It was the string pulled.

The string pulled to untangle years & years worth of lies that had been shoved & stockpiled in closets of the heart for nights just like this one. Waiting & waiting for nights just like this one; nights when the weatherman cried.

Sandy–her hurricane limbs and all the wickeder parts of her– hissed and moaned outside the window. The trees shook and shuddered. Leaves screamed for their mama branches.

I clicked through the document on my desktop anxiously, waiting for that triumphant gust of wind that would knock the power out and leave me by candlelight.

The screen would go black. I could walk away from the question. Sounded much like a plan.

“What is the biggest lie you have had to overcome?”

It stayed there on the screen.

The lights didn’t even flicker. Not flinch. Not a spark.

And all the hollowed crevices between the W and B and L within that question waited for me, whispered like witches in the glow of the moon, “Answer me. Answer me. Answer me.”

Let’s talk about lies. Like they were as fresh as pastry dishes. Globbed with apples. Glooped with cinnamon.

 Let’s talk about lies. And how you still speak them more swiftly than Taylor Swift song lyrics caught in the vocal chords of seventeen-year-old heartbreakers.

Of all the things I do, interviews are my favorite.

They open doors for reflection. For realignment. They are they like grace wearing shoulder pads for a girl who rarely knows how to cut herself off from a work load to just step back and marvel at what God can do with such a messy, messy life.  

I save the interviews for the nighttime. For the glow of the computer screen. For the third cup of tea with the foam of peppermint on the edges.

So it remains just me, clicking almost silently into the dozens of documents waiting to capture the story behind More Love Letters and lend it to their readers like dicey pocket change. Waiting to get beneath the skin of the girl who spends her days with her wrists sunk deep in piles of stationery learning to love wads of this earth by way of written word.

The questions are normally simple. True. Creative. Quirky. But never, no, never has a question stared me so hard in the face. Never so much as this one.

“What is the biggest lie you have had to overcome?”

Welcome to the Land of the Things We Never Really, Truly Talk About. This ain’t no bring-this-topic-up-at-brunch kind of question. No, I’ve never seen the clinking of mimosas and buttering of pumpkin pancakes as we swap stories of lies we’ve learned to tell the mirror and non-truths were grappling to just overcome.

Overcome. Overcome. Such a strong word that I still don’t fully understand. When my knees feel weak and my heart is gearing up for battle against the soldiers in my mind, I don’t think I fully grasp what it means to overcome.

And be triumphant. And have complete control over destinies in my life, like I deserve that or something. Really, really, I have struggled to believe that. And instead  I might be tempted to lead the army of the Girls Who Got Used to the Lies. So used to the lies that they laid down on the floor, put their hands above their heads and shuddered like Germany when the second war ended.

“What is the biggest lie you have had to overcome?”

She worded the question as if to say that the lies were made for that. For overcoming. For pushing past. For speaking truth. For clearing out from the corners of our lives like cobwebs & clutter & clothes that don’t fit us in the legs any longer.

And I realize that I want to be just this: one who overcomes the lies. One who does not let the lies bind me or break me or keep me from moving into the plans I know are placed ahead for me.

How long have you been handicapped? I asked myself. How long have you felt unworthy? How long has it been since you last admitted it instead of saving face and pretending like you’ve got every ounce of this world together in your palms?

Could you be a wreck in front of someone? Today? Tomorrow? Could you name the lies that are knocking at the door? Scraping at the kitchen floor like the hurricane wrestled and shuffled inside. Take your shoes off, Sandy. Don’t bring mud in the house.

The lies we let sink deep into the mud of our souls fester and stir like hurricanes in the heart.

We don’t admit them. We don’t talk about them. We don’t give air to them in interviews. We keep them locked & keyed. We vow to be stronger in the morning. We hate ourselves deeper when the strength doesn’t show but the lies still arrive to ransom our spirits.

& they ravage. They pummel. They knock us down and convince us that we are not worthy of the day, not worthy of the light, not worthy of the goodness that this world is so capable of giving.

And so we grow so comfortable with just accepting the lies, welcoming the lies in my like house guests who demand candles & blankets & hot food upon arrival. And I forget the second part of the story. And you forget the second part of the story– the part of the story where you & us & we, we learn to overcome.

And you decide that you are worth something more than lies that only made you feel one fourth of alive. Lies that never kept your fingers warm like the old English mama at the bus stop in February, pursing little hands in her own until the heated yellow school bus came to take your back pack-toting body away.

And you decide that “to overcome” means something different than you’ve ever known before.

Overcome. A verb. One that requires strength. A strength you never knew you had though it has been there all along.

Overcome: to not be washed away. Like seashells in the supermarket on the days the oceans flood.

Overcome: to not feed. The hungry lies. The impatient worries. The parts of us that have never felt loved.

Overcome: to resolve that we are lovely. Worthy of love. Time. Energy. Joy. And we are getting better at believing that all the time.