parade fail

Be gracious with yourself. Take your screw-ups in stride.

I once participated in an Independence Day parade-I was 16 years old. My simple task was to sit in the back of a pickup truck and toss candy to roadside parade watchers. The parade kept a manic pace; sometimes we'd idle for a few minutes. Other times, our truck would have to zip along to catch up.

A few blocks into our route, I spotted this girl I knew from school (she was watching the parade). It would be fair to say I was interested in getting to know her better. Maybe I was also interested in asking her out on a date at some point.

'Ah ... here's my chance to make a glorious impression,' I thought. My quickly-concocted plan: I could hop off the side of the truck, say hi and give her candy, and then keep moving with the parade ('Gotta run; I'll call you later!!'). Then, I could indeed call her later, continue chatting ... and perhaps ask her out on a date.

Seldom do plans this good come together this effortlessly.

'Let's roll,' I said to myself, swinging my legs over to hop off the side of the idling truck.

At that same moment, it lurched forward to keep with the parade pace.

It's quite astounding how, in an instant, good plans turn to rot. Instead of hopping off this truck, I was now falling off this truck.

Thankfully, I did not hit the road face-first. Instead, I sorta ... belly-flopped onto the street, about five feet in front of this girl (and her friends who were all watching with her).

Until I fell out from nowhere, she hadn't noticed my participation in this parade. She for sure noticed now. The sting on my chest from hitting the pavement mirrored the sting of mortification I felt because I'd just wiped out before her very eyes.

It suddenly no longer seemed like the ideal time to chat. I'd just fallen off the back of a truck in front of her, and the parade continued moving. So I gasped out, 'Hey ... [lands on roadway] Oww!! ... Well, good to see you! Here's some candy -- gotta go!', and hurriedly shuffle-limped off.

Smooth. 

At that time, I felt unfathomably embarrassed.

At that time, I hoped no one witnessed what had just happened. At that time, I felt like I'd just socially kicked myself right in the teeth.

Perhaps, as you're reading this story, you're also remembering a time when you endured a similar embarrassment. Those moments stick in the memory bank. 

But at this time? It's one of my favorite stories to tell on myself.

If I'd face-planted out of a truck in front of my best friends, we would have laughed, and kept on laughing until we cried.

Slowly but steadily, I've come to learn that I can't totally trust my gut feelings about myself. I often overreact to my own screw-ups, and assume the worst fallout. In the moment, I seldom extend the grace to myself that I eventually will settle into later. I've learned that a lot of the time, my dear friends have a clearer view of me and my worth than I do.

Screwing up is a part of life. It happens to me. It happens to you.

Anyway, blessings on your day today. 

Perhaps you can reflect on some of your past screw-ups. Your perspective could be kinder now than it was before. That's the wiser posture to hold. Try to laugh at yourself when you can, and as your friends would laugh, from a place of love and warmth -- that's where much of grace resides.

what don't belong to me

Data about our home planet tells us that the earth's surface curves at about eight inches per mile.

Ergo, IF: 

a) your eyesight is top-notch, 

b) it's a clear sky

c) and your view is about five feet off the ground, 

 

you would -- AT MOST -- be able to see about three miles away.

Which is not that far at all. We can see only so far ahead. 

 

This is true, not just in distance, but in life. We can only be prepared ... so far in advance. We can only be usefully anxious ... up to a certain point. Past that, we have to trust God that he'll equip our future self to creatively work with whatever will be before us.

There's this scene from the first Indiana Jones film that shows this ethos.

Indy's on a mission to stop the stealing of a historical artifact (yes, I know there's way way waaay more to the film ... I'm trying to not spoil it ... work with me here). 

 

When all appears lost, the following conversation ensues between Indy and his companions:

 

Indiana Jones: "Get back to Cairo quick and get us transportation to England -- a plane, a ship, anything. I'll meet you at Omar's. Be ready for me. I'm going to get that truck."

Sallah: "How?"

Indy:

This plan contains sufficient detail only up to a certain point. And then: "I have no idea, but future me will think of something." This is a life posture that I'd love to more naturally adopt.

