How to be a boring Christian

Jesus found me when I was something like five years old. No fireworks, no flash, no bang. Just me as a child and a few tears pressed out of the corners of my eyes because of a very real fear in a dark theater. I surrendered what little life I had then, and all the rest of my years as well.

If anyone has a boring testimony, it's me.  

I need to tell you, I think the worst thing I've ever done is lie.

I don't say that to brag in self-righteousness about my goodness. Please don't read it like that, although you probably already did. All sin is the same in God's eyes. I am just as ugly and filthy as the next person. I'm saying it though, to put this into context for you. I've never done anything incredibly terrible. I'm not very adventurous. I don't have much real life experience. I can count the R rated movies I've seen on my fingers. And turns out, I'm just a small town girl who's never kissed a boy. In all honesty, most people call it innocence, but the reality of it is, I'm probably a little bit naive. 

I've always felt guilty about that.

When your life is as lulling as mine has been, you begin to doubt the credibility of your salvation. You also begin to feel guilty. 

I worry constantly now that people will assume I expect perfection of them because of the life I've lived. And while I do expect wondrous things of people, I don't expect perfection. That's a ridiculous standard I am trying to rid myself of. I never knew what grace was, and now I feel it's continuously necessary for me to apologize to everyone for my high expectations because I'm still learning to forgive myself. 

And so, I worry. 

I worry that people will think I have a holier-than-thou attitude if I tell them my story. 

I worry that I make people feel guilty about their past actions just by walking into a room and knowing me.

I worry that people will see through my facade of I have tragic circumstances as well and realize that all my tragedies ended in joyfulness and aren't really considered tragic in the first place.

I worry that they will be less willing to befriend me because I live in what seems like a fairytale.

I worry that people will judge me for my simplicity. 

I worry that people will dismiss me as a 'good girl.'

I worry that people will never tell me anything about their heart because they believe I'll not understand. 

I worry that people disregard my words because I'm outspoken about things when I have no valid experiences to relate to those areas and shouldn't say what I think anyway.

I worry that people will think I am always judging them.

I worry that people will notice my doubts and shaking hands.

I worry that people will realize while I pretend to be a Paul, I'm really just a Peter.

I worry that I'll never get married because my ideals all relate to the life I've lived and no one will be willing to try hard enough the be that sort of man. 

I worry that people won't listen to me because there's nothing radical about my testimony, let alone my life. 

I worry that my life is a terrible representation of the Carpenter and His ministry and His heart because it doesn't burst with redemption and change. 

I worry that people will think me little and unwise. 

I worry that I rob the cross of its impact. 

But that's all wrong. I'm going to say that again. That is all wrong.

I was listening to an old sermon of Pastor Tim Chaddick's this morning. He was talking about Hosea and stories and testimonies. And near the end, he shares who he was and how God drastically changed his life for the better. It is all fireworks and flash and bang. Tim Chaddick's testimony is a celebration. It's a redemption story like none other. 

But it's paired with another testimony. 

His wife's.

Her's is subtle, slow, and in all honesty, boring. It's a gentle work that Christ did through her, nothing huge and obvious. Just an incessant, ever-present walk throughout her life. And it was when he shared how he loved her for it, for the mellowness of her story, it was then I realized that this is why we have boring testimonies too. 

There is nothing wrong with having a boring, un-radical testimony. In fact, it's a necessary thing. Because when you have that simple, constant surrender of your life to Christ, you also have an amazing gift to give. You get to be a grace-giver. You get to be an actual illustration of mercy and love. You get to forgive people in a real manner that speaks to their heart. You get to demonstrate Jesus on a different level. It's not better and it's not less than. It's different. 

You, yes you. With your boring, plain testimony that took place probably sometime in your childhood and you feel like nothing drastic ever happened to you and you have no validity to preach the gospel with your story packaged neatly in your hands. 

You are necessary. 

More so than you think.

Because there are people out there who have the radical stories. The life-changing moments when everything turned around and Christ was so evident and obvious you could grab for Him. Those people, they feel guilty. The feel like grace is far-fetched. They walk around unsure that anyone so 'right' in comparison to themselves could ever accept them, let alone love them. They still feel the weight of all their sin. Their past, they carry it in their pockets, hiding it with a fervency and constantly worried that it will fall out or someone will get a peek. They live a life of forgiveness from Christ coupled with un-forgiveness from themselves. And while it's not necessary for all of these radical story people to be found and loved by a simple story person, it is important for some. 

