About this last year I was beyond thrilled to hop on a plane by myself to head up to Philadelphia for a few days. I was going at the invitation of a pastor friend who had asked me to speak at his staff retreat. But knowing that such chances to be away with focused time were rare, I decided to add a day and a half to my trip to meet with a dear friend and wise mentor to help me sort through all these ideas and dreams I had for this thing called “Freed to Soar.”
Our time together was beautiful, restful, and life-giving in every way. We spent time in a dim-lit living room with coffee and in prayer. We talked as we picked vegetables at a local farm coop. We dreamed as we paddled kayaks over the still waters of a nearby lake. She shared with me things I never would have guessed about her childhood, her marriage, and the different paths God had led her on to get where she was that day. When the Uber came that final morning, I didn’t want to get in. I just wanted to stay there and to continue to soak in all the gifts God was giving me through this incredible woman and this sacred time. It was one of the sweetest gifts I had been given in my lifetime.
I came to her armed with about a 50-page stack of “data.” It included my mission statement, my goals, my limitations, my strengths and my weaknesses, and about 20 pages of analysis on all the personality tests I had explored and how those might relate to my ministry moving forward. Her job, in my mind, was to help me untangle and make sense of all of this data in order to figure out what was next. But there was one more thing in that stack of paper. It was a sampling of some of my writing.
And THIS was probably the place I felt most naked, most vulnerable.
It was in one of our later “sessions” that we finally got to this daunting part of the journey. I think that moment would have been scary with anyone. But it was amplified with her. You see, she was herself a writer. She wrote a beautiful blog and had even completed a book—something that to this day sounds like a goal beyond anything I could ever dream to attain. I told her that I thought a blog was the right place to start. After all, I had made it no farther than chapter 2 or maybe 3 in any of the four books I had begun to write. I didn’t have the time or discipline to finish something so lofty. But a blog, a blog I could do!
She sat quietly reading one of the articles I had written. I could feel my heart begin to race. I could feel my skin grow hotter. It was as if she were reading one of my deepest secrets. She was quiet. Her face gave away nothing. Did it resonate? Did she think it was garbage? Was she trying to figure out in her head how to tell me that I should stick to my day job or washing dishes and folding laundry?
Finally, she stopped and she looked at me. She paused for an uncomfortably long time and then she smiled and said:
“I think you should keep writing. I think you should go home and start your blog.”
Phew! She didn’t think I was a fraud. From there I talked about the things I felt were holding me back. We talked a little about different platforms and webhosts. And then I said something that caused this steady woman to laugh:
“I have about 10 posts written, but I would feel a lot better if I had more like 20 in my pocket before I go live.”
Why did she laugh?!
Part of it was probably because she had lived a lot more life than I had and had learned over the years how much you can count on things going exactly the what you planned. Part of it was likely because by this point in our time together she understood me better than ever before. Before this trip she mostly knew me as a young mom, wife and youth pastor. Now she was knowing the decade older and wiser (or at least way more self-aware) version of me. The mere 50-page stack she had in her hand probably spoke all she needed to know: she now knew I was an Enneagram One; that my ducks were SACRED, and that I was paralyzed to move forward unless 1) those ducks were neatly in their rows and 2) they promised me they would at no point of the journey dare to jump out of line.
While I wish so much now that I could quote her directly, here was the gist of what she said to me after she giggled that quiet giggle:
“That’s not the point of a blog, Allie. It is not this perfectly orchestrated and curated collection of writings. That’s a book. A blog is a commitment to write whatever God is speaking to you on a particular day. Some days it may be long and linear and pointed. Other days you just commit to show up. That day’s post may be: ‘I’m here and I don’t have much to say, but….’”
The idea terrified me. It terrified me because to do so would be to relinquish control—to trust that God would speak to me; or that He wouldn’t, and I would be okay admitting to that fact.
I went home and sat with these words. I am still sitting with these words. I did start that blog…with only TWELVE posts in the bank. I did it scared. But I did it. And yet, I still found my way to hold onto control. I still looked back often to make sure those duckies were exactly where I placed them in line.