Jesus sometimes teaches this way. He says, "Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble" (Matthew 6:34). Such a non-sentimental posture.

 

The first bit would look glorious on a motivational poster, amiright?

But if that poster shared why Jesus says to not be anxious, it dropkicks that pithy vibe straight in the teeth.

Like a silent fart released in a boutique candle shop, it trades pithiness about anxiety for something more grounded.

Jesus is pragmatic: don't be anxious about tomorrow.

Why? because today has enough to occupy our anxieties.

This sounds like advice from someone who actually knows how anxiety can -- in a matter of seconds -- hijack a day, a meal, a moment, a mood, a conversation, or a night.

… that feeling of trying to will your heartbeat to settle down (and it beats ever faster)
… that feeling of trying to corral your thoughts from cycloning into a a mess (again)
… that feeling of trying to steady your breathing in the middle of the night (when worry pries open your eyelids)
…. that feeling of trying to not send another text or message, when all you want is to hear back

In those moments, someone telling you to ‘just stop being anxious’ or ‘just stop worrying’ does no good. But someone helping you redirect the anxiety to a sensible time frame … this shows compassion. Understanding. Grace. Attainability. This helps.

This is why, when someone offers us sips of this sort of hope, our fears seem a little smaller, and a bit less inflamed. It reminds us that future anxieties don't have to belong to us just yet.

So, is some situation causing you anxiety?
-Probably.

 

Is it a today thing or a tomorrow (or someday after) thing?

-Your answer determines how much weight to give it today.
 

Ergo: is all lost?
-Hardly. You’ll be amazed at what--when you ask God for help and wisdom--future you will work through. So pray about it. Give it some thought, then take a break from thinking about it. Talk to wise people you trust.

After all, we’re sorta making it up as we go, aren’t we? 

 

Prioritize today's anxieties over future anxieties.

snipers on the watchtower

"Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour." -1 Peter 5:8

 

Prologue: years ago, I hiked this mountain trail in southeastern Colorado. Five miles up to a lake. I hiked alone. The summer foliage, thick. The only noise came from me trudging along the trail. About three miles up, a jarring series of thuds alarmingly jolted my senses: a massive elk bounded away from near the trail, from near me, and into the forest. 

Elk vs Average Human Size

Until it moved, I didn't notice the elk's presence whatsoever. Elk can sometimes act aggressively toward people. If, in that moment, it'd decided to charge me, I would've been badly hurt. I wasn't doing anything wrong, but my choice to hike alone and unprepared wasn't wise.

-----

So I recently finished reading a provocative and sad biography about Pete Rose. 

For the non-fans: Pete Rose played pro baseball for 24 years. Rose holds the all-time record for most hits. A 17-time All-Star, Rose also won three World Series titles.

But he's not eligible for the Hall of Fame because, as a manager, he placed bets on baseball and was banned from the game. MLB forbids(*) its players, umps, baseball teams, or anyone employed with any team to place bets on baseball games. This rule is posted in every MLB stadium locker room; every time Rose walked into and out of any locker room, he walked past a sign reminding of this rule.

 

He still gambled on baseball. Sometimes, he gambled thousands of dollars a day.

 

Rose himself estimated that his permanent banishment from baseball has cost him recognition, his reputation, and hundreds of millions of dollars. He appealed for reinstatement, but never received it. He died, polarized and a pariah from the game he loved so much.

Why? Why risk so much achievement and blessing for something so banal?

 

It is true that God can redeem all things. It's true that God can make something out of the sins, mistakes, and wrong choices we choose to make in our lives.

But that doesn't mean it will be the same as if we'd chosen the wiser path from the start. Undoing a wrong turn doesn't happen instantly. When we choose a path that isn't right for us (or when we end up on such a path non-purposefully) it follows that it'll take us longer to get back to where we should be.

If we get back at all.

And that's the sobering, scary part. Sometimes, I'm prone to thinking that I'm more resilient and stronger than I actually am. Don't you also sometimes think this way? It's not just me. We dabble with this behavior or this way of thinking or living, breezily confident it'll have no long-term effect on us. And then I read a verse like 1 Peter 5:8, admonishing his hearers to 'be watchful'.

