“Noah did everything just as God commanded him.”
— Genesis 6:22
So, this is week two of 10 Minute Sermons. And it is itchy. Itchy like a wool sweater with no shirt underneath of it.
My life was pretty comfortable. Then, cancer. And now, this new project. A project I know I was called to do. A project I have thought about stopping every single day this week.
Don’t get me wrong. The support has been incredible. I have had friends call me, text me, share my posts, and tell me things I never expected to hear. But what has surprised me most is what people are sharing back.
I am learning so much about my friends. I am hearing about faith struggles and regrets. Regrets in knowing you have a gift from God and you didn’t listen to it yet. Fear that the gift isn’t still there. Challenges about finding the right vehicle to listen to God when your current church doesn’t feel like it used to feel.
I have heard all of it this week. We are sharing big things.
That is why I started a Sermon Requests section. Somewhere you can put your struggle. When I send out a new sermon, I will include any sermon requests so we can see if someone has had the same struggle and what worked for them. Iron sharpening iron.
God knew I wouldn’t have all the answers. He also knew I had a bench of Christian soldiers that could help each other. I believe God wants some of us Christians to get off the bench and help each other.
I have been called a connector in my industry. I connect folks all the time. People reach out to me — who can help me in this city?
One of my calls this week was an industry friend needing a connection in Wichita. He decided to call so he could check in on my health. During the call, I asked him how much longer until he fully owns the business. He and a partner are buying out the company. He rattled off the number of months — almost to the day — until it is theirs. I picked up on the countdown and asked, so you are that excited? He said no, I am that scared. I don’t want to fail at this. It wasn’t the failure to himself that worried him. It was all the employees. He doesn’t want to fail them. Right now, it is itchy to him. I know he will succeed, but new is uncomfortable and scary. It makes you doubt.
Oh, and doubt? We don’t want doubt. Doubt will lead you to self-sabotage. A Facebook influencer I follow talks about how after her first viral post, the next day she deleted the account. It scared her to the point she deleted it. Luckily, she recognized the self-sabotage and regrouped.
I truly believe it was the community and connections God wanted to build. Not just me, but a community that could help each other in a way outside of the traditional attend-church way.
I have been thinking about Noah this week.
Did he ever feel the itchy?
The Bible tells us Noah did everything just as God commanded him. No argument. No negotiation. No “are you sure about this, God?”
But think about what it doesn’t say. It doesn’t say he wasn’t terrified. It doesn’t say his hands weren’t shaking. It just says he built the boat.
And he built it on dry land. For 120 years. While his neighbors laughed at him. That is not a man who was comfortable. That is a man who was disrupting his comfortable because God told him to.
I think about the first day Noah picked up that hammer. The wood didn’t make sense yet. The sky was clear. There was no flood and no reason for a boat. Just a man, a hammer, and a word from God that everybody else thought was crazy.
That is the itchy part. The part where the calling is louder than the comfort, but the comfort is still calling too.
In When Pigs Fly, cancer was itchy. It took a while to process how I was going to navigate it. First days of school are itchy. My daughter just went through this. First day of high school, she was itchy about who she would sit with at lunch. First days of new jobs are itchy. That first week of treatment when you don’t know if you’re going to lose your hair or your lunch — itchy.
But here is what I have noticed. The sweater gets softer the longer you wear it. It doesn’t start comfortable. It gets comfortable because you refused to take it off.
Cancer is less itchy now. Not because it went away, but because I stopped trying to take off the sweater. I wore it. I adjusted. I kept going.
This project is still itchy. I still think about stopping. I still feel exposed. But I am learning that the itch is not a sign that something is wrong. The itch is a sign that something is new. And new things from God are supposed to feel uncomfortable — otherwise, you wouldn’t need faith.
The difference between Noah and everybody else wasn’t that he wasn’t scared. It’s that he picked up the hammer anyway.
I am going to pick up that hammer and keep writing. But just because I do doesn’t mean it isn’t itchy.
As God always does, He is right on time. While I was writing this, my son walked in. We have been having a problem with him taking his medicine in the mornings. He chews his pills instead of swallowing them. He hates to take them because they taste awful. Are the pills too big? No. He said they feel “itchy” on his throat. I said yes, it is a new feeling. New is uncomfortable. You have to keep trying. You can’t give up because it is itchy.
I did not plan that. But God did.
If you are wearing an itchy sweater right now — a new calling, a hard season, a step of faith that makes no sense to anyone but you — keep it on. It will soften. And one day, you will look back and realize you are a stronger person because you wore the itchy sweater and picked up the hammer every day.
Something about writing it makes you live it.
And sometimes, after you’ve worn the sweater long enough, you wake up and realize the fight is over — and you don’t know what to do next. That’s a different feeling. That’s Now What?
My Prayer
God, I don’t like the itchy. You know that. But I trust that you didn’t hand me this sweater by accident. Help me stop reaching for the zipper every time it gets uncomfortable. Give me the faith of a man who built a boat on dry land and the courage to keep picking up the hammer. In Jesus’ name, I pray.
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Niki McDowell is a Stage 3B triple-negative breast cancer survivor, a wife, a mom, and a woman who does her homework. She writes from somewhere between faith and the fight.