I’m not a big fan of unnecessary noise.

I didn’t grow up with any brothers. But I do remember the sound effects that my little boy friends would make when we would play GI Joe. They could make car sounds and gun sounds that I just couldn’t make. They even tried to teach me, but to no avail.

Boys (of any age) are just louder. They cough loud, they sneeze loud, they walk loud. My mom (having grown up with three little brothers) warned me of this whenever I would say I wanted a son. “You don’t know what you’re saying. They’re loud, they’re rowdy, they hurt themselves and they break things.”

I don’t like loud. But with Brad and the kids, well, I’m trying to learn to deal. Beau yells at the video games he plays with his friends. Sydney and Caroline get all giggly and squealy when they have friends over. And Brad loves to have the TV on WHILE watching a video on his iPad WHILE talking to me over the sound from both of them.

Pardon me while I quote the Grinch. “Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! NOISE!”

(Man, I’m sounding old right now. And I just identified with the Grinch. Okay, time to pull it together, Linds.)

So anyway, as a general rule, I don’t do loud. I still walk on the balls of my feet like I did when my little sister was a baby and I was trying not to wake her up. I usually hold in my sneezes. Even when I hurt myself, it’s usually a low growl full of expletives that comes out of my mouth instead of a wail of pain.

Other than just being annoying, loud also has a control aspect to it that I don’t like. In a group of people, the loudest person usually wins. Not necessarily because they’re right. But just because they’re loud. It could be a business meeting around a conference table or a bunch of women trying to figure out where to go to dinner on their girls night out.

Loud wins.

We all know there is power in volume. That’s why we turn up our favorite songs so we can experience them more. That’s why we yell during arguments, to add some extra oomph to our point. That’s why we scream when we need help.

So for a long time, I thought loud = bad. But just like almost everything else, there’s another side of the coin. And there is a time for loud.

When I pray in the mornings, it’s always silently. There are always people in earshot and after all, it IS called ‘quiet time,’ right? So I sit silent and still, hands grasping my rosary and folded.

A couple days ago I went through my nice silent routine of Bible reading and prayer before I started my day. But within an hour, I had already dried up. Our family is dealing with some coordinated attacks from the enemy these days (and for good reason) and I got in the shower feeling terribly discouraged by the multiple challenges from all different directions. And I felt the urge to pray.

Praying in the shower is not unusual for me. But again, it’s in my head. Silent thoughts that I know my Father can hear. And after a couple false starts and getting distracted, I remembered something I learned in a Bible study years ago:

Satan cannot read our minds. He cannot hear our thoughts as God can. That’s why when you rebuke him (or cuss him out, as I may or may not do on occasion), it must be out loud so he can hear you.

Knowing full well our current difficulties were his doing, I suddenly desperately wanted him to ‘overhear’ my prayer. And I started talking.

Everything echoes in the shower, so I started in a low murmur. But as my requests began to grow in content and passion, the volume began to rise. Within minutes I was pacing back and forth, talking with my hands (big gestures), pleading my case to my Father who was lovingly hanging on every word.

And He was egging me on too.

Let Me HEAR you, my girl. What is it you want to say? Say it. Ask for it. Come on, say it like you mean it. You can do better than that. What else? I know there’s more. Say it. What else ya got? Now go BIG. How big do you think I am? Pray that big. Pray for the impossible, for the miraculous, for something crazy, for something that makes no sense. There are no limits on what I can do and there is no limit on My love for you. The only limits I will impose are those in your best interest. But you ask. You ask for everything you want. All the time. Tell me Whose name you’re praying in. Tell me what He’s done, who He is to you. Tell Me about the power of His name and what the very mention of it does to the enemy. Say it. HEAR IT. BELIEVE IT. 

I didn’t just pray it this time. I heard it. I heard from my own mouth what had been hiding in the shadows of my heart, what I never expressed in the years I spent stifling my own volume. I heard the truth: My God is BIG. My God is POWERFUL. My God is ABLE.

I heard my own wants and desires. And as it turns out, they’re big too. And I don’t need to edit myself so I don’t come across as greedy to my King. He knows my heart so I don’t have to worry about being misunderstood.

I spoke and heard the truth. And it set me free.

Beth Moore is a big fan of ‘out loud.’ (Well, she’s also just a fan of LOUD, but it works for her. Love when she yells at me.) I remember her teaching on 2 Corinthians 4:13:

It is written: ‘I believed; therefore I have spoken.’ Since we have that same spirit of faith, we also believe and therefore speak.

There is power in volume. Some things you can’t just believe in the quietness of your own heart. You must speak it, for the sake of others AND for yourself. Hear your own voice proclaiming what you believe. And let Satan hear it too.

