The Dirt That Lies Beneath: A series on Truth in Life, No Matter What

 

The Real Dirt.

I am so tired.

Exhausted, really.

I have a glass of iced tea right here, and I am ready to tell the truth.

Sometimes, Our lives are so well polished, we don’t even have a current profile picture on our social media pages. I know I don’t. My current picture is one of my husband and I, and there are about forty like them, all with flaws. I couldn’t post them. They aren’t what people want to see, our flaws.

Our flaws.

Our dirt, owned by us, created by our indiscretions. Dirt turned into mud by our tears and tracked around, leaving footprints on white carpet like sin on our souls. Just like people don’t want to see we have struggles, they don’t want to acknowledge our humanity and all the dirt.

We walk past one another, quickening the pace. We let the words fly out of our mouths like they are honey, but they drip fast and land hard like vinegar. “How are you?” we say, as our feet speed up and before we know it we haven’t even waited for an answer. We don’t want to know how you are. We can’t handle the truth, the sorrow, the dirt. We can’t handle our own mess, so we aren’t willing to take on yours. We can’t handle even the words, let alone all the things that come after them.

All. The. Things.

Now this is something I have been seeing written in many contexts. Here, however, I truly mean All The Things.  All of them. The messy parenting, the failed marriages and the alcohol hidden in the laundry room. The affair after hours, the pornography on the computer, the money embezzled from the fundraiser and the gambling addiction. What about the lies at work, the gossip we spread in the name of worry, and the manipulations to make us look better?

How about we share the insecurities in our marriage, the abortion no one knows about and the pain killers stolen from a grand parents’ cabinet?  Why shouldn’t we share our pain, grief, and suffering through illness or shame?  When are we going to talk about all of the elephants in all of the rooms?

When do we come to terms with the humanity gifted upon us, that sometimes feels more like a curse than a blessing?

Why must we continue waiting for someone to die before we know they are sick?

How are we supposed to hold one another up reaching for Jesus the whole time while lying to ourselves and everyone else about who we are and what we have become?

 

How about I go first? Let’s begin with my personal war on words because I just can’t stop cussing, and my frustration with relationships because I would gladly trade people for plants any day of the week. I mean that last part. I would (and have) trade relationships with people for the plants in my garden. I can even justify it, because I have had a lot of practice.

When a plant dies, you throw it in a compost pile and forget it. If I want new plants, I break off a piece of one and grow another. When I see some new variety I can order it on line, and when I don’t want something anymore, I give it away. Plants don’t share my secrets. They don’t lie to me, they don’t get emotional and they don’t require me to be sane. I can be a major jerk and it is ok with my pothos. My hydrangea does not care if I am madder than a wet hen.  Plants also keep me grounded, and remind me who I belong to. And they do a much better job than people do.

The truth is this. Jesus spent much time in a garden praying. That is where I connect with him most, even though I know deep inside my heart I do not deserve him. Not one ounce. Yet, here he is, dirt under his fingernails, ready to dig deep with me whenever I need him to. He is always willing. He spent his time with the broken, lost and lonely. I am all those things and more.

Together I hope we can discover a way to connect with one another by connecting to Jesus and all the truths he lived in the dirt.

He was before us and is forever for us.

 

**this series dedicated to a certain young woman who is so very tired of all the dirt**