Diary of an Underachieving Churchgirl

I do not mean to suggest to any soul that I am a great writer, worthy of a following. This place is for community. It is for people of faith to seek and find God in the support of one another. It is meant to be a conversation. I have my own daily issues with not ever measuring up, with perpetual underachieving in the arena of living out my Christianity, and I share my daily struggle and joy with any person who longs for community, as I do. I just want to be part of the conversation.   It’s tempting to endeavor to compete in the blogging world, to strive to measure up there, too. I follow a few excellent writers. Sometimes I envy them their success. But as I work out in my own mind what I really want this to be, it’s not about proving myself worthy to be in the same league as the greats. It’s about you. I write with you in mind. My hope is that when you are discouraged, when the Sunday morning high has dissipated and the Monday morning blues set in, you know you...

“Don’t talk to me about your crazy, made-up religion.” These are words recently spoken to someone I know by his devout Jewish friend. My friend had only asked his Jewish friend if he celebrated Christmas, as some Jews do. It was around Christmastime and my friend wanted to know if he should wish his Jewish friend a merry Christmas. I suppose the Jewish friend thought my friend was attempting to convert him to Christianity by bringing up Christmas. I don’t know. What I do know is their friendship ended in the moments the ugly words were spoken.  “Don’t talk to me about your crazy, made-up religion.” We are surprised when poison like this comes out of peoples’ mouths, especially people who are our friends. The hate-filled words come out of nowhere and sort of blindside us, like a sucker-punch, knocking the breath and words right out of us, with no warning. Everything is fine and normal and then, BOOM we’re knocked down, stunned. We can almost hear the hissing soun...

I decided to stay home from church today, on Easter Sunday. Don’t tell my mother. I made the decision last night, after a Saturday filled with to-dos and social obligations that drained my energy, made me snap at my kid for getting out of the bath too slowly, and hate my husband. “I love Jesus and everything… but I want to enjoy a quiet day at home tomorrow instead of going to church,” I said to my husband, “On Easter.” We’ve been married now 16 years. We get each other. He believes strongly he is on the autism spectrum, and I believe he is, also. Our kiddo, who is seven, was diagnosed with autism when he was 2. I am… well, I’m just me. While my husband and my son can tell you all about what it’s like to have Autism Spectrum Disorder, sensory processing difficulties, and selective eating, I have a difficult time telling you about what it’s like to have the weird things I have. Paralyzing introversion at times. Social awkwardness. Social anxiety. Debilitating insecurity. So...

When I was a young twenty-something, my Mom and my Dad handed me an orange Nike shoebox for my birthday. I was a broke college student, and a pair of totally cool new running shoes with the Nike “swoosh” on the side would be the most Awesome. Thing. Ever.   But alas, there were no running shoes inside the Nike box. Instead, I opened the box to find a huge, leather-bound study Bible with gold-leaf-edged pages and my name emblazoned in gold lettering on the front. Talk about disappointment. I thought I would cry right then and there. But… (Yes, but. Hallelujah, BUT !) Something happened between the shoebox Bible and me. The thing was so hefty . I lugged it around with me wherever I went. It had all these footnotes and little mini-sermons in the middle of chapters. I remember learning that one of the roots of the word “baptism” is “to pickle.” God, I want to be “pickled” in You, I prayed. And God and I laughed together. He knew what I meant. He loved me sitting near t...

My mom and dad left for home this morning after a week-long visit with us. They stayed in our guest room, ate our food, and put their feet up in our living room in the evenings while they watched the news and ate ice cream. My dad installed a sprinkler system in our back yard, despite being 77 years old, and only played golf one day. My mom handed me money every time we went grocery shopping, and told me I am a strong, tall tree with roots that go down deep into the soil of God’s faithfulness, a sort of anchor of strength for my family. My parents are proud of me because I choose to believe God’s got me no matter what, and continue to serve Him the best I can after all these years, in my own stop-and start, underachieving way. It is true, I have not let my faith go, and they are the biggest reason I have not. So this is church, my friends. Parents, or parent-types, bringing you up in the faith, always there for you, encouraging you, praying for you, rooting for you, loving...