I grew up going to Gator games at the Swamp, which is easily the loudest stadium I’ve ever been in (and I’ve been in a lot). When the other team has the ball, the screens above the end zones always flash the words ‘GET LOUD!’ and ‘MAKE SOME NOISE!’ And the Gator fans are all too happy to oblige.

I’ll never forget that one year FSU played UF in the Swamp when I was in high school (1996? 1997?). Wuerffel was our quarterback, Spurrier was our coach, it was a great time to be a Gator fan.

I will never forget that game, for a number of reasons. But the main reason is that it has gone down in history in my brain as the single loudest crowd noise of any game I’ve ever attended. It was absolutely deafening.

I remember being temporarily distracted from the game by the sheer noise and decided to do a little experiment. I took a deep breath then released the loudest, most blood-curdling scream I was capable of producing, and to my amazement, I couldn’t even hear myself. It was that loud.

Sometimes I picture that game when it feels like Satan and his team are moving down the field. He’s trying to call the play but the thunder of the ‘great cloud of witnesses’ (Hebrews 12:1) is messing up his strategy.

Sometimes, you guys, we gotta get loud.

Louder than the politicians on TV.

Louder than the lies we tell ourselves in moments of defeat.

Louder than the mean people who just won’t get off our backs.

Louder than the bad news that pummels us through the media.

Our faith must be louder. Our love must be louder. Our purpose must be louder. Our prayers must be louder, bigger, crazier.

Because something happens when we hear ourselves say something out loud. Somehow in our minds, it becomes more real, more official and, dare I say it, even more POSSIBLE.

Let others hear your words. Let Satan hear your words. Let YOURSELF hear your words.

Tell the truth. Share your dreams. Pray out LOUD. God created the world by speaking. Jesus said we can move mountains by speaking to them, telling them to move.

(And I’m pretty sure He didn’t mean Um, excuse me, Mr. Mountain, sir. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind moving aside? Maybe just a little? He meant, Hey, mountain. I’m talkin’ to YOU. MOVE IT.)

You know what bothered the Grinch so much about the noise? It was HAPPY noise. It was JOYFUL noise. And that loud love the Whos showed him that day was enough to make his heart grow three sizes.

The world is full of Grinches who have been let down, rejected, hurt, disappointed. They live isolated, lonely, bitter. We all feel that way sometimes. And you know what we need? We need to be loved out loud.

We don’t just need to be told, “I’ll pray for you.” We need to be prayed for, prayed over, out loud, in the moment. We need to hear the words of life and lean on the faith of another when ours is failing.

We don’t just need to be told, “You’re not alone.” We need someone to show up with a bag of chips and a bottle of wine and talk through our current struggles with someone who can deliver that freeing truth face to face.

We don’t just need to be told, “I love you.” We need to be checked on. We need to be called on the phone and when we don’t answer, we need to be able to listen to a voicemail (maybe several times) from someone expressing concern and care.

I think God likes when His kids get loud. He digs joyful noise. And He is not offended by the loud, needy, whiny voices asking for His help and intervention when they come from sincere hearts.

He is the God who created thunderstorms, waterfalls, roaring lions, screeching owls. And apparently, if His people withhold our worship from Him, the freakin’ ROCKS will cry out (Luke 19:40).

And Satan hears it all. He isn’t threatened by the silent praise and prayers we offer, so we must throw off his game with our words.

With our NOISE.

I was raised to be a pretty polite kid.

I was respectful to adults. Did (almost) everything I was told. And I feel like I asked for permission before I did most things. And if asking felt too presumptuous, I waited for somebody in authority to VOLUNTEER permission. Sometimes I would even say no a couple of times to make sure they really meant it.

In some ways, part of me got stuck there. And up until very recently, I was still waiting for permission. For a lot of things.

Most recently, I was working for a publication and I was hired to do a lot of contact work with our magazine subjects. But writing was not in my job description.

I love writing. It’s one of the few things I do really well. But they didn’t hire me to write. They had lots of writers. So nobody asked me to write.

I really enjoyed what I was doing, but at one point I got super frustrated that I wasn’t writing for the magazine. I remember whining to Brad one day, “They won’t let me write. Why won’t they let me write? I need to write.”

And then God crashed my pity party, as He has a tendency to do.

Let you? LET you? Why do you need someone to LET you WRITE? I’ve given you the ability and I expect you to use it for My glory. Stop complaining and START WRITING.

A few months later, I launched my blog. Been writing my butt off ever since.

