Sunday I went to my pastors house after church. Tim and Pam are so amazing about sharing their life, and food, and heart with people. I have learned so much about the value of breaking bread with people and transparency at the Wolfe house.

Anyway, they live on top of a hill, while the ice was mostly gone there were still patches of slushy stuff on the side of the street where I normally park. The sun was out, I didn’t need my coat, my tires were firmly on dry pavement. Ice was not on my radar. I know that I had just spent an entire week hanging out at my house because the ice on the roads weren’t safe for the school buses. Our local news spent the entire week showing film of cars sliding on the ice and smashing in to things. And yet I was completely oblivious to the ice where I was about to park.

I pulled up and slowly my car lost traction. Before I knew it I was stuck on the only patch of ice left on the road big enough to get stuck on. This cannot be happening, I thought. I am from Toledo, Ohio and every Christmas we would make the trek to north of Albany. I am not new to snow banks and black ice. So why was I spinning my wheels on a patch of icey slush smaller than an area rug?

The truth was, I wasn’t paying attention. People who know me well can tell you that this is a theme in my life. I bring the baby but not the freshly packed diaper bag, I miss a turn I have taken every day for 6 months, I forget to sign in (something I do every. single. day. at work). I do all of these things because I am not the best at paying attention. People who know me really well can tell you that this is also the case in my spiritual life.

I will really struggle with something. Selfishness, anger, lack of discipline, the particular sin doesn’t really matter. I think about it, pray about it, remember to be vigilante. Pretty soon what was once an icy road of anger is now just a slushy patch. And when I stop paying attention, I run right into it. And before I know it I am stuck. And then things really get interesting.

My tires were spinning, my car was sliding and yet I didn’t think I needed to get anyone to help me out of my little situation on the hill. I still thought I had it under control. All I needed to do was to back up enough that my tires were no longer on the ice. Then I could drive around the corner to my second favorite parking spot and pretend as though I had everything together all along. What kind of yankee gets their tires stuck in Atlanta ice? You have got to be joking!

So I tried backing up, which led to sliding around a little bit, and a little bit more, and a tiny bit more. I tried trying to go forwad, then backward. I tried and I tried till I was practically touching a car on the other side of the street and Pam and her neighbor are outside of her house watching me. Lovely. So much for that no one has to know thing.

After getting the neighbor to move their car so no one has to call the insurance adjuster I became completely unstuck. I was fully embarrassed, and well aware that there really was no one to blame but myself, and that my refusal to admit I was stuck in the first place only made my problem worse (or maybe I just blame it on the lack of four wheel drive……) Which is also the case spiritually. And I doubt I am the only one who has this problem.

The scenario is always the same, I sin. I feel convicted.  Instead of acknowledging the sin, asking for forgiveness, and truly repenting, I pretend it isn’t there. Full speed ahead! Even as the tires on my spiritual life are spinning and squealing. Pretty soon the rest of my life is slipping out of my control too. But I don’t repent. I don’t admit that I messed up and need some help. Before I know it I have some sort of wreck in my life that is far beyond the initial slip. Because I wouldn’t stop and acknowledge that I have a problem.

I spin my wheels, I back pedal. I do pretty much everything but stop and look at my Lord and tell him, I am stuck. I refuse to repent, to God or anyone else in my life. I decide to turn my life into a car wreck. I’m learning that this isn’t the best way to go. I am learning to hit the brakes and call for help.

In the third grade you suddenly realize you are not amazing at every single thing you do. K-2 you are completely confident that you are the bomb. It doesn’t matter what it is or if you’ve done it before. Any subject, any time you are the master.

Somewhere in the third grade your confidence shrinks. You suddenly realize that you may not be THE BEST at everything, you may not even be great at everything. So you don’t want to try anymore. Why do something if you aren’t sure you are going to succeed at it?

That is when your teacher introduces the concept of YOUR best. She tells you that as long as you do your best than that will be good enough. Your best, she says, is all anyone can ask of you. This mantra continues throughout elementary school, and follows you to middle and even high school. Just do your best people tell you, your best is always good enough.

