Crucible Faith

Now that I’m headed quickly into middle age*, I've been thinking about the fact that I can look at every Christian I know well, and I remember them telling me about a time in their lives when there was nothing there for them but God. When what was precious was taken from them, and they were alone . . . except for the Lord. And when they chose to keep following anyway.

I can name time after time, in the lives of people I love, when they have had that crucible experience.

Sometimes it was incredible physical pain, other times it was incredible isolation, or destruction of a vital relationship . . . but every time, they faced the question, “well, do I still trust, or not?”

And they trusted. And they kept walking, walking alongside Him.

But seriously. So many Christians. They all have that experience. The circumstances are unique, but the experience isn’t.

And then they go through it again and again. But after the first time, they know. It’s like from there on out, they know. They know HIM. There’s this bedrock there, and it doesn’t change.

You can see it in their faces, if you know to look. And you can hear it in their voices when they’re in extremity, or when they describe being in extremity.

And it’s not that they’re not knocked backwards. It’s not that they’re not hurt or confused or terrified or that they make it out of their pain without sinning by complaining or fearing or self-indulgence or mistakes, or whatever.

It’s just that they’re anchored. They know. They know HIM.

It’s like there’s something eternal in their souls, something that’s anchored to something outside the mutability of this world.

And I say, “it’s like”, and by that I mean exactly, “it is.”

But . . . do you know what I mean? Have you seen this on people’s faces and heard it in their voices when they share their stories?

They’ve been through the fire, and they know they’re going to go through again (though they pray for mercy), but there is a steadiness deep down in their souls, because they know that they’re not going through it alone.

They might still be whiny or annoying or infuriating to you. You might not like them.

But you recognize that thing in them. And you love them for it.

They’ve been through a time when they had nothing and no one. They were absolutely alone in their pain – because even if you have friends near you in your pain, none of them can really be there, with you, IN your pain – they were all alone . . . except for the presence of God. And even then, that presence might have felt like a distant, academic reality.

But He was there, and they believed it, and now they’ll never face pain the same way again.

It’s just different, after an experience like that.

Peace of Christ to you,
Jessica Snell

*Stop laughing, Mom. 

On Finding Your Voice - in Writing and in Life

Any beginning writer looking for writing advice is going to find article after article that command her to “find your voice”.

But what is my voice? asks that poor bewildered beginner.

And she’ll read further, and be told, “Your voice is just you. It’s what’s authentic about your writing.”

But if it’s just me, and I’m already me, then why do I have to go about looking for it? she wonders.

And then she’s told that voice is really hard to find, it’s hard to get your voice to come across to the readers, it’s almost impossible for anyone but the experienced to do it – in sum, she’s told, “You really have no idea how hard it is for you to just be yourself. You really don’t.”

And she thinks, Yeah. Right. Fat lot of help you are.

And goes on to easier things, more concrete things, things like learning what weasel words are and how to trim the passive voice out of her manuscripts and What Not To Do in query letters.

All good things. But after she’s worked and worked, and learned and learned, and practiced and practiced, she comes back to that voice thing.

And do you know what? They were all right.

Because voice is just being authentic. But the reason what they were saying made no sense is that voice is more than just being authentic.

Voice is being authentic and communicating. Being authentic and communicating at the same time.

And that means becoming skilled at communicating.

And that's where we hit the problem: communication is something you can learn, something you can be skilled at - but like any skill, when you practice it, when you begin the process of mastering it - you get really, really awkward for a while.

That awkwardness shows up in your writing

It shows up in your life.

And that's when people get frustrated.

And they stop.

They stop talking, they stop writing.

They give up on authenticity.

It's easier to hide.

Because when you're not communicating, at least you're not communicating badly.

At least you're not getting it WRONG.

But you have to get past that awkward point.

Maturity is awesome, but it demands adolescence.

You can't become an adult without being a teenager first – an awkward, gawky, pimply teenager whose nose is too big for her face.

That's why your "voice" didn’t sound right. That's why you didn’t sound real.

Even though you're trying to say what you think. Even though you were trying to say exactly how you felt.

And even though you were trying to say it well.

Because nobody's good at something when she starts.

She gets good with practice.

You need to be sincere.

But you need the skill, too, or all the sincerity in the world won't be enough. It won't come across.

So learn the skills. Read the books. Do the exercises.

And write, and write, and write, and write.

The grace will come with practice.

And if you keep yourself honest,

then once you’re good at communicating . . .

the authenticity will be there, too.

Peace of Christ to you,
Jessica Snell