I’ve just come from a long walk in the summer heat (be thankful you can’t smell me). Mark and I were running errands and he suddenly remembered he needed to be somewhere soon. I wanted to head home. When we got to the end of the main thoroughfare to our neighborhood I said, “You can drop me off at the corner and I’ll walk. I was planning to exercise anyway.”

He agreed and unceremoniously deposited me in front of a stoplight. I wondered what the truck in front of us speculated about this occurrence. Lovers’ quarrel? Suspicious character in yoga pants?

I’d driven down this particular road dozens of times but never walked it. Whizzing by in the car I didn’t notice how the red dust tastes like copper on your tongue. I didn’t hear the roar of cars in a hurry and know the way a semi-truck can sneak up on you like a snorting bull. I found out the pair of scruffy dogs behind a chain link fence were friends not fighters.

At first I felt intrigued by all of this but as the minutes went on and the sun beat down I began to notice other things too. I realized how unbearably warm the air is mid-afternoon, how there are cracks in the sidewalk waiting for unsuspecting toes, how the hills seem so much steeper and more exhausting when you don’t have an engine.

I glanced at the cars going past me and imagined one of them noticing my growing angst then rolling down their windows to give me advice. “Pick up the pace,” they might say, “Swing your elbows more.” At this point my response might be something which could not be publicly mentioned. I then considered how we live in a world of drive by opinions. We face a challenge in life and suddenly people have all kinds of thoughts about it. Well-meaning folks make off-handed remarks that start with, “You know you really should….”

I’ve come to believe if we have not walked a particular road personally then we ought to approach any comments about it very, very carefully. Because sometimes life drops us off on the corner and there is no time for preparation—only perspiration. When this happens we don’t need “how to” but instead “me too.” We need folks who will just come alongside us or at least tell us they’ve been there. We need to hear we’re still loved, it’s okay to not be okay and small steps add up to big things. We need the grace of Jesus.

If we find ourselves the recipient of lots of unsolicited advice (or even criticism) we often become overwhelmed. Then we feel shame and guilt because we’re not doing it right, because we’re melting on the sidewalk while going the speed of an ancient tortoise. The cars keep coming by with people yelling what they think we should do out the windows. We try to apply it all but we can’t. If we were good people and better Christians then we would be able to do it the way everyone tells us we should. What’s the matter with us?

We can become discouraged when we begin to think we have to do what everyone else tells us is the best way. The reality is it’s their way.

I finally rounded the corner to our neighborhood and breathed a sigh of relief.

From now on I’ll look at the road I walked down differently. And if someone told me they were about to start down that same path there would be plenty I could say. But I think I’d stick to this, “Thanks for telling me. I’ve been down that road too. You can do it. It’s going to be both harder and more beautiful than it seems. I’m cheering for you.”

XOXO
Holley Gerth

This post is featured on (in)courage today. You’re invited to join the conversation and leave a comment there!

p.s. If you’d like more encouragement in your walk with Jesus you’ll find it in Hope Your Heart Needs: 52 Encouraging Reminders of How God Cares for You. It’s brand new and here’s a free excerpt.

I walk the aisles of an unfamiliar grocery store in the town where we’re vacationing. It’s strange how places have their scents — this one is sunscreen and mangoes and salt. I pass the deli and the cereal aisle, the ice cream coolers and the rows of egg cartons. Eventually I find the school supply section. It’s small, as if such pursuits in a beach town are to be hidden rather than encouraged.

I stand in front of the spiral notebooks, clean and new. Small worlds of possibility bound with wire. In my eagerness I reach too quickly for a notebook. In doing so I clumsily brush the edge of a box of light bulbs sitting just to the left of it. I watch, slow motion, as they tumble like a bird shot by a hunter and land with a thud on the linoleum floor.

The box is solid and I can’t see the bulbs inside so at first I hope. Surely they’re fine, I tell myself. It wasn’t that hard of a bump. It wasn’t that far of a fall. But when I pick up the little package I hear it, the sound of shattered pieces on the inside. I shake it just to be sure like an inquisitive baby would a rattle and it sounds like wind chimes. I cannot appreciate the lovely noise. It only sounds like fear and failure to me.

I stand for a moment, notebook in one hand and box in the other. Then I march, determinedly, to the customer service desk as if I’m a student on the way to the principal’s office. I have always been a rule follower and on the single occasion I got sent to the office (for chatting with my boyfriend in the hallway long after the bell had rung), I walked with my head lowered and shoulders slumped. My posture is the same as I approach the counter and hold out the box, the source of such shame.

The young woman behind the counter tilts her head curiously. I clear my throat and prepare for my confession, sure I will be sent to the grocery store version of jail. “I knocked this over and it broke,” I say, finally daring to meet the eyes of my judge and jury.

She pauses for a moment and considers me, standing there in such a state of sad penance. Then she laughs right out loud, a sound like the waves against the shore, and exclaims, “Girl, we all make mistakes every day. You don’t have to pay anything.” I stand there, shocked and grateful before stammering a “thank you” and backing away slowly as if she might change her mind. Then quite unexpectedly, tears come to my eyes.

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P.S. If you’d like more encouragement and grace, you’ll find it in my new gift book with DaySpring, Promises from God for Life’s Hard Moments, and the companion journal (the cover says, “She Believed She Was Loved and It Made Her Brave”).

I licked the peanut butter frosting around the entire rim of a cookie sandwich. I did this in the car, shamelessly, at a stoplight on my way home from a prayer meeting. Because I am human. And this is the sort of thing humans, even when they know better, sometimes do.

I am not advocating this behavior. Someone once told me if you can’t be an example then be a warning. So consider yourself warned. I will say I felt provoked and prodded toward that cookie sandwich with a red-hot stick. But who am I kidding? It was my foot on the gas and my voice in the drive-through saying, “You’re all out of cupcakes? Well, I’ll just take a cookie sandwich with peanut butter frosting, thanks.”

All of this came after an epic day. I showed up at an event this morning where I thought I was simply going to be participating. “Come and pray,” they said. “Casual,” they promised. “No big deal,” they demurred.

But when I walked through the door I heard instead, “Oh, there’s our guest author!” I stared, wide-eyed, and thought about backing away slowly, slowly. Then this, “You’ve been told you’re facilitating this, right?” I pinched my arm to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I thought I might faint. I wondered if someone else might be standing behind me, someone more responsible and spiritual and loud who would love to be the on-the-spot-MC for a gathering of strangers. One of the coordinators, noting my discomfort, offered, “I could lead if you want me to.”

I wish I could say I picked the brave way, that I chose to be bold and pulled my shoulders back as I quoted, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” But instead I shoved that outline into her hands like it was a hot potato and said, “Have at it.” She looked startled and I realized then it was not a real offer. It was a polite offer.

Now there were two wide-eyed women standing there with a crowd building around us. She looked at me. I looked at her. Who would back down first? The official leader, a very nice man, must have sensed the fear and hormones drifting through the air. He took the paper and said, “Okay, I’ll do it.” At this point I could have gathered my wits and guts and stepped up to the plate. Instead I just said, at the exact same time as the scared silly woman next to me, “Great!”

In spite of me it turned out to be a really beautiful time. One woman attending talked to God in this intimate, gorgeous way that made me want to start all over in prayer kindergarten and learn everything again. She cried tears in front of us, who didn’t know her at all, and I thought about the woman who broke the alabaster jar on the feet of Jesus. She broke herself right there, without shame or hesitation, and I could sense the delight of God in her doing so. By the time we ended I felt breathless and blessed. And I remembered this lesson: I am human and God is God and both of these things are good.

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