picture-snatching adventure with me in the bright cold, and I felt like your sister. 

You sat beside me for hours in the dark on a swaying bus, just to talk and listen. 
You prayed with me, 
You smiled at me, 
you weren't embarrassed to worship beside me. 

But the real thanks welling up in my heart is to the One who has patiently dripped love into my crusty heart. Dripped and dripped so persistently and long. And then He gave me a milestone like Ignite. A two-year bookend--something to hold side by side for the difference--so I could compare the soils of me then and me now. 

He used some of you, and my heart is so thankful!

If you feel like your own heart is impermeable, that it is too dry for love or friendship, take heart. He is a Spring of Living Water, and He doesn't give up that easily. 

If you feel like you are the water, continually poured on a hard one that won't receive, take courage. The softening is His job--yours is to be the pipe, the spigot, that He pours through.