The Pot

 

When I say “pot,” I don’t mean the kind you smoke.

I mean the other one.
You know — that pot. The one in the old saying: either do something or get off it.

Crude? Sure.
But effective? Absolutely.
There’s nothing quite like a little bathroom imagery to remind you how long you’ve been sitting in your own indecision.

Because here’s the thing: there comes a point in life when you realize you’re stuck.
Not stuck because God has abandoned you, or because the universe is unfair, but because you are perched on the porcelain of procrastination — legs numb, mind spinning — unable to decide whether to move or stay.

You know the moments.
The I should eat better.
The I should call a therapist.
The I should finally forgive them or stop scrolling or quit pretending that wine counts as self-care.
We should ourselves until we’re spiritually constipated.

We sit in lukewarm purgatory — not changing, not committing, not really living — and then we call it “thinking it through.”
But it’s not thinking. It’s stalling.
It’s self-inflicted purgatory with Wi-Fi.

I did this for fifty-three years.
Half in, half out of everything — my health, my calling, my marriage, my faith.
I’d sprint toward a new beginning and then collapse halfway there like, Actually, this is fine. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

When it came to God, I treated Him like a spiritual gym membership.
Sign up, go hard for a few weeks, then ghost Him for months — until crisis hit and I came crawling back, whispering, “It’s been a while, but I swear I’m serious this time.”

Then one night — in the middle of all the wreckage — something strange happened.
I found an old pair of white plastic rosaries. Cheap, light, the kind you get for free at a funeral home. I don’t even know why I did it, but I tucked them under my pillow before bed and prayed. Not a fancy prayer. Just a tired, desperate, “Help.”

The next morning, I reached under my pillow — and they were different.
Heavier. Beautiful. Mary on every decade.
I know how it sounds. Crazy.
But Erin didn’t touch them. I asked. (Multiple times.)
Something had changed.
And so had I.

That was my moment — my spiritual pot moment.
God didn’t thunder down from heaven or send a choir of angels.
He just turned my cheap plastic prayers into something heavier, holier — something real.

That was the day I got off the pot.
Finally.
After decades of half-believing, half-living, half-loving, I stood up and said, “Okay, God. I’m in. All of me.”

And it’s not easy, this new life.
I still stumble daily.
I still mutter words that would make the saints cover their ears.
But I wake up, I pray, I try again.
Because the saints — the real ones — were all disasters before they were holy.
And that gives me hope.
Because if God can turn them into something good, maybe He can do the same with me.

So yeah — I’ve finally gotten off my spiritual pot.
And honestly? The view from up here is holy.
Messy. Wobbly. Free.

How about you?
Still sitting there, waiting for a sign?
Maybe this is it.

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“Choose this day whom you will serve.”
— Joshua 24:15