I use to hate mornings. Like, couldn’t do them. I rolled out of bed 15 minutes before I needed to leave for work and basically ran around like a lunatic getting my make-up on, clothes on and hair thrown up into something that resembled a bun. All before grabbing my bagel and coffee and flying out the door.
Things are a-changin. Now, I love mornings. It is my favorite part of the day…most of the time. I usually get up 2-3 hours before I have to be at work to workout, have quiet time and get ready. Working out is slowly becoming less loathsome. But my quiet time – now that is my sweet spot. If mornings are my favorite than this time in the morning is my ABSOLUTE favorite. Coffee cup pressed to my chest, Bible open, and someone who isn’t tone-deaf sweetly serenading me on my iPhone.
This morning I laughed as I sat down in my chair for my quiet time. I opened my Bible and chuckled to myself because I didnt need a mirror to know what an absolute mess I looked like. No make up, sweats that are large enough for a 240lb linebacker, and hair that is soaking wet yet to be combed through from the shower. I was hardly the poster child of “bringing your best”.
Then, I heard Holy Spirit remind me that it is actually the perfect picture of how I am supposed to come to the Father every moment. No cover-up needed. I come – simply, purely, authentically. Messy hair, oversized sweats and all.
Maybe it’s just me overexposing myself with the courage of a screen between us, but I would rather bring the hair done, make-up done, properly clothed self to God. I want Him to see the put together me. Not the disheveled, hot-mess-express me. But He can’t minister to the heart of the person I pretend to be. He can only minister to who I am. Where I am.
So this morning I came, sat in my chair, and exposed my messy self to the One who seems to mine the gold out of the mess. I pushed away the desire to bring my best self and simply brought my authentic self – unbelief, insecurity, bitterness and all.
And you know what? Nothing magical happened. He didn’t miraculously fix me or speak in a booming voice. He let me sit, a bit uncomfortably exposed, so He could comfort me. And that was more touching than any ‘well done’ I could have received from a flashy performance of who I pretended to be. What I thought I should be. He wants me. The rawest version of me. The no cover-up needed version of me. Those always lead to the greatest God moments.