Is it my career? Nope. Am I getting paid for it? Nope. But that’s not the point. It’s one of the things I was put here to do, so my job in God’s Kingdom is to big, fat do it. Period.

I remember making a run to Bed, Bath & Beyond shortly after we moved into this house a couple years ago and I came across a piece of wall art that has Ayn Rand’s quote:

The question isn’t, ‘Who’s going to let me?’ It’s, ‘Who is going to stop me?’

I stood there in the picture frame section just staring at those words. Something resonated way down in my soul.

I took a picture of the picture (thinking that just keeping the quote would be enough), put it back on the shelf and went about my business. As I picked up the other odds and ends on my list, the words kept running through my head again and again. Before I checked out, I went back to the picture section.

All of a sudden, I reached a crisis point: I desperately wanted (maybe even NEEDED) that picture. But I didn’t have permission. I needed somebody to let me. The picture that was communicating the freedom and courage I craved, well, I lacked the freedom and courage to reach out and take it.

What was the freakin’ problem? Who did I need permission from? Who did I need to let me? Where was the adult in the room to tell me I could have it?

Just to the side of those exhilarating words was a beautiful framed mirror.

And there was my answer.

Me. It was me. I was the problem. I was the obstacle. I needed my OWN permission. I needed to let myself. I was the adult in the room. And I could have it, if I wanted it.

(It now hangs on the wall next to my inspiration station at home. You know, where I do all my writing.)

I think we’re all waiting for permission. From somebody. For something.

We’ve boxed ourselves in, made up a bunch of rules, threw up some temporary structures that somehow solidified into a fortress. And we won’t let ourselves out.

We’re not necessarily happy in here, waiting for permission that no one is giving us (including ourselves), but this is just the way it is.

But it doesn’t have to stay that way.

I give you permission.

I give you permission to laugh. At yourself when you screw up. At your spouse when they make a dumb joke. At your kids when they make crazy faces. At your pet when they get busted for doing something they KNOW they’re not supposed to do.

I give you permission to cry. Bad things have happened in your life and nobody even knows about half of them. You’ve been trying to be brave. Or pretending you don’t care. I get it. And if you’re not ready to let your guard down, go get alone someplace, feel the hurt and let the cleansing tears fall.

I give you permission to respond to the affection of your spouse. Even if you’ve spent the last few weeks, months, years, decades pulling away and shutting it down, I give you permission to lean into a long kiss and a warm embrace.

I give you permission to demand better treatment from that person who regularly treats you like crap. And if they won’t cooperate with your higher expectations, I give you permission (and even encourage you) to WALK AWAY.

I give you permission to love your job. I give you permission to blow the roof off your job description and be wildly successful without feeling guilty. I give you permission to go all in with everything you’ve got, to take your heart to work and invest in your coworkers on a personal level.

I give you permission to hate your job. I give you permission to update that resume (let me know if you need some help) and start asking friends and family for any contacts in an industry that might interest you. I give you permission to STOP SETTLING in your career and shoot for the freakin’ moon.

I give you permission to dream. That non-profit you want to start, that business you want to launch, that social justice initiative you want to get involved in, that book you want to write. I give you permission to start jotting down some notes, reaching out to people who may be of the same mind and start taking steps toward DOING THE THING.

I give you permission to do things you enjoy. Don’t give me the tired, old ‘there’s no time’ excuse. Pardon me while I wave my B.S. flag. If you need to drop an obligation, quit a committee or get up an hour earlier so you can write, paint, build, create, hike, run, swim, bike, cook, watch the sun rise over some body of water, I give you permission to make it happen.

I give you permission to take back your time. No more lying in bed at night wondering where the day went. No more just reacting to life and getting pushed around from here to there. You were created to happen to life, not just let life happen to YOU. Use the calendar app on your phone. Make a plan that takes care of business AND your soul.

I give you permission to fall in love. If you’ve been dating that guy/girl for a while and they’ve proven themselves trustworthy and safe, give him/her your heart. Say ‘I love you’ first. Go in for the kiss. This just might be the one. And if it’s not, well, we’ve survived that before too.

I give you permission to ask for help. Maybe your debt has spiraled out of control. Maybe that addiction isn’t staying hidden as well as it used to. Maybe that nagging health issue just isn’t going away. Maybe that innocent friendship is taking a tiny but dangerous turn. Go to your person, that safe person that you trust, and ask for help.

I give you permission to heal. Those wounds you’ve been carrying around, either secret or obvious, I give you permission to heal from them. Get some good counseling, read some books, start praying regularly and get some people praying for you. God might be waiting for YOUR permission to get to that injury.

