Tacos

It's 4am and I can't sleep. Someone said something last night that stung like a bee sting. I can know their intentions were not personal, I can speak truth to myself and truly believe it, but in the moment, it's no less painful. And darn if I can never hide my true feelings; they're always written all over my face.

I brought my butterfly to the Wednesday night ministry again this week. And gave another sweet girl a ride home last night too. She and I go way back - my first ever baptism on my first Sunday on staff, a bridge from one life to this other - and at this point, I would even consider her a friend. She could tell something was wrong and, like a friend would, asked...

So I shared the nutshell version and she encouraged me. And, because she was there in the car, my butterfly heard it too.

In all the things we've done to show her we care, I think that has meant the most. Being my real, authentic self - no mask, nowhere to hide - broke through a barrier last night. Though we've only know each other a week, I can tell that meant a lot to her, that I would share my real stings.

I dropped off my girl, and then my butterfly and I went to go get tacos. It's quickly becoming a sweet tradition. She giggled when I remembered her order. We pulled around through the drive through, bag in hand, and she said, "Would it be ok if we ate together before we go?"

So with the car heater blasting, shredded cheese and lettuce falling onto paper wrapping in my lap, hot sauce packets everywhere, my butterfly opened up. Her wings started to unfurl. Her countenance totally changed. She was more relaxed, more herself. She told me real things, her own stings...

Sometimes we think, I've always thought, we have to have it all together to be effective. Perfection, I was always modeled, is how people respect and listen. How to be taken seriously. But in this way, leadership must always be about masks that get heavier as time goes on. No one can sustain that because no one is without stings. In mercy ministry, no one is fooled. And though I felt silly and selfish to share this (comparably) insignificant personal hurt, it's exactly that that showed her she's not alone.

And it opened doors for conversations in ways nothing else could about the enemy and how he works and whispers. It opened doors to talk about wind and waves and fixing our eyes on Jesus when we've had the courage to step out of the boat like Peter did. It opened doors to talk about how hard it is to build a new life - how hard it's been for me this year to find my bearings, and she could nod, knowing all too well, as she's left one life but isn't quite in the other, and say "Me too." To a population used to receiving, she could gift me understanding.

And it was the most precious gift.

And, this morning, before the day even starts, it's given me the courage not to wallow, not to let the enemy win. But to put salve on the sting, give it to Jesus, and rise up in courage to remain faithful, to lead this ministry anyway, to trust in His pruning He knows what He's doing. That in His time, He's working it all out.

That He uses unexpected friends, and butterflies, and tacos to keep us going.