How watchful am I? Are you?

 

Are we watchful over our lives, our hearts, our minds, our souls? Probably not as much as we should be. And if we are, we're super-attuned to one sort of pitfall, but naively ignorant of many others.

Every lie we tell helps us become more comfortable with telling another. So many addicts began with one dabble, not meaning for it to consume everything about their lives. Every gossiper began with one ordinary conversation. Every embezzler starts with some small amount of cash. Every jealous thought we entertain and don't resist makes it easier for other jealousies to fester in and poison our hearts.

I'm not saying to stay paranoid and spooked about everything in life. That's no way to live. 

 

I guess what I'm saying is what 1 Peter 5:8 says. Stay alert. Stay street-smart (in the spiritual, emotional sense as well as the physical sense). The adversary roams, looking for any way to distract and devour us if given the chance. The road of any sin, if continued to its logical end, eventually leads to absolute ruin. It's like choosing the path that goes past snipers posted on the watchtower, hoping that they all have bad aim when you stroll past.

    “Good and evil both increase at compound interest. That is why the little decisions you and I make every day are of such infinite importance. The smallest good act today is the capture of a strategic point from which, a few months later, you may be able to go on to victories you never dreamed of. An apparently trivial indulgence in lust or anger today is the loss of a ridge or railway line or bridgehead from which the enemy may launch an attack otherwise impossible (p. 132).” Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis

 

It's not worth it. It's not too late to turn back.

 

Respect how you're created. Respect whose image you represent. Remember you live in a beautiful world, and that this beautiful world has its evils and dangers as well.

-----

Epilogue: I briskly turned around and descended down the mountain. Two more miles of hiking to see a lake wasn't so alluring anymore. If I'd chosen a wiser way to hike to begin with, there'd be no qualms to continuing on the trail. I'll see the end of that trail some other time.

*For those keeping score, the MLB rule states: "Any player, umpire, or club, or league official, or employee, who shall bet any sum whatsoever upon any baseball game in connection with which the bettor has a duty to perform shall be declared permanently ineligible."

further up and further in

As a kid growing up with a much older brother, I lost a lot of games playing against him. Baseball. Basketball. Checkers. Video games. Street races. Ping-pong (especially ping-pong).

For years, I'd lose. And lose again. And lose some more.  

"Why can't I be as good as him?" I'd think. The obvious answer was that he was older, farther along in development as a person. 

Truth is, when we compare ourselves to others in any area of life, it gets challenging. This also happens when it comes to faith. 

We look at other people's relationship with God, and then we look at our own. And sometimes we can't help but think 'I don't feel like I have the same sort of relationship with God that they do.' And you think this in a way that leaves you wishing your relationship with God was different. Was more. Was more vibrant, more connected, more everything. More like theirs. 

So let's unpack.

Truth #1: We're meant to pursue God and our relationship with God with others, in community (Heb. 10:25). It's essential. So avoiding all comparisons by avoiding all people can't be the way to go (sorry, introverts!). 

Truth #2: Comparison is the thief of our joy?  Sometimes. This can drag on our countenance. By constantly wondering why our relationship with God isn't like others, we can easily overlook the fact that God relates to us uniquely.

Case in point: In John 21, Jesus tells the apostle Peter about Peter's own future. Peter then (referring to John the apostle) asks Jesus, "Lord, what about this man?” Jesus said to Peter, “If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow me!” So this isn't just a comparison we're prone to make. The disciples did this too. Jesus lovingly redirects Peter's attention: 

"You follow me."

Truth #3: Comparison can't just be the thief of joy. It can also be the thief of complacency. And this can be a backhanded lift to our countenance.

It's a fact of life that if you want to improve at any task, you put yourself in the company of people who are better than you at that task, and know what you don't (yet) know. 

If I want to improve at tennis, I play tennis against people better than me. If I want to improve at singing, I sing with voices more developed than my own. It's a well-tested way to truly improve. 