When your ten this is true, when you are 27…..sometimes it isn’t. In fact, sometimes, it is a big fat lie. When you are 27 and teaching a core subject at a high risk school, when your kids can’t read and are expected to pass a standardized reading test at the end of next school year, when you are supposed to be a good wife, and mom, and teach like your hair’s on fire. Sometimes, your best in one of those categories sucks. Big time.

Sometimes your best, is your best and it totally blows. People get disappointed, 18 year olds don’t graduate, heck sometimes you totally screw your kid up. (I’m hoping that doesn’t happen…) And what do you tell people, “Hey I know that blew and may have permanent consequences, but it was my best and Miss Pansy with the kitty-cat sweater told me that my best was good enough, so there you have it.”

I guess that is where grace comes in. I have always understood that God’s grace is sufficient to take away my sins. But somehow I have been leaving that sufficient grace on the cross, like some kind of cosmic get out of jail free card. If I use it now, I won’t have it for later like….I don’t know…..the final judgement. I am beginning to understand that my conception of grace is vastly inadequate. God’s grace covers my inadequacies every single day. I don’t have to be the perfect teacher or mother or wife, because God’s grace covers me.

But having that sort of grace extended to me means I have the responsibility to extend that grace forward. When the guy in front of me brakes for no apparent reason, when my students act like idiots because they are 16, when people disappoint me. I am expected to understand that just like God’s grace covers me, it also covers the people I interact with, and that covers me to.

So your third grade teacher lied to you. Sometimes your best is not good enough. But God’s grace always is.

P.S. I applied for a dream job, one that showed up on my Facebook feed after I told God I would like to do X, could you invent that job for me? Thanks! Pray with me that God’s grace will cover me and grant me favor even though I am minimally qualified.

My grandmother is 87 and a spitfire. My daughter gets the red head recessive gene that must have been hiding in me from my grandmother.  I can remember staying up late with my cousins and at two in the morning as we were sneaking in to go to bed and not disturb anyone, we would find grandma, cleaning the sink. When you do as much as she did in a day, you need to squeeze somethings into the two a.m. slot.

This Christmas was the first time I saw her slowing down. I suppose it is time, but it is difficult for her. It is a struggle I understand deeply. It was one of the hardest things about having fibromyalgia, operating at a slower pace.

I can’t tell you the rhyme and reason of the way the Lord moves. I have always believed that God could heal me, but it took over ten years. Hardness of heart on my part I am sure was no small part of that. But I do know that in much of that I learned some pretty incredible lessons:dependence, discernment of the Holy Spirit, there were even a number of divine appointments in there when I couldn’t get out of bed at church camp.

One thing I definitely learned was that the be still part of “Be still and know that I am God” isn’t a suggestion. I  have always heard it in a voice like a yoga instructor. Breathe in, breathe out, relax, be still. But as I have been re-reading the Anne of Green Gables books (I don’t know that I ever got all the way through them….) I keep reading that phrase. When Anne is working herself into a tizzy, talking to much, freaking out about what may happen, Mirilla yells out “Be still, child!” This is not a friendly suggestion, it is an exhortation, Stop! Stop talking, stop worrying, stop thinking, stop moving! Be still!

Being still isn’t something America values. It isn’t something you are supposed to do when you have a million things on your list and your life is spinning out of control. You are supposed to grab the horns, pick yourself up by your bootstraps, doing something to help yourself! Not what the Bible says. God says “Be still! and know that I am God.

You’ve been thinking a lot about why you write in second person. You enjoy writing in second person but think some of your thoughts are better served in first person. You also know that you have been writing in second person as a way to distance yourself from what you write. You know the only person you are fooling is….well….you. You’ve decided to take the first person plunge. In the name of transparency.

Transparency is something I think is important. Especially as a christian. If I can’t or won’t tell people in my life about  what I am doing, I probably should not be doing it. That whole business about Christ being the light and the devil being the king of darkness have really rung true in my life. Fancy that, what the Bible says works out to be true, even in my own life…..especially in my  own life.

