Confessions of a spiritual hole-poker

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I have a typewriter, an old beige-gray Adler from the 1950s. This isn’t all that extraordinary anymore, I know a lot of writers and vintage lovers who have them. Although I don’t know how many use them.

I use mine. It was a gift from a dear friend to help me as I moved through prayer and therapy. I love a keyboard over hand journaling but I needed one without connectivity, somewhere to write where copy/paste to twitter simply wasn’t a choice. Somewhere I could write and pray and be without temptation to promote or share.

So in the mornings I do my prayers on my typewriter, or at least I’m starting to.

If you ever paint me as a disciplined, have it all together writer, pastor’s wife person: please refer to this postor this one… for a little perspective. Then read the rest of this post and all false beliefs well be well and truly shattered.

But some mornings lately I do write and pray and talk to God via typewriter, earlier this week I found myself writing something that surprised me. It plunked slowly from my fingertips and as it took shape I knew it was a prayer worth holding onto.

“God, I feel like I’ve been living in skepticism when it comes to you. Doubting much and believing little. Help me survey this crumbled foundation of faith and start re-piecing my beliefs back together”

I’ve developed this bad habit over the past 10 years. I poke holes in spiritual things. If you read me a scripture, share a theological truth or play me a praise song I immediately look for ways it’s not true.

How it hasn’t applied to my life
Times in which God didn’t come through
Spots where it feels like BS

For I know the plans I have for you…
Really? You planned this for me?
And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts..
This is what I suck at being a Christian…Got no peace.

I use the bible to tear myself down, to prove why I’ll never hack it as a Pastor’s wife, why I’m a total hypocrite and surely one of those lukewarm types on the fast track to being spit into the bowels of Hell. I’m nothing if not dramatic in my inner monologue Continue reading