So observing someone's relationship with God, and thinking 'I wish I had that' can help motivate us to know God more like that person knows God. We're meant to grow with God by watching others (1 Corinthians 11:1).

First, we should check our perceptions. Comparing what we feel inside vs what we perceive on the outside about others is rarely a fair comparison. Knowing more about that person will help our comparing be more fair to ourselves.

Second, we sometimes learn how to love something by observing others. An older sister with a new younger sister learns how to hold the baby by watching how her parents hold the baby. A guitar player learns how to care for their instrument by watching a more accomplished player take care of their guitar.

"Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way." -Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz.

Do others have a relationship with God that we'd like to emulate? Certainly hope so. Are we meant to motivate one another to seek the Lord? Absolutely. The funky thing is that pursuing a better, closer relationship with God might not make you more like someone else. It'll more likely make you a stronger, healthier, more vibrant version of yourself.

Jesus loves me, but does he like me?

Ah, love. We find so, so many ways to confuse ourselves about this vital topic.

We devour sappy, lyrically suspect songs about love. 

We (the royal we, the editorial 'we') purchase loads of fiction stories of love lost and regained. We watch shows with such titles as 'Love Island' or 'the Bachelorette', even though we know the premise has little to do with actual love.

(when I said 'we' watch such shows, I definitely meant more 'you' than 'me).

Still for some of us, 'love' has infuriatingly, maddeningly, wrongly been the premise for some sort of unloving-type control or mis-use of us. Many of us, quite reasonably, have discerned that someone can love us, but not particularly like us. Some of our parents have loved us in ways we feel loved ... and also that we're an annoyance, a burden. Love has been made to feel like some obligation we're owed, but don't really want. "Who needs enemies when you have friends like this?"

So, when we hear that God is love ... that God 'loves' you, and 'loves' me ... we can (understandably) react with wary confusion. 

"So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him." -1 John 4:16

What is that sort of love from God? Is it the sort of love that includes some side orders of anxiety, control, hectoring, manipulation? Is this is a love that gives the silent treatment if I say the wrong thing the wrong way, or don't text back in a reasonable amount of time?

Thankfully, no.

There's a sort of love that delights with someone or something just because it is. Just because it exists. There's a sort of love that because it loves, it also likes/delights in/finds funny/genuinely enjoys/appreciates being around.

You're not a rehab project to our Lord. You're not an investment of under-realized gains. He's not tapping his foot impatiently. He doesn't get mad when you spill the cup of water on the dinner table. When we look at our lives and see scattered debris of minimal progress here and there, we can't presume that Jesus sees us this way too.

"The Lord is merciful and gracious."

a la carté kills

How I learned a valuable lesson about self-respect, dating, and relationships.

When I was in college (or shortly thereafter), this girl and I developed a friendship that, through time and conversations, became more. Talking with her on the phone once or twice a week morphed into talking on the phone every single night (this was before text messaging was a thing).

Texting on these phones took commitment.

 

We lived in different cities, but within easy driving distance. We'd confide about our life hopes, dreams, funny stories, day-to-day details, worries. We'd known each other for years, knew we had similar values and beliefs. We became each others closest emotional supports. 

 

It didn't take much for my heart to want more. She told me I was the best, someone she could trust ... someone she loved. "Wow," I thought. "This seems so good!"

 

And it was so good ... save for one detail.

She had a boyfriend. 

Of him she didn't speak much. 

 

What she did share with me: she knew they could never work out long-term. He wasn't much for meaningful conversation. He wasn't what she sought for her future. How she had all this time to talk with me while dating someone else, I couldn't figure. This unspoken question rattled around my skull: "then whyyyyy are you still with him?"

 

In my uncertainty, I never asked this question. I reasoned that if I showed myself to be an obvious step up, that she'd ditch her boyfriend.  Then, we could continue what we'd started.

 

So I kept on, with allowing myself to grow closer. Talking, sharing life, sharing laughs, sharing dreams. We poured more of our hearts out onto one another. I did my best to ignore the pesky "one detail" (that annoyingly remained a detail). Sooner ... or later, I reasoned, she'd end it with him if I kept giving pieces of my time, energy, my heart. 