I give you permission to change. Are there some personality traits that just don’t fit you anymore? Some behaviors that are nothing more than bad habits? You’re not stuck. It’s not too late. As long as you’re still breathing, it’s never too late to change.

Who am I to grant you all this permission?

Nobody really. Just somebody out here who knows what it’s like to live a life stifled and limited by no one but myself. And between God and Ayn Rand, well, I finally learned how to turn myself loose.

What are you waiting for permission to do? And who are you waiting to get that permission from?

Let me see if I can eliminate at least a couple of the excuses: If what you want isn’t going against scripture, go for it.

And guess what, if you’re in the habit of listening to God and are at all interested in His plan for your life, and you start heading in a direction that isn’t what He wants, He’ll stop you.

Paul tried several times to preach in the province of Asia and the Holy Spirit wouldn’t let it happen. He finally ended up heading over to Macedonia after getting clear direction in a vision (Acts 6).

Oh, and have you ever heard of Jonah? Yeah. He went the wrong way. Got a clear command from God and went the total opposite direction. And God had no problem putting an end to that nonsense, on no uncertain terms (Jonah 1).

Now, if your natural bend is rebellious and defiant, this one isn’t for you. I’ll write a different post for you later.

But if deep down inside, feel like a timid kid waiting for a grownup to tell you it’s okay to do what you want to do, find a mirror. The grownup is you.

This is YOUR time. This is YOUR life, ticking away moment by moment. YOU are up to bat. Full count. Bases loaded.

Give yourself permission.

And swing for the fences.

I have an addictive personality.

I’ve been told this by professionals, friends and family, and I’ve seen it in action.

Some of these addictions are fairly harmless. I like to watch certain movies or shows over and over and over again (and somehow enjoy them just as much as I did the first time, if not more).

I have a mild addiction to T-shirts. T-shirts with words, specifically. I just need to buy them and wear them. I found an old red T-shirt at my grandmother’s house that says Marching Band Commander on it. Turned out to be my uncle’s in high school when he was in the band. It’s faded with a few small holes in it. But oh my gosh, it is now one of my current favorites.

I’m addicted to jeans, but mainly just wearing them, not so much buying them. Buying them would involve SHOPPING, you know. And that’s one addiction I was spared. I’ve got three or four pair that I wear pretty much every day.

My favorite pair is on its last leg (pun intended). They’ve been worn and washed so many times, they’re super soft and nearly threadbare. There are several especially worn creases that have become permanent over time. One of them finally split across my thigh the other day, but I still wear them around the house or whenever I don’t need to look particularly put together.

Sydney was eyeing the hole the other day. This child’s brain is amazing. It never stops gathering, processing and storing information. A walking catalog of actionable intel. Brad keeps saying she should work for the CIA. She also has a very high standard of style (which I rarely meet) and knows exactly how everything should look.

And ripped jeans are not unheard of these days, but she considered the odd placement of this hole and asked, “Is that rip supposed to be there?” I grinned, “Nope. Just because I’ve had these for so long.” She reached over and felt how paper-thin the fabric was and was amazed. “Wow. I’ve never actually seen a pair of jeans rip just because they’ve been worn so much.” You’re welcome, young padowan.

I’m proud to say. I’ve pretty much kicked my addiction to chips. I’ll still eat them on occasion. But I don’t NEED them like I used to.

Diet Coke, on the other hand, still has me in its aspartame-infused grip. I can’t even talk about it. (Hang on. I’m gonna go run downstairs and grab one. Be right back.) I’ve nailed the first step: Admitting I am powerless over my addiction. I’ve just never really made it past that point. And the worst part is, if I’m honest, I don’t really WANT to. (I’m sorry. That’s real.)

I’ve noticed that I have two distinct types of addictions: One is about comfort, based on what I already have (jeans, Diet Coke, repeating shows). The other stems from wanting MORE of something (Diet Coke, T-shirts).

To most Christians, MORE has become a four-letter word. (Okay, it IS a four-letter word, but I mean a BAD four-letter word.) We are regularly warned about greed and discontentment and that’s how sin entered the world, with Eve not being satisfied with what she had, for wanting more. And there’s something to be said for all that.

But as is the case in most situations, there’s another side to this coin.

What if, now just go with me here for a second, what if we’re SUPPOSED to want more?

What if, I’m just throwing the question out there, what if we were created for more?

One of my very favorite books of the Bible is the Gospel of John. (I’ve read John, Philippians and Romans about a zillion times. Addictive. Personality.)

The first chapter of John is so amazing. I love the poetry of it. Then John the Baptist (whom I lovingly refer to as JTB) shows up, preparing the way and denying being the Messiah.

