I’m not an “Atta Girl” kind of girl. I don’t seek out accolades or applause. It’s not in my DNA. I love mining the minutia when opportunities arise to be a blessing. Like a photo bomb, often surprising developments result from the exchanges. A quick jaunt to the convenient store or dinner at a restaurant usually ends with an exchange of pleasantries with a stranger and a parting of a scarf or skirt because they admired it (yes, I did take off my skirt once!). I got the label of “Covert Parent” from my son’s elementary school secretary a while back. While stopping into the office to drop off something or another to an unsuspecting teacher, she introduced me to visiting parents. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Cush. She’s covert!” Without skipping a beat, I chuckled, “Yep. I get in, I get out and nobody gets hurt!”
I thrive on not drawing attention to myself and yet what I do blares out a spotlight like a lighthouse on a New England coastal shore. It’s unintentional, trust me. I love Jesus and because I do, covert ops gets complicated. When drawn to tackle the tough and tender issues women face, I want God to get soul credit. He uses the reservoir of my past as a conduit for perspective and encouragement. I humbly admit writing about my crazy canines or my favorite recipes would make cranking out posts a breeze, but like the game called “Confessions,” those writings would soon go to the dogs, because the secret to my “Immense Intense Brownies” is adding pure vanilla to the box mix and letting my husband dump a bag of dark chocolate morsels to the batter before baking!
Like a conduit, the crux of who we are needs a channeling place. How we process, who we touch, how we connect and what we say needs to flow out of what’s stored within. If we meander through our hurts for fear of more hurt, we stand the chance of experiencing an erosion of the soul and no clear channel to a cleansing, healing flow. Our needs go unmet. Sadness seeps in. Anger enacts bitterness. Bitterness recruits isolation. And it’s the isolation that detains us. Soon, our “whys,” “what ifs” and “how comes” enslave us. Nobody likes the pain our pasts produced. I know I don’t, but I choose to share my crazy mess as a message of freedom.
Messy. Brutal. Raw. It’s the rancid waters that meander from my fingers, but in the end, it is the Living Water that flows out of my heart as I share. For comfort. For Hope. For you.
Shhh! It’s my covert confession.