Wandering Back Into the Light

Debby Howell-Moroney, her husband Michael and their, at that time, small children Maddy and Ian, were part of our Delaware church while Michael was getting his PhD. They moved on to Birmingham many years ago, but we were so thankful to see them this summer when they visited the Mid-Atlantic region. Debby is a tireless advocate for social justice, so I asked her to do a guest blog. It’s different from what I expected, but I believe you will find it as challenging as I did.

I am finally coming out of a long dry spell, spiritually speaking. If you’ve been a believer longer than a week, you probably know exactly what I am talking about. Never one to see things as “half-empty,” I like to reflect on the children of Israel being led into the wilderness. God rescued them from Egypt, but this wasn’t exactly the Promised Land either. There was—and still is— a purpose to the wilderness. God doesn’t intend to leave us there either. That is what keeps me going. God had something better, awesome, amazing, planned for the children of Israel on the other side—they just couldn’t see it from where they were.

God has something better for you and God had something better for me too, and I think I caught a glimpse of it today. Back when I was feeling loved and special and basking in His glow (while I drove my minivan to ballet practice, changed diapers, and did mountains of laundry), my spiritual life consisted of daily conversations and meditations with God in the most unlikely places: the shower, while driving, or sitting in the car-pool line at preschool. I am, and maybe will always be, a completely undisciplined and rebellious Bible reader. I don’t want anyone making me feel guilty about how and when and with what frequency I “do” a “quiet time.”

Thankfully, God finds a way of smooshing in through the cracks and the spilled cans of soda. Bless Seeds Family Worship and The Donut Man—they are largely responsible for my knowledge of Scripture, with their catchy little jangles and funky little beats. (Those and my sweet childhood friend who dragged me along to every VBS and Awana meeting they held at her church.) God takes snippets of Scripture and puts meditations in my mind—often during “McPrayers” or while humming praise music that has stuck in my brain from Sunday morning worship.

I don’t know when He stopped speaking to me or, more likely, when I stopped hearing Him.

Somewhere in there we stopped leading a small group at our home on Sunday night. I stopped attending the playgroup that I have been going to since we moved to Alabama in 2002. I no longer have a preschool age child to use as an excuse to show up, religiously, for a recharge. Money got tight and we got busier with the busyness of life. Our desire to be foster parents ground to a halt as the certification process was inexplicably prolonged by bureaucratic inefficiencies. My 2½-year tenure of hip-hop dance fitness ended right as I was completing the process of becoming an instructor. What does it all really matter anyway?

Sometimes I think we get lost in similar “what does it matter” funk. We get to feeling as though we can’t make a difference on our own in the world around us or in the world at large. It’s not that I ever really felt like what I do doesn’t matter; I just felt like if I didn’t do those things, that wouldn’t matter either. After all, what is one Bible study group, more or less?

I received a note in the mail this week that began the course of my redemption from this dry place. It was from Alabama Youth Home. AYH regularly uses telemarketing to raise money for the youth they serve in several group homes. I typically pledge 10 or 20 bucks when they call and faithfully write a check when the pledge form arrives.

But this wasn’t a typical mailing from them. Inside was a letter reminding me of a $10 pledge I made back in January 2010 that I hadn’t mailed in. “Unbelievable,” I thought. Can you imagine—they were collecting on a commitment that I had made back in January and neglected to fulfill. As I am sure you can imagine, our budget was tight in January in the post-holiday crunch. I had made my usual pledge, but by the time the collection envelope had arrived, our money was nearly gone for the month and I had blown it off. What is $10, anyway? No big deal. Right?

Why on earth would they be collecting now? That seems crazy. Surely people make pledges and don’t pay them all the time, right? Maybe, but it struck me as incredible, brilliant. Assuming they are coming up on the end of their budget year and with a tightening economy, what an interesting thing to count unpaid pledges as assets. I love it. I made a pledge; I needed to honor it. I was convicted, and so I wrote a check—for $20—and dropped it in the mail.

I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was last night when I was washing dishes and God shared the phrase, “Be a person worthy of respect, because it is the right thing to do. Don’t do it for recognition because you will largely go unnoticed.” Or perhaps it was in the car today when I clearly heard Him say, “No act, done in love, is too small when it’s done in my name.” That’s when I realized I had really missed hearing His voice. I am glad it is back or that I am listening again.