How could I have believed this would work? I don't think hindsight is always 20/20 ... but hindsight can offer clarity and perspective.

Thank God for friends who love us enough to tell us the truth. 

 

Thank God for friends who love us enough to say hard truths we must hear. 

 

My best friend Matt's wife was (and is) wise beyond her years. In talking with them about this conundrum, and my hopes for how this would work out, she leveled me with a perspective I hadn't yet heard.

"You are a la carté-ing yourself," she told me. "You should not do this. You're gonna get hurt."

"A la carté-ing ... myself?? What does that mean?" I knew what 'a la carté' meant: it's a term often used at restaurants. It refers to a menu or list of items that can be ordered separately, rather than altogether. I hadn't yet heard it about dating, or relationships.

 

"Here's what I mean," she replied. "Right now, you're offering pieces of yourself, in hopes that she'll end up wanting more. But that's not how it should be. God made us to be loved completely, not piecemeal. None of us as whole people are ever too much for one person. Someone should either get all of you, or none of you. That's self-respect. As it stands, she's got you for emotional support and camaraderie, but then there's this boyfriend who's somehow still in the picture. Why would she commit to wanting all of you, and ditching this other dude, if you're offering just parts of you? Don't devalue yourself, do not a la carté yourself. Connection without commitment is not stable, and you're gonna get hurt."

This perspective changed my life, y'all. I'd never heard this from the vantage point of standing up for myself and my worth in an appropriate, respectful, and resolute manner.

It's been more than two decades since I heard this. I share this wisdom a few times a year with people in similar scenarios, and it's absolutely right. If it's true for me, it's gotta be true for you as well.

Don't offer a la carté versions of yourself when it comes to dating relationships.

You're worth way more than that.

our sweet boy

"To his dog, every man is Napoleon. Hence the constant popularity of dogs." -A. Huxley

My family dog died this past weekend. A part of us knew this was imminent. Yet admitting this seemed to break our hearts extra wide open. Why does it ache so much? Why can't I stop from crying at random times throughout a day? Why does it feel emptier than normal at the house

 

It's love separated by death. That's why. This is not how it's supposed to be.

We adopted him as a rescue more than 10 years ago.

I'm confident that other life experiences will hurt us as much as the death of a family pet. But I'm also confident that it's uniquely, distinctly desolating to say goodbye to a pet.

My mom often says that there's few things on this earth more symbolic of God's love for his people than how dogs particularly love their owners (I can't speak about cats as pets, or reptiles, or any other animal, so I won't speculate -- I'm sure they also provide love and affection in palpable ways).

How did this dog demonstrate such love for me, and my family, that it'd remind me of God's love?

-He always wanted to be near us. It didn't matter how long it'd been since we last showered, or if we'd brushed our teeth yet that morning. Wherever we were, that's where he wanted to be. God is like that too. We're never somewhere that he's not willing to come to where we are to be with us.

-Our dog's love and affection for us is unconditional, as is God's love. It's rare in life to know a love that unconditional that we can trust is unconditional. No second-guessing. No games.

-He saw the best in me, and in us. We didn't need to earn his love, or attain any status, to earn his love. It was there, and it stayed.

-The playfulness. We too often undersell the playfulness of God. 

A friends once told me of a time, in high school, when she contemplated some serious self-harm. One night, she got stuck in a devolving, self-loathing mental/emotional spiral. She began considering how she could hurt herself, and when to do it.

 

Who intervened?

 

The family dog -- bounding into her bedroom with the grace of a dump truck to lick her face, bother her for pets, climb into her lap. The dog broke through the spell of shame. She broke free of the spiral.

Dogs know when we ache. They may not be able to pay off a credit card, or recite math equations, or change a tire, but they are keen students of their pack.

A question I plan to ask God someday: why is the span of a pet's life is so truncated compared to our lives? It cleaves me in two to have to let go of this companion. Why do they have to age so fast? I'd gladly take the pain of this with the love we knew for all these years. But wow, the pain screams.

