Years ago, I used to have a recurring dream that I’d somehow gone to work without my pants on. Inevitably, I would be unable to leave. Multiple crises would arise, and I would navigate them all, seated behind my desk, desperate for an opportunity to slip out undetected before anyone noticed that something was amiss below my missing belt.That dream actually revealed a reality – for years I navigated life seemingly capably but with something desperately important missing.
After foolishness and rebellion destroyed my college years, I somehow pulled things together, married a decent guy, got a job and lived in a nice little house in the suburbs. As I headed through my thirties, I didn’t bother with church – or God – most of the time. I’d go once in a while, driven by a yearning I didn’t really understand, but I felt I was a pretty good person without church. I was a self-proclaimed "spiritual" person.
And then I had my son. After miscarriage and years of infertility, I had a normal pregnancy and a healthy baby boy. He was a miracle and it brought me to my knees. I realized how desperately I needed God. I’d been ignoring him, marginalizing Him – and yet he blessed me with a miracle I did not deserve to remind me that He is a God of grace. I live in that grace every day and I long to share, in a sometimes raw authentic way, the gift I’ve discovered in Him.