Chomp. Flush. Hoot -Onomatopoetic titles all. Carl Hiaasen’s titles are sound tracks for the stories they front. Full of humor, life in Florida, and the courageous young vanquishing the crooked old, they are quirky tales of hope and working for something larger than personal gain. But the word squirm induces the action in a way that the others don’t.

What makes me squirm isn’t a snake, although snakes play a major part of the plot. It’s not an upcoming test or the high expectations of others. It’s likely to be something I’ve done that’s come to light, something I’d rather others not know – and what I do when confronted with it. It’s hard to sit still, hard to stay put when I’d rather slide out of my chair and sneak out of the room. It’s what I do when I’d rather not admit to my own failing. I squirm when the smallness of my actions breaks through the carefully crafted inflated persona I offer the world. That deflation that reveals my true self makes me squirm.

When I get squirmy in my spiritual life, it’s a sure sign that I’m trying to present a false face to God. Like a child, I do my best to wriggle out of the encounter. But when I stop squirming, when I drop back into my true self, I learn the truth that’s so simple and so hard to keep hold of: that false face, that public persona – it’s too small to contain the image of God which is who I really, truly am.

And it’s too small for who you really, truly are as well.

[This is one in a series. For more information, click Title Search above…]