It is important because if Christ is the center of my life, then I need the space around him to be transparent. Like my living room window. I have this painting that I did hanging above my couch in my living room. It is of Atlanta, and the space around it looks like the city is burning all over again. While it was not intentional while I was painting, I now think of that fiery color as the Holy Spirit descending on my city. Anyway, the painting can be seen really well at night if the curtains are open and the light is on. Because my windows are transparent. If they were made of that foggy glass that throws cool shadows on the floor, the painting would never be seen from the outside, only if you were invited into my home.

I think Christ is like that painting, and our lives are like the walls and windows in my living room. The world is dark, but the light is on in my house because Christ is in the center, and just like my sofa sized painting you really can’t miss Him. Not because of anything I have or have not done, simply because of who Christ is. But I have discovered, that if I want to, I can close the curtains to my life. Only let certain people through the door. Then only those I allow can see the way Christ is working in me. It seems safer somehow.

But if I believe that what Christ does in me is a beautiful work, if I really believe that He is the worthwhile part of my life, then I will pull back the curtain and make sure the windows are clean. It will feel a little uncomfortable at first. I will cry in places I am not supposed to, or reveal struggles no one talks about because that is where the Lord is working. But in my discomfort, my awkwardness, there will be Christ, sitting in my Living room.

You don’t like that word. Gifted. It freaks you out. This whole post freaks you out. This whole thing freaks you out. As does your etsy shop. You really think you might throw up right now. But God is teaching you about gifts, His gifts. He gave some to you turns out and He wants you to write about them. So you do, even though you don’t want to. You were thinking about not writing it then one of your 16 year old students wrote you an essay about what they believe that convicted you. Okay God, you get it.

Your first experience with the word gifted was in the third grade when you took the test that put you in the gifted class. You were three points shy. This wouldn’t have been such a big deal except both of your sisters were in the gifted class. You think you disappointed someone even though everyone assures you you did not. You eventually test in, but already that word gifted is somehow loaded for you. Giftedness is somehow tied with disappointment.

You have been afraid lately of the gifts that God has given you, especially because He seems to be asking you to use them. Repeatedly, all at once. You had sort of been hoping you could wade in to all of this. You see, you don’t like to say things like “I am good at painting” or “I wrote this. I think it is worth reading.” Maybe you don’t think it is lady like. Maybe you are afraid that others will disagree. Maybe you very secretly don’t believe that what you do is any good. You know it is probably the last one.

Your sister says to you “This guy at work went off on a tangent and I think it is for you.” Just a few weeks ago you wouldn’t have believed that God would use a stranger at your sisters work to deliver a message to her that was meant for you. That sounds crazy, but crazy seems to be happening lately. You are learning what God will do to get your attention.

Your explains the metaphor that this guy used, when he proclaimed boldly that he was a gifted teacher. You think about this. How the gift often represents the giver. You think of some gifts that people have given you that you are particularly proud of, the quilt your grandmother made for your wedding gift, the key ring one of your favorite students sculpted out of wire with your last initial on it. You love these things because they were made just for you, and because they express perfectly your relationship with these people. The quilt from a master seamstress as part of a bigger family tradition. (You are from a big family with even bigger traditions.) The ring from an excentric student who can concentrate better when he is keeping his hand busy.

You know that the same is true to the gifts that God has given you. They were also meant to represent the Giver and the relationship He has with you. He is a creator and He wants you to create. He created poetic circumstances and beautiful metaphors, He wants you to explore them. He created art and thinks people should have access to it. By sharing His gifts you are sharing Him, not telling everyone how great you are. And even if people interpret the works that God is doing in your life as that, then maybe that is okay. God thinks you are pretty great.

More than that you think of the gifts you have given people. Just last week your sister wore the sweater you gave her last Christmas to church. When she got a compliment on it she said thank you, my sister bought me this. You do that, when people compliment the physical gifts others have given you. The giver gets the credit.  In devaluing the gifts, you realize you are devaluing the Giver. You decide you aren’t going to do that anymore. You think you might just be good at this blogging thing.