Even after Jesus and His grace, it is important for some people to be found by a small worker and their grace. 

Your ministry as a considerably almost 'perfect' lover of the Lord who has never done anything relatively bad seems tiny in comparison to the hugely authentic and compelling lives of those who have done almost everything bad and completed a turn-around like none other seen before. You can't really preach in that persuasive manner, and oftentimes we regret that. 

Maybe you're like me. Maybe when you were younger you lied and fashioned for yourself problems that you never really had, struggles that never really took place. Maybe you made the things that actually did happen bigger than they were. Maybe you cried at something that didn't really crush your heart, but your tears gave it more legitimacy. Maybe you spent time on your knees, always worried that your friends would realize you have no idea what you're talking about when you tell them you can understand, when you pretend to relate to them in their difficult circumstances. 

Maybe you were a liar because you feared God has no use for those that seem to be smaller saints with less shiny stories than all the rest. 

Ministering to those who have 'messed up' on a deeper level by the world's standards of sin is not a grievous and less-than position though. 

It's beautiful. 

And you're one of the only people who can do it.  The fact that Jesus has lived in your heart and your life is one rhythmic pattern of constant devotion is not cause for grief. It should be a call for joy. 

Not everyone has lived a life which renders them capable of displaying Jesus in a beautiful way to those who haven't. 

Don't get me wrong, your forgiveness is no more valid than forgiveness from others, but it is gorgeous in a different manner nonetheless. 

Can you imagine making every mistake in the book, living a life rampant with sin and destruction, and then one day waking up and turning to someone who has tried daily to be better than they ever have been and righter still, and they look at you and say, it's okay. All that stuff you did, I don't hold it against you. I think you're beautiful anyway. And because Jesus forgave me, I can forgive you. I forgive you.
I forgive you.
Those are probably some of the most powerful words you could ever say to another soul.

We each preach the Carpenter differently through our lives. Whether it's a radical, beautiful change that slams onto the chest of everyone who hears it in a breathless way that catches in your throat, choking you with tears, or it is a devoted, simple life that was lived with a loyalty that followed all the rules all the days, they are both important. 

We are all creatures of the cross once we're sinners saved by grace. 

Don't belittle God's ability to use each of his beings in a beautiful way by counting yourself and your story useless. His plan is always better than we imagine. Have faith in that. 

You never know if you're going to meet a Tim Chaddick who thinks the most beautiful thing he's ever seen is the most boring thing you've ever been. 

Jeremiah 29:11 says, "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for peace and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope." So often we need to know everything about everything. I think sometimes though, it should be enough that God knows everything about everything. It should be enough that even in our boringness we are promised a future and a hope.

Your purpose isn't something you know all the time. Usually, it's something you do. 

If you are interested in listening to Pastor Tim Chaddick's sermon, it can be found here. If you are interested in reading a small part of what else I think about boring testimonies, you can find that here. And if you have any thoughts or questions or ever want to meet for coffee, you can always email me . I think we need to share our thoughts more with one another, so please, let's make more of an effort to get to know one another and share the beautiful things we know of and are learning. 

Wendy

My father and my little sister just walked out the door and drove off. They are going to Romania. Some 7000 miles and more, away. For two weeks, and then for three months.
And then I am going.
Four hours from here. From this little white house. From the peach and the plum trees. From the hens. From the books and the memories and the dreams. From childhood. From youth.
From my family.
Four hours from my family for two years.

I cannot even express the pull on my heart right now. How many salty tears are trailing down my face. How my hands are shaking.

I have never loved anyone so much as I love my family.

I have always been Wendy. It became so obvious to me last night as I wrapped myself in a quilt and wrote letters to my father and my sister and I sobbed. I was always Wendy. With the flying and the stories and the loving of Peter. The full heart and the tears and the responsibilities. The stubbornness. The thimbles and the little house. The fascination with fairies. The mermaids. The dreams.
I stood on the cusp of womanhood last night. Peter pulling on my nightdress. Saying, come with me. Fly away with me. Come back to Neverland. 
But I couldn't.
I am already grown.
There are lost boys Peter, I told him, more of them than your's. I need to find them. I need to help them. I need to help people. And he cried. Loud, ripping sobs. And so did I.
The moon even cried with us last night.

