You Don't Have to Show Up Perfect for Spiritual Direction

She was eating breakfast.

We had barely settled into our Zoom call when she reached for another bite. Halfway through a sentence, she quietly set her plate down without even noticing she'd done it. Something underneath the conversation had finally surfaced, and suddenly the breakfast didn't matter anymore.

I couldn't tell you what she was eating. I don't remember whether there were dishes behind her or if the kitchen was spotless. I only remember the moment she stopped worrying about how she was showing up and started telling the truth.

That moment has stayed with me far longer than the breakfast ever could.

It comes back to me often because it captures something I wish more people knew before they ever schedule a session for spiritual direction.

You don't have to arrive looking like you've got your life together.

In fact, most of the meaningful moments don't happen once someone has composed themselves. They happen when someone forgets they're “supposed to.”

The Quiet Pressure We Carry

I think there's a quiet pressure many of us carry into conversations like these.

Not because anyone has asked us to, but because we've spent a lifetime learning it.

We straighten the cushions before someone comes over. We wipe down the kitchen counter before opening the front door, and we apologize for the laundry basket sitting in the hallway even when the other person hadn't noticed it.

Somewhere along the way, we learned to do the very same thing with ourselves.

We tidy up before we're honest.
We organize our thoughts before we speak them.

We wait until we've figured out what we're feeling before admitting we're confused.

We tell ourselves we'll reach out once we've prayed a little more consistently, once life settles down, once we've had enough time to think.

As though presence has to be earned by looking presentable first.

I don't think we realize how often we're doing it. People apologize before we've even begun.

"I'm sorry the house is a mess."

"I'm sorry I'm in my car."

"I'm sorry, I don't even know what I want to talk about."

Every apology is really saying the same thing…

I wish I had a better version of myself to bring today. But the better version never arrives.

Life doesn't suddenly become quieter. The dishes don't stay done (well, at least not in this house). 

Our questions don't magically become clearer simply because we’re put together.

If spiritual direction depended on perfect conditions, very few of us would ever begin.

That's Probably Why I've Stopped Noticing Certain Things

Or maybe I noticed them years ago and realized they never actually mattered.

After sitting with hundreds of people through seasons of joy, grief, discernment, transition, disappointment, celebration and ordinary Tuesday afternoons, there are simply things my eyes have learned to look past.

Not because they aren't real, but because they're almost never where the real conversation is happening.

One of them is breakfast.

People always laugh when I tell them this.

But truly - I hope you eat breakfast. If you're hungry, eat. If you're still making coffee when we begin, that's okay too.

One of my favorite sessions started exactly that way. Breakfast wasn't interrupting the conversation, it was simply part of someone's real life. Then, somewhere between another bite and another sentence, the conversation found its way somewhere deeper.

That's usually how these things happen. The ordinary gives way to the sacred so naturally that you almost miss the moment they exchange places.

It reminds me that God has never seemed particularly concerned with creating the perfect backdrop before showing up.

Ordinary life has always been holy ground.

We just keep forgetting.

Sometimes Holy Ground Has Cupholders

One of my favorite phrases has become "the chapel of your car." I've said it enough that some directees now laugh before I even can.

"I had to come out to the car." Perfect.

The chapel of your car.

Maybe everyone inside the house is too loud or your toddler refuses to believe closed doors apply to them. Maybe this hour between meetings is the only uninterrupted silence you've had all week.

Maybe you're parked outside work because it's the only place nobody needs anything from you.

That counts.

Some of the most profound conversations I've ever had happened in parked cars. Not despite the circumstances….Because of them.

There's something deeply beautiful about refusing to wait until life becomes ideal before paying attention to your soul.

We often imagine sacred places as quiet sanctuaries with candles and stained glass.

But in our case, sometimes sacred places have steering wheels. Sometimes they smell faintly like French fries because your kids were in there an hour earlier.

Sometimes they're wherever you finally exhale.

I don't remember those sessions because they happened in cars, I remember them because someone trusted that God could meet them there. And God always seems remarkably willing to do exactly that.

Life Is Allowed to Sound Like Life

Life is noisy. Why have we convinced ourselves that our spiritual lives should happen somewhere outside of it?

We often imagine spiritual guidance requires absolute stillness, uninterrupted silence, and perfect focus.

Those things can certainly be gifts. But they are not requirements.

The God who speaks through burning bushes, storms, fishermen, babies crying, and crowded dinner tables doesn't seem particularly intimidated by your golden retriever deciding now is the perfect time to bark at a squirrel.

Sometimes I wonder if we're the only ones bothered by the interruptions. God rarely seems to be.

And maybe that's comforting.

Maybe grace has always been better at weaving itself into ordinary life than we've given it credit for. Maybe we're the ones insisting everything should be quieter before we listen.

Where the Real Conversation Begins

After enough years of sitting with people, you begin to realize you're looking for different things.

I don't find myself noticing the breakfast anymore. Or the barking dog. Or whether someone is sitting in the car because it's the only quiet place they could find.

Those details disappear almost as quickly as they arrive.

What stays is the moment someone decides to stop protecting themselves.

It's rarely dramatic. More often, it's a quiet shift in the conversation. Someone pauses and says, "Actually..." They stop mid-sentence because what they were about to say suddenly doesn't feel true anymore. They sigh. They laugh. They admit something they hadn't planned to admit.

That's the moment I'm listening for.

Spiritual direction has never been about helping someone become a more polished version of themselves. It's about paying attention to the life they're actually living.

The real one.

The one that hasn't been edited, explained away or tied up with a neat ending. Because that's the only life God has ever been interested in accompanying.

If you're trying to hand me the version of your life that has it all together, there's only so much we can notice. We end up talking about the person you think you should be instead of the person who's actually here. The questions stay on the surface because the conversation never reaches the place where they were born.

But when someone tells the truth (even if it's unfinished, contradictory, or doesn't make them look particularly put together) something changes.

Honesty is where companionship becomes possible.

It's where we stop trying to fix the story long enough to notice what God might already be doing within it. It's where reflection becomes less about finding the right answer and more about becoming curious. More attentive. More willing to stay with the questions instead of rushing toward certainty.

I've found that God rarely meets us in the life we're pretending to live. God meets us in the life that's actually unfolding.

The difficult conversation you keep replaying in your mind or grief you thought you'd be over by now. The decision that won't leave you alone. The prayer that feels unanswered.

That's the sacred ground.

And that's why I remember so little about the things people worry will distract me. I don’t remember if there was a pile of laundry behind you…I remember the moment someone chose honesty over appearance.

The moment they stopped trying to convince me they were doing fine and trusted me with the life they were actually living.

That's the whole practice. 

Come exactly as you are.

Not with better answers. Not with a more polished story. Just with your real life: the questions, the joy, the uncertainty and everything in between.

I'd love to meet you there.