You didn’t expect this. You certainly don’t understand it. You were at church Sunday and the Holy Spirit came on so thick you were expecting a vision. You haven’t gotten a vision since your healing. You sit and wait for it. Close your eyes super tight, relax them, sit up, sit back, the Holy Spirit as thick as that day two years ago. No vision. The Lord tells you He is going to show up a little differently today. And yet you didn’t expect this.

You’ve been thinking a lot recently about promises. You know that God has so many promises in the bible that you can claim. And that is all well and good and everything, but sometimes you want more. You have come to the conclusion that the spiritual inheritance God has given you through your family makes you very, very spoiled. Your hearts yearns for more, not just for the promises God promises to everyone, you want the promises God whispered into your heart. The ones that are made just for me.

You’ve been blogging for a few days and have no idea how God is going to use this thing (you haven’t even had a chance to tell your dad you are blogging again in your joint venture.) How the heck do people stumble upon a new blog anyway? When Beth Moore asks for your miracle. And in the comments section you decide to take another little jump off the divine diving board God has lead you to and link to this blog. You sort of feel like you are going to throw up but here it goes.

I was the most awkward seventh grader on earth when I got mono. There is no joke less funny then the joke that is told to the highly hormonal thirteen year old who has contracted the kissing disease, who has never been kissed. Trust me. For most mono means a couple of weeks out of school and then you are done. For me it was the start of a very dark journey. I missed 70 plus days of school that year partly because of the mono, which I could never seem to shake, and partly due to the anxiety that I was experiencing after having missed school for months at a time. But even without the emotional aspect (and I am someone who can emote) I just plain didn’t feel good.

In eighth through tenth grade I got myself together enough to make it to school on a semi-regular basis. I missed a lot more than most but had a very understanding doctor who wrote me a catch all excuse note while we figured out what the heck was going on with my health. Even in this confusing time the Lord blessed me with parents and a doctor who believed me. We muddled through.

But shortly before my seventeenth birthday things got really bad. I dropped out of all but one of my classes and made it to school probably less than once a week. On the cusp of dropping out of school completely I got a correct diagnosis. Fibromyalgia, and a promise from a kind and brilliant doctor that I was going to get much better.

With diet and less activity than usual I managed to live a relatively normal life. Mostly I learned how to be dependent on the Lord and trust that He would show up when I really needed Him. But God didn’t want me to get by. He wanted me to thrive. I had in my teenage years gotten prayed over for healing. I would name it and claim, and a few weeks later be angry that I still felt like crap.

Slowly in my 25th year the Lord began to thaw my heart toward healing. Through words from my sister and father, and a friendship I had been avoiding due to the fact that she kept claiming healing over my life (how dare her!), I began to hear the Lord speak that he wanted me to be free of everyday pain.

Disclaimer: I am in now way saying that my experience is that over every fibromyalgia. I just know that this is true for me. Now that that is out of the way.

I finally ordered A More Excellent Way from Amazon and after repeated shipping failure (spiritual warfare anyone?) I got my hands on that book. The passages about fibromyalgia being linked to fear of failure, fear that I was not good enough pierced my heart. It was as though the author knew me, knew things about me I did not even admit to myself. Maybe I would be healed.

Very shortly after that the Lord showed up on a Sunday during the worship and pushed me into my seat. There I saw a silhouette of a person clinging to a thorn bush. That person was me. Somewhere in the midst of my illness I had begun to hang on to it. Identify myself with it. For me, I was allowed to not be good enough, because I had fibromyalgia. It was okay to not be able to be everything for everyone, I would it is just I had fibromyalgia. The Lord showed me letting go of the thorn bush, straightening from the stoop I was in, and standing, turning toward the cross and instead clinging to that. And now (and I am battling to know this every day) it is okay to not be good enough, it is okay to not be everything for everyone, because what Jesus did on that cross is enough. His grace is sufficient.

Sometimes, when your dad has prophetic gifts, and he gives your sister a word you ask for one too. Sometimes he says, “no, nothing, oh wait….” then he gives you the most ridiculous vision.