If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered. –Stephen King

Just once I want to see an Instagram shot of someone on a hospital bed hooked up to an IV with the hashtag #blessed or the caption “God is good!”.

Okay, maybe not really. That’s a little morbid. But with all the labels we are so inclined to throw around, I do wonder how good we really believe the Good News is.

We’ve had a hell of a year around here, some high highs and low lows, moments of unstoppable laughter and nights of ugly crying on the couch. MRIs, uncertain diagnoses, neurology reports that read like a rap sheet or ominous fortuneteller depending on the day, iffy mammograms and empty ultrasounds. And I hope I haven’t dressed any of it up to look like something it’s not–some perfect walk of faith, Jesus and me holding hands and walking off into the sunset. I also hope I haven’t been unnecessarily Debbie Downer in any misguided attempt to extract sympathy, or pitching a tent in Maudlinville when I know my true home is in the city of hope. I want to be real, and that can be a tall order in a world where people know you by your online profile more than your inner character, where Instagram’s sepia tones can disguise the darker shades of life.

I just get tired of all the bullshit, ya heard? And as a believer in a gospel that is focused less on my efforts than on the finished work of another, sometimes I say things like bullshit. Sometimes I enjoy shocking the pearl-clutchers and rule-followers a little too much. Not Miley-Cyrus-at-the-VMAs-much, but you know…a little much. It’s just that I remember when a cuss word seemed to open the gates of hell, or when not living up to an image was the worst thing that could happen.

It’s not the worst thing that can happen.

Which doesn’t mean that what we do doesn’t matter, but I happen to believe that the heart behind what we do matters so much more, and that part is infinitely harder than keeping up an image or meeting a requirement. It requires wisdom, real brain-engagement, and vulnerability and relationship and an openness to constantly not being there yet. It means having a sense of humor.

Thankfully, genetics work in my favor on that one. I grew up with a dad whose terms of endearment weren’t of the punkin variety, and what seemed a burden during my formative years–that good-natured joking plus a stubborn refusal to believe in God the way I thought he should–is now one of my favorite family inheritances. I can’t party with a worldview that isn’t open to the askew, or a personality without rough spots. “Your goodness must have some edge to it, else it is none,” wrote Emerson, and amen to that. I’ve written about my allergy to sweetness before, but even after the navel-gazing and grace-teaching that got me there, I also know that my tendency toward the sarcastic comes with its own dangers. I will always veer more toward bitter than sweet, more toward mean than fake, and these are not directions I want to get used to taking. When I feel myself trying on snark like it’s the season’s hottest new coat and I need one in every color, then it’s time for grace to step in again. And the work it did that set me free from convention and “good girl”-ism is also going to have to be what keeps me from becoming all sharp edges and corners.

It’s only grace that can make my words matter. That can transform what would be resentful and fearful and bitter into something scarred and worn and beautiful. It’s only grace that knows and puts me in touch with every deep hurt I’ve ever had, and turns what could be discarded as crap into soil for a better story.

And in those moments when I’m tempted to take myself too seriously, like when I’m picking Cheerios off the floor…or keeping track of who changed the last diaper…or when I’m walking across an outlet mall with bags of clothes hanging off my arms and sweat beading on my forehead and my inner monologue screams, like a petulant socialite, “Where the F*CK is Banana Republic?” as if stocking up on fall sweaters is the most important thing I’ll ever do…it’s then that grace allows me to take a look at myself, at all my flaws and shortcomings and ridiculousness, and have a nice long laugh. Because there are moments that deserve to be taken seriously, moments in doctor’s offices and next to MRI machines, but these moments have no less life in them, are no less good, than any of the others if we are held by the same hand throughout all of them. The one whose voice sometimes needs to silence my words, temper or overrule them…and sometimes sustains them, allows them to fall wherever they may, however they land, if they’re real.

The Kid, who has eschewed more conventional security objects like a blanket or stuffed animal (thatta boy!) has taken to carrying around some Disney-themed flashcards we picked up at Costco. I love that although he isn’t technically speaking yet, he is fascinated by language: he holds the cards up to me or The Husband and watches as we sound out the word printed next to the picture. One day, he’ll sound them out himself. For now, he carries them around, turning them over in his hand and mind until he finds the place in his story where each one fits.