You Can’t Help Who You’re Born To
This is not my usual installment of our love story, but I do welcome you to catch up on what I’ve written so far while I decide what the next installment should be. It’s getting harder and harder to write.
In general, I have never been so tired in my whole life. I’m bone tired, y’all. So I wandered about my blog and read what I had written exactly a year ago today. I long for the makings of its content today – prayer and the church, the real, needy, good church.
I will have known most of the people in this picture for ten years this Fall. They are some of the college friends that acted out what they knew of Jesus when I first believed. Everyone in the picture is an intimate friend of ours, with whom and for whom we have prayed. They are my family.
My Daddy said the same prayer at every meal growing up. It wasn’t fancy, and I could type it now, but it’s a secret. It would be like stepping out in my spiritual underwear, especially for the many things that prayer has meant all the different times we prayed it. A group prayer should be like that, an X-ray for your hearts so the doctor can come in and show us all what the matter is, where we need Him more.
I think that’s why we rarely want to do it with others. It’s too close. We don’t want to let people in on our brittle condition when often we play the boot-straps game of strength-on my-own-two-feet. Honest group prayer could be humiliating, washing make-up off our scars, removing the suck-em-up tights, and being rolls-and-all naked.
If we hadn’t been kicked out of Eden, we’d all be hiding in a bush.
Our friends drove in from Kansas City, and I was, in prayer, humbled. We love each other. I think the unseemly is very obvious to our old friends, but they love us anyway.
It convicts me to be the same toward other people in this family we call the church. I have experienced love when I know I didn’t deserve it. Why wouldn’t I offer it more freely to those in the body who aren’t always or are usually never put together? What about the idiots in this church that actually think they have it all together? Where’s my grace?
Where’s my memory?
I have been in the garden,
pregnant with fear,
I’ve wanted to step out when He called,
and I couldn’t, and I couldn’t.
Calls again, but I’m naked.
And friends came to me confessing
their own nakedness. They remembered.
And so, I walk with Him.
Even though I still get caught
red-appled, and I still look down,
and I can’t see that righteous robe,
I walk with Him, and my family walks with Him.
They are no more beautifully dressed.
They are no more naked.
We say to each other, “Look up!”
Don’t look down at your body.
Don’t worry anymore with its covering.