Finally Jesus shows up and JTB does what he was born to do, points at Jesus and says, “Look, the Lamb of God!” (v. 36).

I couple of the disciples heard this and decided to follow Jesus around, probably arguing in whispers about who was going to speak to Him first and what they should say.

And then 37 verses into this book, we get Jesus’ first red letter words:

“What do you want?”

Jesus knew/knows the heart of all men/women. He knew what they wanted, even though it seems like they didn’t, because they never actually answered His question. And if Jesus asked that question of me a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to answer Him either. Because I didn’t know.

And even worse than not knowing what I wanted, I didn’t think it mattered.

I lived under the weight of should for way too long. When I was presented with an option or decision, I would answer with what I should want or what I should do. Because if I did what I should (for the most part), life would go my way, right?

I know that sounds ridiculous, but admit it, we’ve ALL believed and tested that theory to some extent. And we’ve all been crushed by its results.

(Not saying that we shouldn’t try to do what we SHOULD, based on scripture. I’m just saying that won’t guarantee our happily ever after.)

It got so bad in the last few years that when somebody would ask me if I could do something or attend some event, the first thing I would do is look at my calendar. If that day/time was open, I would say yes.

Whether I actually WANTED to or not was never part of the equation.

There’s an episode of Friends where the guys are putting together some new furniture for Ross (I think it’s the very first episode of the very first season). They turn to Phoebe and say, “Hey Pheebs, wanna come help us put Ross’s new furniture together?”

And without missing a beat, she replies apologetically, “Oh, I wish I could, but I don’t want to.”

WHAT?! You can SAY THAT? ‘I DON’T WANT TO’?

I used to think it was just a funny response made by a kooky character. But now I realize what a powerful statement it is.

I read somewhere that “an invitation is not an obligation.” Translation: What you WANT is a legitimate factor. Not the ONLY factor, but definitely one to be taken into consideration.

If Jesus asked me that now, do you know what I would say?

More. I want more.

Not in a discontent, complainy way. I swear, if nothing ever changed in my life, I would still have well beyond more than I could ever need.

But since He’s asking.

What do you want? Do you want more?

More love in your marriage?
More time to enjoy life with friends and family?
More hobbies that bring you joy?
More money to be free of debt and invest in the future?
More fulfillment in your career?
More connection with your kids?
More energy/health in your body?
More margin to pursue your dreams?
More purpose in your life?

And do you feel guilty about it? Greedy, grasping, discontent, unsatisfied, unappreciative. Those are the words I associate with wanting more.

Bill Hybels (pastor of megachurch Willow Creek up in Chicago) wrote a book years ago called Holy Discontent. He boldly presses into the possibility that God Himself may be putting that desire for more in our hearts to get us to pursue His purposes for our lives.

Because you know what I think? I think He created us for more.

More than dead-end jobs that are slowly killing our souls.
More than a loveless/lifeless marriage.
More than a practical/logistical relationship with our kids.
More than the daily grind.
More than the unhealthy and diseased bodies that render us useless.
More than the American Dream.
More pleasure doing what we were created to do.

Oh, how we all pray so hard for what we NEED. We pray for just enough to get by: A day without a fight with our boss/spouse/kid. And to be sure, we absolutely should bring our needs to our Father in prayer.

But dare I say, we shouldn’t stop there.

God is more than able to meet all our needs. But you know what? Beyond being the Creator of the universe who made the ultimate sacrifice to secure our salvation, He’s also our loving Father.

A loving Father who takes care of our needs, yes. But sometimes just wants to give us gifts. Gifts with no strings attached just to delight and bless us. Just to make us happy. Just because He loves us.

So armed with scripture to support that (James 1:17, Matthew 7:9-11, 1 John 3:1), I have begun praying bold prayers. Shameless prayers. Unapologetic prayers. I’ve been asking my Father, who owns all things, to give me some things I just big, fat WANT.

I praise Him for giving me everything I need. And I’ve started fearlessly asking for what I want. And the shift has been shocking.

He has started answering. Giving me gifts that it seems He has just been WAITING for me to request. And there has been a massive breakthrough in my heart:

Just because I want it doesn’t automatically mean it’s wrong. And holy crap, I think He may just love me and (if He deems it good for me) want to give me things that make me happy. Just like any good father.

So if you find yourself wanting more, don’t shame yourself into silence. Don’t convince yourself that it’s wrong to desire more than mediocrity.

Pray for the remarkable. Not to a distant, unapproachable God who follows a hands-off approach to parenting.

Pray to your loving Father, who just happens to be King over all things.

Embrace your desire for more. Pray for it.

And just see what happens.