 

Also: do I believe all dogs go to heaven? 

 

I'll put it this way: I believe in the resurrection of the dead, and of God "making all things new" (Revelation 21), and that would not just be humans, but all creation. The bonds we form with these creatures are a gift from God. It's unfathomable that God would withdraw this gift forever. I look forward to playing with this special dog, my sweet boy again. I love him so.

 

best imposter of myself

Imposter syndrome club, at some time or another, has counted us all as members.

"I'm not good enough to be here," we mutter to ourselves about [pick the situation]. "I don't belong. I'm such a fraud, an imposter."

This could be a friend group. A class, a degree program, or a school. A club. A relationship. A team. A job. An opportunity. You name it. Friends could tell us we belong; people wiser than us can affirm that we're up to the challenge ahead of us. People that know us, and love us, can bellow into our faces all day long these assertions.

But still, these positive reinforcements clang off our self-imposed armor of suck like jump shots off the backboard.

How do we step around this self-doubt?

I propose some ways to bypass this imposter syndrome (in other words, these are some ways that've helped me).

Bypass Way #1: Let's face facts. We suck ... at assessing ourselves when it comes to certain things.

This should not be news to you, or to me. Sort of how we can't tell when we have a piece of food stuck between our front teeth, but others can notice right away.

Sometimes, we need to admit that others can offer us a fairer assessment about ourselves than we can. Not just anyone else, but wise people who love us, want us to succeed, and who wish us well. We gotta recognize that their input is more accurate than our self-perception. In other words, we suck at fairly assessing ourselves. We gotta doubt our doubts.

Bypass Way #2: Let's re-frame imitating and pretending. 

What's so wrong with imitating, pretending to be something we're not quite?

Hear me out.

As little kids, we felt zero qualms about imitating, and playing pretend. We pretended we were doctors, musicians, fashion designers, scientists, construction workers, professional athletes, or soldiers. 

What all did you pretend to be? 

Our playgrounds, stages, and imaginations held court to so many instances of us pretending to be someone we weren't. 

You've done this. I have too.

Who hasn't stood in front of a mirror, holding a comb, and pretended to to be a famous singer?

But somewhere along the way, we got this idea that if we're watching and imitating others to a degree, we must be fake. We must be imposters. But we didn't always regard imitating and copying this way. 

I tell you this to remind you that imitating isn't always bad. It's often good and wise. 

A chef learns how to expertly cut vegetables by watching someone else do it first. A carpenter learns how to expertly use equipment by first apprenticing and watching someone else work. We all imitate. You're only really aware that you do this, and don't give much thought to if anyone else does. Imitating doesn't make you an imposter. There's wisdom in following an example.

Bypass Way #3: It's not a one-time fix. Imposter syndrome isn't something we overcome once, and that's that. A mentor taught me to think of battling imposter syndrome as akin to pulling weeds. Weeds never, ever go away for good. But weeds can be uprooted and thrown out to allow good plants to flourish. The more we fight the feeling of being an imposter, the easier the fight gets.

So pretty please, try these bypasses when you feel something like an imposter, a fraud ... when you feel like you don't belong.

Trust the words of loved ones as much (if not more) than you trust your own thoughts.

Remember everyone's long history of imitating, and how much we've grown by copying wise examples in our lives.

And keep after those weeds.

It gets easier.

the silence of God

The silence of God can unnerve, agitate. You ask God about something, and you wait for an answer.

It's the prayer screamed against a mirror that's fogged with our frustrated breath. It echoes, but no reply. The room is still. 

It's the fading ambulance siren as it drives away with a shattered dream. Now what? What now, Lord??

Why would God ever be silent when we call? 

There's this story about Jesus. The apostle Thomas (unfairly nicknamed 'doubting Thomas')  hears from the others that the risen Lord visited them, and he says, 'Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe' (John 20:25).

A bold statement. A not-unfair statement. He's calling Jesus out.

