the dirty laundry show

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” – Jesus (John 3:8, NLT)

I’d prayed YEARS for this moment. I fantasized about it during every altar call, watching from the sidelines as other people’s loved ones faithfully responded to God’s gentle whisper. Where was my happy ending? What about my loved ones? I hadn’t wanted to admit it out loud, but the long and “patient” waiting had me slightly soured. 

All at once, my moment had arrived. Not one but two of my family members were joining the ranks of Jesus followers in that ancient ritual of the holy water dunk. Rather than the pre-planned tears of joy and ecstatic hand wringing, it was all I could do to force the inhales and exhales that kept that afternoon’s lunch from projecting into the horse trough. This was not how things were supposed to go down. 

But then, God never stopped to ask ME what I wanted. Not back in December, when I carted my son, daughter, and husband to a Christmas show at a friend’s church. It was a whole song-and-dance display, the type my stoic family usually eschewed. 

Trying to play the role of enthusiastic fellow parent, the inherent lesson was supposed to imprint upon my kids the importance of supporting their friends. Instead, the ultimate Teacher had other plans: schooling me on how to follow His lead. My eyeballs almost ejected from the car on our way home that night when my husband announced before God and everybody present that he’d like to start attending my friend’s church. 

This was a man who, from the time I’d known him, could barely stomach a religious service of any kind. A man who had only recently begun to make casual appearances at my local congregation of choice – a small but stouthearted community of believers that I had grown to love dearly over the past 12 months, investing real time and energy contributing to the body. It was the first church I had picked on my own and truly vetted after another well-meaning but horrifically misguided church sent me into a months-long dark night of the soul. 

And now I was being told to start over? Are you kidding me? Fine, God. If that’s how you want to play it, I’ll go where my husband is seeking to find you. But I don’t have to like it. At our inaugural church service – the first time in our entire family history that my husband spearheaded us getting out the door on time – I sat silently seething. 

I didn’t want to know these people. I liked my people. The whole experience was a cruel joke. This remained my attitude all through worship and the obligatory greetings. It persisted throughout the entire sermon, in which the pastor exhorted us to let the Holy Spirit impart a guiding word or phrase for the coming year. How corny and trite. 

As they passed around small slips of paper to capture our responses, I made a small show of folding mine into a tight wad and shoving it aggressively into the seat pocket in front of me. I don’t need this simplistic mind exercise; I’ll leave it for the poor sap who does. 

Just then, the worship pastor strummed the beginning chords of “Make Room.” I’d always hated that song. It reminded me of a former life at the previous church where I’d been spiritually eviscerated. But earnestly and unmistakably, I sensed the Spirit’s nudge. This is it, the theme for your year. 

Uggghhh. No way. But immediately, tears began to sting the corners of my eyes. Damn it. Make room for me. Stop striving to control the ride. You can’t. Check and mate.

That was January. By mid-April, through a series of what can only be described as lit’ral miracles, my husband was faithfully attending church every weekend, plus a 6am men’s Bible study on Thursdays. We were reading a chapter of the Old Testament and praying together as a family most nights (his idea), and he spent many Saturdays volunteering at the church food bank with our kids. 

Most astonishingly, the “B” word was being thrown around. This man, who had only ever referenced baptism with heavy sarcasm and an eyeroll, would consider baptism if and when my nine-year-old decided to take The Plunge. My brain was still buffering this information when, on a Saturday during the Lenten season, my daughter announced that she was ready. 

“Okay, sure,” I offered. “We can sign you up next month, give you time to think things over. Make sure you wanna do this.”

“Actually, I want to do it today.” Huh? “And Dad’s gonna do it with me.” What? 

That evening’s service was a blur. I felt nauseated and weak from over-exerting myself, having hauled about 100 cubic feet of soil across our yard with a wheelbarrow on an unseasonably warm afternoon.   

“Mom. Hey, Mom,” my son poked me in the ribs. “You don’t seem that excited.” I was equally astonished at my noticeable lack of waterworks. This was not how I had imagined this moment. This was not how I wanted to feel. Here was a moment of long-awaited triumph, a victory so huge I had struggled hard to accept it may never happen in my lifetime. 

As I knelt on that stage beside the horse trough-turned-baptismal font, surrounded by new faces who had since become much like family, I just felt numb. And nauseated. Perhaps it was God’s way of sparing this room full of semi-strangers from seeing me lose my entire bag of emotional marbles. Maybe it was a special grace for ME not to be forever remembered (and video recorded) as a bawling sh*t show. 

Or maybe the truth was more nuanced than that. I had witnessed four months of warp-speed change in my household. Entire characters, personalities, and preferences had shifted. And I hadn’t had a hand in any of it. I was simply trying, failing, and trying again to “make room.” 

It’s humbling that God can accomplish far more with my getting out of the way than He ever could with my best efforts. But it’s also comforting to know that my family’s salvation and sanctification depend in no way on me and my abilities (or lack thereof). I can say without the slightest hesitation: it is God who got us here, and He will guide us safely Home.