It was my second week of School of Worship. First-thing Tuesday morning, Wendy asked one question.
"What do you really think of God?"
I squirmed. Growing up in the church, we didn't talk about this stuff. But here was a Christian teacher, pushing me to be honest. I mean, I knew the Psalms were littered with raw, messy lyrics. So I couldn't keep sugar-coating my theology.
After class, I walked straight to the Prayer Room. Armed with my journal, I settled in to two hours of live worship and prayer. Time to be honest. Messy, even.
Hesitant, I started to write:
You are disinterested. You don't really care about me.
It wasn’t new. I’d grappled with all of it—my buried frustration at God, how I felt like He didn't pay attention to what I had to say or sing. I’d had breakthrough before. I knew God wasn't passive. But I needed to know it even deeper. So I picked up my red pen, scratched out the first line, and wrote:
You are very interested in me. You pay attention to me. You hear what I say...
And so I went down the line, with my Bible open, rewriting my theology. I felt as light as a breath of wind.
But only for an hour.
After the Prayer Room, I ate lunch, then went back to my room—and that's where the mess hit, hard.
Even though it was only the second week, I was exhausted.
I decided to do School of Worship three days before it started. I moved from a spacious house to a cramped dorm room. And I didn't know how any of my course fees would come in. I was doing what God wanted—and what I wanted, too. But that didn't make it any easier. I cried.
So I did what I do when everything hurts and nothing makes sense.
I grabbed my ukulele, opened my journal, and started to sing.
You're the Man of action
You're not passive
You hear what I say
You do what I pray
That's when the truth in my journal finally stuck.
Three days later, I shared my draft of “Man of Action” at our Song Night.
When I stopped shaking from the nerves, my whole School of Worship bombarded me with encouragement. I was in shock—I wasn't used to sharing my original songs. Especially not to an audience paying attention to me, listening intently, smiling.
But the words from a raw, messy afternoon were my escort to a deeper part of God's character.
Today, when the old lies taunt my brain, trying to convince me God doesn't care or isn't paying attention—I don't have to sugarcoat my theology or ignore my mess any more. Instead, I remember how my School of Worship was a gift. I remember the roommates who started as strangers and ended as family. I remember how God provided every single penny.
And I have a song to sing instead.
That has changed everything.