The first storm of the year blankets the mountain white, and the falling snow rises onto everything. We drive up the hill in the sunshine of the next day, and to this California girl, it’s a winter wonder. Icicles hang themselves in mid-air, and snow sits tall on every branch and rock.
It’s perched there, tall and stable–white and true, like how truth is revealed and always rises.
Sometimes we think we can hide truth, and all of us try.
The 4th grade boy’s been skipping half of his computer math assignments, since he figured it’s too much math for a kid to have to do.
The 12th grade boy’s been tardy every day for the past two weeks, and never “heard” his alarm for that 9am dentist appointment last week.
The 2nd grade boy’s been shoving countless toys under his bed so his room can be checked off as “clean” before school.
And the 5th grade girl skips metric conversion math problems she doesn’t understand, because she’s decided she doesn’t need to know how, or try. So instead, in her free time, she creates an entrepreneurial business-stand, “selling” hair conditioner as body lotion to her siblings, touting it’s skin-softening power.
But truth can not be hidden forever, no matter how much we suppress it, or deny it, or refuse to acknowledge it.
The grade book shows delinquent math assignments.
The attendance office records each tardy.
Toys peek out from under the bed,
And everyone’s skin itches after lathering “lotion” all over.
The truth will always rise. [Tweet this]
The kids aren’t the only ones around here, failing to see what’s true.
How many times do I miss the truth, and instead settle for the lies?
The lies that always fail me–selling me out for their convenience. Lies promising hope and joy, but delivering disappointment and pain.
Perfectionism. Control. Worry. Irritation. Discontentment.
They steal my joy even as I’m trying to attain it.
I feel it each day, as I vow to steer clear of these traps. Yet daily I fall, always wondering why my progress is so slow.
All the trying will never work. And while I know that to be the truth, my living says I know the lie more.
Our living tries to hold truth down–trying to do, worrying we aren’t, and being disappointed we can’t.
I’m not sure this struggle will ever end, and I know even in it, God is always with me.
I know He loves me no matter what, and that He made a way to rescue me from my failing–a way to drive out these lies with His truth–this truth that always rises.
I know it all in my head, and most of the time I feel it in my heart.
And when I don’t, I know I’m supposed to solve it all with respite quiet time with God and His Word. And each day my meeting with Him does lighten those perfectionistic lies. But…
May I just be bold and say it out loud? This is season is way hard. Wife, mother of five, nurse … many days it feels like too much, and I’m left wondering if I’m going to ruin my kids and my own self in the process.
Because while it’s been said that He’s all I need, I’m not sure that’s the whole truth.
Yes God created me for communion with Him, and I do commune with Him. But you know what else?
He also made me physical. With deep needs to connect to others in this flesh.
To hold and be held.
To laugh and to cry.
To speak and be spoken to.
And to know and be known.
The truth is, even when I fail, God is still with me.
Even when I fall for the lies and should be looking to the truth, He is near.
Even in the hardest days when I feel almost dead, the truth is He has already made me alive with Christ, and seated me with Him, and adopted me as His own.
It was all God. By His initiative. By grace. Because of His mercy.
And if He did that, I know He will provide the human companionship I crave–the connection, friendship, and human intimacy that helps me know I am not alone.
Because the truth is, life’s seasons are so much easier when we are together. When we grab another lie-believing, failing, tripping-along-the-way hand, and look up, and walk toward the rising truth together.
Let’s walk together, and watch this truth fall and blanket us.
Giving us hope in our most challenging days.
And letting it makes us pure and white, again and again–hand in hand, together, looking to Him.
When was the last time you admitted you’re almost drowning?
The last time you asked for a friend?
Whose hand could you reach for today, so they might know they’re not alone?