I traveled to Delaware this past weekend to speak at the church where my college friend’s husband serves as pastor. And it was this weekend that I had my first awkward moments as a blogger.
On the night I arrived, after our conversation had stretched close to midnight around their long kitchen table, my friend began giving me instructions for using her Keurig the next morning.
“No, no, hun,” her husband quickly interrupted. “Don’t you remember she likes the French press?”
I was left only momentarily wondering how they knew this little factoid.
And it was the next morning that a tall, pretty young woman introduced herself to me before the tea. She’s shaking my hand and smiling, telling me that she’d been reading my blog and enjoying it.
There are facts she cites to establish the intimacy she has with the mechanics of my life.
I feel awkward. My life is no paragon of virtue.
In fact, in the week leading up to the event, I am conscious of how irritable I’m acting. Hustled by deadlines, I am quick to snap at the kids, quick to wish away my responsibilities as wife and mother, quick to hope for some quiet, permanent corner of the world into which I can withdraw and work without interruption.
And all week long, I sit down with the Bible in the morning. And I feel nothing. And I hear nothing. And sooner rather than later, I bring to an end what feels to be nothing more than a rote exercise – one I’d hardly constitute as faith.
Do you go speak for God when you fail to hear Him speaking?
Do you go claiming to serve God when it’s your family’s needs you’ve been willfully ignoring?
All this incongruence – between the life of my words and the life of my skin – it heaps up like one big heap of accusation.
And that’s why I wake with the pit in my stomach on Saturday morning. It’s early and dark. I lie there sleepily and feel the familiar knot of anxiety tug, churn, and settle deeper.
Somehow, this passage rises to conscious thought, and I’m out of bed, slipping noiselessly into the kitchen to make the coffee. (Yes, French press.)
And I begin reading Isaiah 6, and it’s as if finally, I can hear more than the leaden silence of the past week.
“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne.”
Where am I, Jen?
Seated on a throne. And what would you do or fail to do, what you say or fail to say, that would change my sovereign position of power and authority?
If that were the only reassurance I had had, it would have been enough to calm all the jitters. But I found more, even more.
“Woe is me, for I am a man of unclean lips.”
And so, Isaiah had his own mirror? And in it, all his own incongruence stared back at him?
And what was it that stood between the agony of that reflection and the answer to the call? What makes sinners so daring to believe that they could be commissioned for service?
“One of the seraphim flew to me, having in his hand a burning coal that he had taken with tongs from the altar. And he touched my mouth and said, ‘Behold, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away, and your sin is atoned for.’”
Here was the consoling reminder that God never uses perfect people – or perfectly confident people. It’s not our capacities or confidence that qualify us for ministry.
It’s the blood of Jesus.
I took that with me into the tea. I beat back the torrent of self-doubt with two words.
And the weekend was so NOT about me coming to share some pithy word with that crowded gymnasium full of women. As is typical with God, there was more goodness to be had than I could ever have imagined, goodness that I’ve since been mulling over, goodness that made me cry all the way from the moment I landed in Toronto, walked down the jetbridge, through the airport terminal, and out to meet a silver van packed with eager kids.
But that story, that goodness, will have to kept for another day.