Holy Spirit nudges

Hear It on Sunday: Use It on Monday: Praying for a Joseph-Sized Faith

December 9, 2013 By Michelle

Joseph was one crazy-courageous guy, that’s all I have to say. Think about his situation for a minute. Happily engaged to be married to his young sweetheart Mary, he learns that she’s pregnant, ostensibly with another man’s child. Rather than make a big fuss and create a scandal, Joseph decides to quietly break it off with Mary — until, that is, an angel of the Lord appears to him in a dream.

“Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife,” the angel tells Joseph. “For the child within her was conceived by the Holy Spirit. She will have a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” (Matthew 1:20-21)

Surprise number one: Joseph actually believes what the angel in his dream is telling him is true.

Surprise number two: Joseph listens to the angel and obeys.

Surprise number three: Joseph doesn’t waver, even though he was undoubtedly ridiculed and disdained for his decision.

I regret a lot of decisions I’ve made in my life, but one in particular stands out. I regret the day I heard from God and failed to listen and obey.

Two years ago this February, a week before my father-in-law died, Brad asked me to drive up to Minnesota with him to visit his dad. My mom was in town, ready and willing to hold down the fort, but I said no. I said no despite the fact that I knew I should go. I said no despite the fact that I clearly felt the Holy Spirit prompting me to say yes.

That weekend I let my husband drive seven hours alone to Minnesota, say goodbye to his father for the last time, and drive seven hours alone back to Nebraska. I passed on the opportunity both to be with Brad in his grief and to tell my father-in-law in person that I loved him. It is a decision I deeply regret.

I made plenty of excuses for myself. I needed to stay home with the kids because they were stressed and sad about their grandfather dying. I needed to help my mom. I needed to stay on top of the household responsibilities. But the truth is, I was afraid. I’d witnessed my mother-in-law in her last stages of cancer barely more than a year before, and it had frightened me. Death, I knew from that experience, wasn’t all peace and prayers and quiet comfort like it is on TV. Death was ugly, and it scared me and I didn’t want to see it face-to-face again.

So I said no. I felt the Holy Spirit nudge me – no, kick me, hard, right in the backside – and I said no. I didn’t face the frightening, overwhelming circumstances like Joseph did, in trust and faith. Instead, I turned my back and walked the other way.

I know Brad didn’t hold my decision against me then, and he doesn’t now. I know Jon understood why I wasn’t there, and I know he didn’t judge me for it. And I know, too, that God’s all-encompassing grace covers every last one of my bad decisions, my regrets and even my faithless nos. But still, when I read this story, I wish I’d had Joseph’s bold courage that weekend in February. I wish I’d had his faith.

Questions for Reflection:
Do you feel like you have a Joseph-sized faith? And if not, what do you think is holding you back? Fear? Distrust? Uncertainty? Something else?

Welcome to the Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word each week. If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other #HearItUseIt participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: When the Holy Spirit Doesn’t Come in Tongues and Fire

May 19, 2013 By Michelle

The Holy Spirit first spoke to me in the middle of a church sermon. The irony is that I didn’t believe in God at the time.

You might wonder why I was sitting in a church pew on Sunday morning if I didn’t believe in God. Two reasons. One: I wanted to believe in God, but I didn’t know how to get there. And two (the primary reason): Brad and I had agreed to enroll our son Noah, who was four at the time, in Sunday school. On most Sundays it was simply easier for me to sit in church while Noah was in class, instead of in my car or in the café of the nearby Barnes and Noble. Brad and I took turns each Sunday – one of us brought Noah to Sunday school while the other stayed home with Rowan, who, as a toddler, had a less-than-churchy disposition.

It would have been cool if the Holy Spirit had worked in me that Sunday like he worked in the disciples on Pentecost, when he arrived at the gathering “like the roaring of a mighty windstorm,” settling onto the disciples in “flames and tongues of fire.” (Acts 2:2-3). Frankly, that sort of dramatic display, though terrifying, would have convinced me of the presence of God in a New York minute.

But that’s not the way the Holy Spirit worked in me. In fact, I didn’t even realize it had been the Holy Spirit at work until more than two years later, when I looked back at that Sunday and thought, “Huh … would you look at that.”

What happened that morning in church was that Pastor Greg preached a sermon called “Just Walk across the Room.” It was a message about evangelizing – a call to the congregation to reach out and invite what he called “unchurched” friends, relatives, neighbors and acquaintances to experience God.