The next verse (John 20:26): "Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them ... [and] Jesus came and stood among them and said, 'Peace be with you.' Jesus proceeds to respond to, and reply to, Thomas' confusion.

I've read this passage more than once. The perplexing part of this verse (for me) always sits in the first three words:

Eight. Days. Later. 

For Thomas, eight days of silence from God.

Imagine playing a game of tag in a pool. You call out 'Marco!' -- only for someone to reply eight ... days ... later ... with 'Polo.'

Imagine leaving the most crucial voice mail, or sending the most important text message of your life, to someone important to you -- and hearing nothing back in the first hour. You wait one hour for the reply text. The call back. The news about the diagnosis. The job opportunity. The grade. The relationship. The future plan. The news.

 

Then it becomes eight hours of waiting. Then, you fall asleep waiting for a reply to ping your phone. 

 

You wake up the next morning and check -- no notifications.

One day of waiting becomes two. 

 Why have they not yet replied? Your imagination and nerves imagine every worst-case scenario. You wear yourself out with worry. You cry. You scream. You feel numb at times. You try to stay strong. You can't eat. Your sleep suffers. For seven days.

But then let's flip it. 

Say you've known someone for years. The waters of your friendship run deep. These years and the history have built in you both a certainty that you matter to one another.

So when there's a delay in responding, you don't sweat. "My friend won't let me down," you say. "If I haven't heard back, it has to be for a good reason. They'll respond to me when they can." And your friend does get back to you. The silence becomes evidence of a trust, a relationship deep enough to not require instant responses, instant soothing, automatic replies, realtime responses.

What's this built on? 

Trust.

Could it be that God trusts you with the silence? Could it be that's God's trying to show you how to trust him more deeply? There's a point -- in every friendship, every relationship, every collaboration -- where the trust gets stretched just a bit more, so that it can handle more.

It's when you've waited a few days to hear back from someone -- but you don't fret -- because you've waited longer for them before, and they've come through. When you loan a friend some money, and you've never loaned them money before ... and then they do pay you back in a reasonable time.

We trust, and give grace to, the silences we experience with our dearest loved ones and friends.

So what can we infer from the daunting, unnerving silence of God? I guess that question has multiple possible answers. Ergo, one possible answer is this: it's possible that God's trusting you with silence because God trusts you, wants that sort of connection with you, that you're able to handle the waiting.

Anyway, as you wait in your silence, give this some consideration.

dance on the teeth of pain

Science re-learned old truths about dancing. I love what this re-reminds us.

In a fresh-off-the-presses study published in the BMJ (British Medical Journal), physical exertion was compared for how well it helped people who suffer with depression.

As you've heard before, exercise helps to fight back against depression's tentacles of despair.

But that's not what -- in this study -- caught my attention. 

It was this, from page 8: 

Dancing does the most to ward off depression. Dancing, by itself. 

Dancing! Better than yoga, mindfulness, tai chi.

"We're going out dancin'

Chase our blues away..." 

-Go Out Dancing, Rod Stewart

"Just dance, 

gonna be OK..." 

-Just Dance, Lady Gaga

"You turned my wailing into dancing, 

you removed my sackcloth 

and clothed me with joy..." -Psalm 30:11

I love when super-smart people (scientists, in this instance) reaffirm wisdom that the Bible elaborated upon in ancient times. We should dance. 

How many times has this happened to you: You're supposed to go out. But you're in a cranky, funky,  nothing-fits-right, life-sucks sort of mood. You rather wallow in this vibe, listen to your sad playlists, eat chips, play a video game, and doom-scroll. BUT you already said you'd show up.

"I don't even know if I want to go," you think. "I'm not feeling it."

But you force yourself to get out. You push yourself to be with people enjoying themselves. And voila -- you have a much, much MUCH better time than you would've predicted.

"Here we have a lot of fun,

Putting trouble on the run,

You find the old & young

Twistin' the night away" 

-Twistin' The Night Away, Sam Cooke

I look closer at these songs about dancing I mentioned above, and I see something I missed before. The lyrics all juxtapose dancing with the chasing away of trouble. Psalm 30 also does this. 

