A Faith that Stays Present

There are weeks when my work requires me to sit with people in places that are difficult to describe.

Trauma. Grief. Relationships that have been bruised by years of disappointment. People trying to find their way back to themselves.

I love my work. Deeply.

But loving the work doesn’t mean it doesn’t take something out of me.

So after a particularly tough, trauma-filled week, I have a little ritual I have come to appreciate: I wash my brain.

I put on one of my favorite animated movies.

Shrek.
The Incredibles.
Guardians of the Galaxy somehow made its way into the rotation too.

And there is something about sitting there, knowing exactly what is going to happen, laughing at the same parts, letting my brain follow somebody else’s story for a couple of hours that does my heart well.

It isn’t sophisticated.

It isn’t particularly productive.

And it isn’t therapy.

It is rest.

Maybe even a little brainwashing—in the best possible way.

And then there are Sundays.

Today, I went to church. I spent time with my children. We had brunch after church. I talked to my eldest in Virginia, who has apparently decided that his beard had run its course and shaved it off.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I remembered that he is expecting his first baby in November.

His first baby.

My baby is having a baby.

Life has a way of sneaking up on you like that.

One minute you’re worrying about bills, work, clients, deadlines, the things you haven’t finished, the things you’re trying to build, the things you’re trying to release.

And then somebody you gave life to is standing on the other side of the phone telling you that he’s preparing to become a father.

And suddenly the things you were worrying about aren’t gone—but they’re no longer the only things occupying the room.

Life is touching my heart in the greatest of ways.

I’ve been thinking about that lately.

About how easy it is to move from one week into the next without actually arriving.

Sunday becomes Monday.

Monday becomes Tuesday.

Another session. Another note. Another email. Another responsibility. Another thing to figure out.

And somewhere along the way, we can become so focused on surviving the next thing that we forget to notice what is already beautiful.

But today felt serendipitous.

Not because everything is perfect.

Because everything isn’t.

But because I was present enough to notice the good.

The brunch.

Church.

My children.

A shaved beard.

A baby coming in November.

A familiar movie waiting for me when the week gets heavy.

These are not small things.

Maybe they are the big things.

And this has me thinking about faith.

I’ve heard faith described as a shelter—something we run into when life becomes too much. And I believe there is absolutely a place for that kind of faith.

Sometimes I need God to cover me.

Sometimes I need somewhere to put the things I cannot carry.

Sometimes I need to know that even when I don’t understand what is happening, I am not alone in it.

But lately, I think I have a saving faith more than a sheltering faith.

Not saving in the sense of expecting God to rescue me from every uncomfortable circumstance.

Something deeper.

A faith that saves me enough to stay.

Stay present. Stay open. Stay hopeful.

Stay soft. Stay connected to the people I love.

Stay willing to believe that there can still be beauty after hard seasons.

Sheltering faith gives me a place to hide when the storm comes.

Saving faith, for me, feels like the kind that reminds me that I can eventually step back outside.

It doesn’t promise me a life without trauma, disappointment, uncertainty or grief.

It reminds me that those things don’t get to have the final word.

Maybe that’s why my little rituals matter.

Watching Shrek isn’t just watching Shrek.

Going to church isn’t just going to church.

Brunch with my children isn’t just brunch.

Calling my eldest isn’t just a phone call.

These moments become tiny declarations:

I am here. I am alive. I am still becoming.

There is still something to laugh about.

There is still something to look forward to.

There is still something being born.

Literally.

And maybe this is what I am learning as I enter another Monday:

I don’t want to rush past my life on the way to the next thing.

I want to notice the wins.

I want to celebrate what is growing.

I want to allow ordinary moments to touch my heart.

I want to work hard without making work my whole life.

I want to care deeply without carrying everything.

I want to rest without feeling guilty about it.

And I want a faith that doesn’t only shelter me from the world.

I want a faith that helps me remain present enough to live in it.

Because there will always be another Monday.

Another hard week.

Another client story.

Another problem to solve.

Another thing that needs my attention.

But there will also be Sundays.

There will be brunches.

There will be children becoming adults.

There will be beards shaved off for reasons I may never understand.

There will be babies coming.

There will be movies that make me laugh when my brain needs a break.

There will be moments when life touches my heart in the greatest of ways.

And I don’t want to miss them.

So tonight, I’m grateful.

Not because life has become easy.

Because I’ve become more willing to notice that it is also beautiful.

Being brave,

Michelle 🌿

©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.