The irony, of course, is that while I was sitting in an actual pew in an actual church, I was as unchurched and faithless as any unbeliever on the street.

After I got home from church that morning, I walked immediately downstairs to our basement office, sat at the computer and typed a vague email to Pastor Greg. I simply told him that the morning’s sermon had grabbed my attention, and that perhaps I should stop by his office to talk sometime. The following week I met Pastor Greg in his office and we talked. I admitted to him that I didn’t think I believed in God, but that I wanted to and didn’t know how.

“I believe that God’s with you, that the Holy Spirit is in you, working in you, and has brought you here today,” Pastor Greg had answered that day, looking me straight in the eye as I squirmed in my chair. “And I believe that’s evidence that you’re not as far lost as you think you are.”

I’d like to tell you that when I heard those words, I broke into a rousing chorus of Alleluias and heard the voice of God thunder through the roof of the church.

But the truth is, nothing happened.

While I was relieved to have finally unburdened myself, I also frankly thought Pastor Greg was full of baloney. I simply didn’t believe him. I didn’t even know how to respond to his confident declaration, so I nodded a lot, muttered something along the lines of, “Wow, that’s great, good news, thank you.” And then I drove to the mall and bought a pair of sandals.

But as it turned out, Pastor Greg was right. The Holy Spirit was at work in me. Not in a roaring wind or in tongues of fire. Not in a way that was obvious to me at the time. But working indeed. It just took me another two years to recognize it.

Has the Holy Spirit ever worked in unexpected ways in you? Think back over your life for a minute. Can you think of an experience you’ve always brushed off that might, in fact, be the result of the Holy Spirit’s work?

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Welcome to the “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday” community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information. Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other Hear It, Use It participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!

Meeting Virginia

February 20, 2013 By Michelle

It begins with a note written in blue ballpoint, the script small, the delicate loops and curves only hinting at a quaver. She’s read my newspaper column about practicing the Sabbath and has written to offer encouragement. The following month I receive a second note, and the month after that a third. Each is signed the same way: Your sister in Christ, Virginia.

I write back each time, just a quick note of thanks. This last time, I ask if she’d like to have coffee sometime. I assure her I’m not creepy or a stalker.

Two days later I open the mailbox to find an invitation to a Valentine’s Tea. And so, on Sunday afternoon, Noah and I drive to the retirement complex. We’ve been asked to bring a tea cup, and I know immediately which one I’ll take. It sits on my bedroom dresser next to her silver tray: Nana’s Royal Albert bone china cup and saucer, the pink one with the pastel roses, edges rimmed in gold. Nana had a full set of china teacups, all of them different, but this was the one I always chose. She’d fill it with tea, and with the miniature silver tongs I’d pluck sugar cubes from the footed bowl and drop them one by one into the china cup. When I lifted the rim to my lips, Nana would remind me to sip not slurp and hold my pinkie finger in the air, “like a lady.”

Virginia greets Noah and me at the door. She’s wearing a bright red cardigan, a navy blue skirt and hose. Her white hair is curled and styled. I’m underdressed in jeans, and I’ve forgotten to wear red. Noah grips a black Doane College coffee mug – he’d balked against the “girly” teacup – and I cringe at his sneakers, which are caked with dried mud. “You must be Michelle,” she says, and I clasp my teacup and saucer in one hand as I embrace her at the doorway to the dining room. “This young lady writes for the paper,” she tells to her sister and sister-in-law, and I laugh a little, explaining, “Well only once a month.”

We sit in folding chairs, at long tables covered in vibrant table runners and festooned with flowers and hearts. Noah and I select the green mint tea, and I think of Nana when I hold the handle of my cup with two fingers, my pinkie in the air. We share the stories of our teacups, and I piece together bits of Virginia’s life – Nebraska-born farm girl, Seventh Day Adventist, devoted wife to George, who is down the hall in their first-floor apartment. She’s in her mid-80s, but could easily pass for 70, with her twinkling eyes and neatly coiffed hair.

“We’ll have a ‘cuppa’ sometime – you have my number,” Virginia reminds before I leave. I bend down and quickly kiss her soft cheek. “I look forward to it,” I tell her. “I’ll call you soon.”

As we head out the front doors and into the frigid air, Noah and I both have more spring in our step. It might be the caffeine…or maybe it’s simply from meeting Virginia.

Holy Spirit nudges

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