Thursday, July 14, 2022

It's Not All for SHO

Where I grew up, you either owned a muscle car or your best friend did. My best friend owned a 1967 Chevy Nova. I eventually got my own. A series of upgrades (and a downgrade or two) finally led me to what became my favorite car of all time. A 1993 Ford Taurus. Before you write me off as a complete nut, let me explain. This Taurus was special. It was a four-door sedan, grey leather interior, a JBL system, moonroof, double black, and roomy enough for a booster seat, a car seat and lots of luggage. Oh, and it was a SHO. Three little letters ghosted into the rear bumper that stood for Super High Output. Only a tiny emblem on the front fender gave anyone a clue as to what was under the hood, a 24-valve Yamaha V6 that could get one into a whole lot of trouble if one was, say, late for work during rush hour and needed to jackrabbit her way through traffic oblivious to the fact she'd just passed an unmarked trooper. But, I digress. My point is, it was a sleeper. I loved pulling my family truckster up to a traffic light, looking across to some unsuspecting sportster and shocking the pants off of him as I punched it and left him on the line. I could look respectable but still raise a little Cain.

When reminiscing about those good old days, however, I can't help but notice how appropriately that sentiment and that car represented what was going on in my spiritual life at the time. Having been raised in the church, I was well aware of all of the "supposed tos" and "should nots" of a religious life. I knew exactly how to act, but the truth was, I had zero desire to act that way. Despite my lack of desire, I had children to raise and people to impress. I wanted my children to grow up to be good people; I wanted my children to stay out of trouble. So, in front of them, I played the part of a virtuous, God-fearing mother. I wanted the pastor and the folks who entrusted me with their children each Sunday to rest assured I was all I professed to be; I wanted them to believe I was happy being a Christian. So, in front of them, I smiled --a lot! And I used all of those churchy-type phrases and I hid how miserable I was. 

That is, until the sun went down. After work, I drank and smoked and cussed and trespassed and stole and crept my way into bed as the sun peeked over the horizon and the song of birds threatened to expose me for the fraud I was. How was I going to be the righteous mother my children needed when I felt so free partying all night? How was I going to ever be happy being a Christian when I was so much happier acting like the devil? I knew who I was inside was nothing like I pretended to be on the outside, but I had no clue how to fix that. And I wasn't meant to.

My SHO was long gone before I had a head-on collision with the grace of God. He showed me that He would take care of the inside as well as the outside as long as I was willing to trust Him. He wanted me to start looking to Him for answers instead of thinking I had them all. I asked Him to change my heart so that I might love Him more than the life I was leading. He took things away, things that drew my attention from Him, or took up time He wanted me to spend with Him, or caused me to feel secure. He answered my prayer not by changing my life to how I thought it should appear, but by changing my life to reflect His glory and to work things out for my good

And He continues to change me. The Holy Spirit adorns my life with an authenticity on the outside that indicates His presence inside, an authenticity that's bigger than a tiny emblem on the front fender of my favorite sleeper.

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