As a Catholic convert, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this question: What does it look like to be a follower of Christ?
For some people, the answer might include attending Mass, praying the Rosary, going to Confession, or reading Scripture. Those things certainly matter and have become important parts of my life.
As I get older, my aim has become to be more honest with myself. To strip away pretenses. To stop being a presentation for other people and become more of my authentic self.
So when I think about following Christ, my mind often goes somewhere else.
I think about prayer.
Forgiveness.
Honesty.
Patience.
Mercy.
Faithfulness.
The ordinary moments where faith collides with real life.
And it’s messy.
The truth is, following Christ has turned out to be far more unglamorous and unremarkable than I expected.
Something tells me that’s the point.
Praying when nobody sees. #TheRealMartina
“But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret.”
— Matthew 6:6
What does it mean to pray in secret?
I’m just going to be honest. It is hard not to make my devotional habits public. To hashtag them. To selfie them. To Snapchat them.
It’s hard not to make my Christianity look presentable.
But praying in secret, whether I hit that mark or not, means giving God the real me.
The me with no makeup.
No wig.
No code-switching.
No girdle.
Just me.
The woman God already sees.
The woman I couldn’t hide from Him if I tried.
Flaws and all.
Forgiving people who don’t deserve it.
“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”
— Ephesians 4:32
This one is difficult because I can hold a grudge with Olympic-level dedication.
Back in 2012 I had bad service at Big Lots.
I never went back.
I wish I was kidding.
Some people hold onto family heirlooms.
I hold onto offenses.
Yet one thought keeps piercing my heart.
I have been forgiven by people I didn’t deserve forgiveness from.
And I certainly didn’t earn forgiveness from God.
I wish I could say forgiveness comes naturally to me.
Usually it doesn’t.
Usually it sneaks up on me.
The anger lifts.
The wound stops aching quite as much.
And one day I realize I’ve forgiven someone.
Other times I have to tell myself to stop brooding and hand the whole thing back to God for the hundredth time.
Telling the truth when lying would be easier.
“The truth will set you free.”
— John 8:32
As a child I found this nearly impossible.
I was so terrified of getting a spanking that I often blurted out the first explanation that came to mind, whether it was true or not.
Looking back, the punishment I feared was often far worse in my imagination than in reality.
Funny how that still happens as an adult.
Sometimes telling the truth feels risky.
Sometimes honesty costs us something.
But every time I choose truth over self-protection, I find a little more freedom waiting on the other side.
Caring for the lonely.
“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
— Matthew 25:35
I have a full life. There are barely any quiet moments. Between work, writing, marriage, motherhood, school, church, and the endless pile of LIFE, it’s easy to ignore the entire world and only focus on those who live at this address.
And I don’t think many people would judge that decision.
But every Valentine’s Day, every Christmas, every Easter, I find myself thinking about the people who don’t have someone to share those days with.
The widow.
The single mom.
The elderly man whose phone never rings.
The college student who couldn’t afford to go home.
That’s become a prayer for me because I can’t honestly say I’m doing a great job of it.
I think about the lonely often, but thinking and loving aren’t always the same thing.
Lord, help me open my eyes.
Show me what loving someone would look like in these situations.
Help me open my home.
Help me notice the lonely, whether they’re related to me or not.
Loving your spouse when you’re tired.
“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.”
— Ephesians 4:2
Ooooooooh boy.
Sometimes the people who love you the most are the very people you hurt the most.
Not because you love them less.
But because you’re tired.
Because you’ve had a long day.
Because life has piled up and there isn’t much left in the tank.
Siafa and I have always believed that being tired explains our behavior, but it doesn’t excuse it.
There is no free pass to be rude.
No exemption from kindness.
No coupon that says, “Good for one sharp tone because you had a hard day.”
Following Christ has taught me that sometimes love looks less like grand gestures and more like taking a breath before I answer.
Sometimes it means apologizing.
Sometimes it means making room for someone else’s bad day when I’m having one of my own.
Being patient with your children when you’ve already asked them three times.
“Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.”
— James 1:19
I have been a mom for eighteen years now.
In those years, patience has been one of my greatest teachers.
I grew up in an environment where adults yelled about everything.
Standing on the couch?
You could break the couch or your own back.
Leaving the door open?
You’re letting all the air conditioning outside.
Eating the last of something?
Who ate the last of this?
I remember sitting in a group counseling session in Georgia when a woman shared that she had grown up in a similar environment. She said that when she became a mother, she decided she wasn’t going to yell about things like that.
When someone ate the last of something, her response was simple:
“Well, that’s what I bought it for.”
That absolutely blew my mind.
From that moment on, whenever someone complained that another person had eaten the last of something, I would shrug and say:
“Well, food is for eating.”
It sounds small, but it changed the atmosphere of my home.
It taught me that not every mistake requires a lecture.
Not every inconvenience requires outrage.
Sometimes following Christ looks like slowing down, asking a question, listening, and then responding.
Admitting when you’re wrong.
“God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.”
— James 4:6
This rarely happens.
(Cough. Cough.)
But on those rare occasions when I jump to conclusions, misread a situation, plant my flag on the wrong hill, or confidently declare something that turns out to be completely incorrect, there comes a moment of reckoning.
A moment where I have to admit that I was wrong.
I wish I could tell you that humility comes naturally to me.
It does not.
Pride is sneaky.
It would rather defend a bad position than admit a mistake.
But following Christ has taught me that being right isn’t the goal.
Being teachable is.
And every time I swallow my pride and admit I was wrong, I discover that humility hurts a lot less than pretending.
Showing mercy.
“Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful.”
— Luke 6:36
Mercy is one of those things I love receiving and struggle to give.
I want people to understand my motives.
My circumstances.
My difficult day.
My good intentions.
Yet I am often quick to assume the worst about someone else’s.
Mercy asks me to leave room for what I don’t know.
Maybe they’re carrying a burden I can’t see.
Maybe they’re struggling.
Maybe they simply had a terrible day.
God has shown me an ocean of mercy.
Surely I can offer a cup.
Remaining faithful during suffering.
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
— John 6:68
This is the one I never wanted to learn.
Faith is easy when prayers are answered quickly.
Faith is easy when the diagnosis is good.
Faith is easy when the bills are paid and the children are healthy.
The real test comes when none of those things are true.
I’ve learned that faithfulness isn’t always dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like showing up to Mass when your heart is heavy.
Sometimes it looks like praying prayers you can barely concentrate on.
Sometimes it looks like opening your Bible and reading one verse because that’s all you’ve got.
Sometimes it looks like saying:
“Lord, I don’t understand this, but I’m not leaving.”
I think Christ honors that kind of faith too.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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