It's as though God designed it like this: dancing plays a role in reinforcing to us that, with our Lord, it'll be OK. The specter of doom wilts on the dance floor.

Of course it's natural to sometimes feel depressed. But why should depression get unresisted squatter's rights on our moods and days? Just because we're in that state doesn't mean we should -- without protest -- accede to all it brings. We can try to push back a little bit. We can work to stand up underneath it.

Sometimes we gotta kick pain in the mouth, and then dance on depression's busted teeth and gums.

I say this with supreme confidence: you do not dance as often as you could. Go do something about that, even if you feel self-conscious. Go get after places and times to dance.

"And David danced before the Lord 

with all his might"-2 Samuel 6:14

over-feeling & never leaving well enough alone

"You're overthinking it." I've been told this, and have told this, countless times over. 

You have too. 

But you know what I've never, ever heard said to me? "You're over-feeling it." 

And why not?

If we can overthink, we can over-feel. Seems to make sense.

What's overthinking? 

My take: it's when we analyze a thought, relentlessly. We do this a point where it disrupts much of our day, and a disproportionate amount of life. It derails other thoughts. It overrides other stuff we want to also ponder. It stays excessively heightened in our mind's eye.

BUT here's the thing: our thoughts aren't always right. Actually, we're wrong about as often as we're right. So therefore, not every thought we have is well-thought-out.

So what's over-feeling? 

My take: It's when we analyze our feeling(s), relentlessly. We do this to a point where it disrupts much of our day, and a disproportionate amount of life. It derails other feelings. We're somehow unable, in the moment, to discern if the feeling's valid. It overrides other feelings we want to properly feel. It stays excessively heightened in our heart and mind.

BUT here's the thing: our feelings are sometimes mistaken. Actually, our feelings can be off-base as much as true. So not every feeling we have is sensibly felt.

"In my defense I have none, for never leaving well enough alone..." -T.S. (The 1)

How do we stop over-feeling?

Whoa, whoa whoa.

First, let's check expectations. 

Trying to abruptly *stop* over-feeling will likely end in failure. Might as well try to stop feeling a breeze when you're outside and it's windy. Nor can we expect to always *control* our over-feeling tendencies.

I picture it like this: I have this plate of food sitting in front of me. The only item on the plate is a food called 'over-feeling.' It tastes like plain oatmeal, which is not everyone's favorite. And somehow, I can't take it off the plate (so that option is out), nor can I push the plate off the table (that option's also out). One way or another, I've gotta eat this mush. 

So what to do?

What I can do is I can try to interrupt, to interfere with that over-feeling taste, so that it's not the only taste on the plate. I put something else on the plate with it. I can add salt. Or ketchup, or brown sugar, or butter, or popcorn, or ranch dressing, or milk, or anything. 

The point is not that it tastes great. The point is that the taste of over-feeling gets disrupted. There's no law that says 'over-feeling' gets to overwhelm us all by itself. Adding ketchup radically disrupts the taste. My goal is to add to and crowd my over-feeling, to disrupt the taste. 

This concept takes center stage in the book The Giver.

Jonas finds living with memories amidst the Sameness landscape undesirable. But he can't rid himself of the burden. So what does he do? Jonas flees to some Elsewhere so that the burden of memory isn't all he has with him.*

Make the over-feeling work for it.

Also: it's reasonable to need help when we face our over-feeling tendencies. It takes time to learn new ways. Praying to God helps. The counsel and/or silent presence of wise, loving friends can also do much good. These are some options to add to the plate, to crowd the over-feeling.

The presence of feelings is not the problem. It's the over- part of feeling (and thinking) that we can learn to spar with, to check, to push back against, and to test. Over-feeling won't go away, and won't always be controlled. But that doesn't mean there's nothing we can do.

(*If you're a reader of the Narnia book series, Puddleglum the Marsh-wiggle does this in The Silver Chair. 

He can't put the enchanted-smelly fire out, so he grinds his bare foot into flames. The smell of Puddleglum's burnt foot irrevocably disrupts the enchantment.)