And then Covid19…. And then racial unrest….
When Covid hit, I looked at the spreadsheet of posts (most of which I had already written) I planned to share from then until the end of 2020, and I knew I had to scrap it all. All of that hard work was gone. My safety net was ripped out from under me. I didn’t know if I would be able to produce the one or two posts a week I had planned for. I didn’t know if I would be able to write at all. But the moment demanded something different. I needed to write about whatever God was speaking to me in that moment, because it was much more likely that those things were the things people needed to hear.
When Covid hit, I started again with the list of things I believed God was speaking to me about living and loving through the pandemic…. NEW SPREADSHEET. And then George Floyd was killed and I started another list of things I believed God was speaking to me about living and loving through racial unrest…. NEW SPREADSHEET. And then the things happening in our political realm got even crazier and more divisive and I started again with a list of things I believed God was speaking to me about living and loving through the most divisive political landscape we have ever found ourselves in…. NEW SPREADSHEET.
My poor, POOR ducks!!
I could see them running around behind me pecking at benches for food, not knowing who they were following or where they were going or perhaps if they were even ducks at all!
I felt like a sailboat on the sea without a rudder. How in the world could I lead anyone when I just felt like every time a wind started moving me in one direction, some new wind would come and radically alter my course? At times I wondered if there was someone up in the sky looking down with pity on this silly little sailor who had sailed 1000 miles without ever leaving a circle with a 10-mile radius.
It has been six months and God is teaching me very, very slowly, because apparently, I am a very, very slow learner. But as I sit here filled with profound moments of hearing from the Lord that have NOTHING to do with Covid or racial justice or politics and everything to do with what God is teaching me about my own soul, I am drawn back to the giggle and the wise words of that mentor. And there is one word that keeps rising up:
INTERLUDE
Merriam Webster defines an interlude as “an intervening or interrupting period, space, or event.” And boy, does this definition resonate! I feel like this moment in my life is an interlude. It feels like one big, bad interruption. It feels different from everything else that has come before it. But I also think it is here to shake me up and to draw my attention to the things that are out of whack in my life.
Do you feel that too? Do you feel like you are in the middle of an interlude?
I was never a good artist. Do you know why? My art lacked freedom. I was decent at copying an image line for line, dot for dot. But if you asked me to start with the brush, rather than the pencil, I couldn’t do it. That would require letting go and trusting myself in a way that feels way too unsafe.
I have such a desire to sail my sailboat from North America to Europe. I have a vision. I have a destination. The fact that I can’t seem to get myself past Bermuda is beyond frustrating. And yet, I believe that there must be something in that little plot of ocean that needs my attention more than the destination I am ultimately headed for. Perhaps a storm is brewing, and I need to stay where I am while it passes. Perhaps I am not quite as good at sailing as I think I am, and I need to master the basics in the safety of this small patch of water before I set out on the open ocean. Perhaps there are things on my sailing vessel that are broken and need to be repaired and this is the only place I can safely do it.
I don’t know the why. But I trust the One who brings the wind to set me sailing when the time and conditions are right.
But while I wait, I am learning to embrace the interlude. I am learning to embrace it on the bigger scale. But I am seeking to embrace it in the mundane as well. I am praying to God for the strength to resist the urge to try and set my sails on Europe when He is screaming at me to pay attention to what is happening in my boat today.
So, if you are a professional “Duck Liner Upper” like me, I want to apologize to you. I am sorry my ducks have been so disobedient. And I am sorry to have to tell you this, but I have decided to let them peck around for a while wherever they want to go. Because from now on, instead of trying to discipline them into obedience to my way, I am going to follow them, observe them, and see what I can learn from where they go and what they do once they are there.
I do plan to continue to talk about politics, and to talk about racial justice. But I also plan to give myself permission for some Interludes. When God teaches me something that has nothing to do with either or those subjects, I plan to listen to the wise advice of my dear mentor. I plan to show up, to listen and sometimes to share with you all that I heard when I did. I pray that in these places, in these spaces where God has much to pour into my soul, that there is something in the overflow meant to get you wet as well in all of the best ways possible.