We cannot always stay young.

This is the hardest thing I've ever done. Saying goodbye, but also saying, I'll be back. I promise I'll come back. My mouth is full of salt and tears. I've never had that happen to me before. And I have cried, I have wept my heart out. But never this, this taste. Mingled with my breath and the blankets I press against my mouth as I try to catch the scent of my favorite girl, the one flying across the world. Part of me says that I can't do it. The little Wendy says that. Barefoot in her nightgown. Trembling at the window. I just want to sit down and give up and quit. I just want to stay. I can't do this, she says. And it's the truth.
But then I look in the mirror.
And she's already older. She's already a woman. She has to do this. She couldn't even remember how to fly if she wanted to. It's all gone now. And so, she can do this.

I can do this.

When I was tiny and smaller and little, I used to wish my heart out to leave this place. It seemed lonely and godforsaken. But I was just selfish.
Now I wish I could take all of that back.
Can I just say that? Can I just really be honest? This seems too big. This seems too hard. God has captured my heart so kindly and gently this past year. He has shaped me and directed me in a new way. He has pushed, with a strong hand on the small of my back. He has led and guided me in a beautiful way. And now my eyes are open. Now I am less selfish. Now I see where I am supposed to go, what I am supposed to do, this mountain I am climbing. This mountain I am to move.

Today that mountain seems too big.

And that's okay. I am learning that. I am learning it is okay to doubt. To think you can't do this. To just fall on your face and weep. I am learning it is okay to miss people before you're even gone. Because God is with me. He is building me, growing me. He gives me things that seem too big.
Because nothing is impossible for me.
Even when I am that woman-Wendy, and I run back to the nursery in fear that someone will tell me to grow up. Someone will dare me to move, to change. Someone will make me. And so I sit in the rocking chair with my knees pulled to my chest trying to make myself smaller, trying to will myself to fly. Trying to disappear. I know, even then, that nothing is too hard for me. That nothing is too big for me. That nothing is impossible for me. This threshold I have to cross over is huge, a gap that is yawning, a chasm that is wide. But it is not impossible. It feels that way, but it is not.

I laid in my bed last night and tried to remember everything. All of my best and greatest moments. All of the loveliest times. It is so important right now that I do that. This change, this transition, is heartbreaking. It is gut-wrenching. It is full of sobs and blossoming with newness and aching in my bones with growth. To remember right now makes it even harder, but it also speaks to the gorgeousness and the grace of this. I am not alone in it; I am never alone and never have been. There are people near and dear to me who feel the same things. Who suffer through these changes with me. And it is that mutual suffering that makes this state of being all the harder and all the better.
I need to make room in my heart for new memories. For new people. For new friendships. I am not saying goodbye, I am only leaving for a little while. And then I will come back with all of them, and share and share and share. We go on adventures to tell those that we love about them.
So I am reminding myself of that. And I remembering everything else.
It is very possible, that I have lived one of the most magical lives. One of those itseemstoogoodandtooperfecttobereal lives. The ones with forts in the backyard and rope swings in the maple trees. With hours of searching for fairies and days of living in palaces. A life with a hundred books. A childhood with a million dreams. Years of discoveries and experiments and challenges. With butterflies collected in teacups and dragonflies hidden in pockets. With secret meetings in the pear tree. With stargazing on the roof. With picnics in the hot sun on a quilt your mother made. With hands pressed in the cool dirt, the earth, as you plant tulips in a row. A life of mystery. A childhood of pages and pages of poems. Years of love and love and love and friendship. The sweetest friendship with your sisters and your brother.
A life of togetherness.

And then there's the salt again, in my mouth.

I never thought I was Wendy. That's probably why this is too hard. Why this mountain is too big. Five years ago, if you would have looked at me and handed me "Peter Pan" and said, it's you. You are her, I would have scoffed. Threw back my head and laughed. Now I wring my hands and cry. Because it would have been the truth you told me then. I am so pitiful I did not even know myself.
This is the best thing about me, that I cherish like this. That I love this hard.

I am Wendy Darling, and I never want to be anyone else.

I miss so much this morning, that pushing mountains is something I won't do today.
And that is okay.
I am fine with that.