peaking

We love the defying-the-odds stories, stories of second and third chances.

The true stories of athletes craftily finding ways to still compete (here, here, & here, for example). 

 

The true story of professional ballerina Wendy Whelan, who brilliantly kept on performing years past the typical age of ballerinas.

Or the true story of pro boxer George Foreman. He lost his boxing championship to Muhammad Ali at his peak physical condition of 25 years old...

then retired soon after, totally left the profession for 10 years...

...but regained the same boxing championship, about 20 years after losing to Ali.

 

Not just athletes, of course.

There's the true story of singer Mavis Staples, all of 71 years old when she won her inaugural Grammy ... even though she'd received her first Grammy nomination four (!!) decades earlier. 

I could go on with more examples. 

There's a reason we gravitate to these stories. It encourages us to hear examples of triumph with people who succeeded, despite not being at what we might presume is their peak condition.

For me, these true stories relieve me. I hope they relieve you as well.

 

They remind me that should an opportunity come my way, and even if I KNOW I'm not at my best, there still could be a way to work it out. It's a relief to remember that I can still have off days. 

 

You can have off days as well. Doesn't mean all is lost.

We don't know when our chances will come with whatever God would have us pursuing.

And yes, of course: we should try to make much of whatever chances we're given. But it's false to believe that we're gonna blow it unless we're at our absolute best.

Real-life examples remind us this isn't true. Real-life examples from ancient times and places remind us this isn't true.

So this is why I love stories of a near 50-year-old champ, a quinquagenarian ballerina, or a 71-year-old Grammy winner. No doubt they were not as sharp as their younger selves. 

 

Mavis's voice couldn't lilt about the higher notes like it once could. 

 

Wendy's joints required more upkeep than her 23-year-old self. 

 

Big George couldn't bounce around the boxing ring as deftly as his younger self.

They weren't at their peak. But they were still good enough for when the opportunity came. 

Whew.

 

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.

fight the potatoes

I once left some potatoes alone in my kitchen cabinet for too long. I'd bought them -- intending to cook and eat them -- but then forgot. While traveling out of town, I belatedly, anxiously remembered that I'd purchased these spuds. Fear began to creep in. I'd heard what potatoes do when left alone too long...

They sprout, they grow, they start to look like some alien-Muppet hybrid dream freak show. Moisture and darkness helps this process along.

 

Envisioning the jungle that awaited me at home, my imagination fomented a maze of vines throughout my kitchen. Vines! Vines scuttling into my sink drain, wrapping 'round my microwave, climbing the walls. Vines, I tell you.

Well, I finally returned home. After I dropped my bags to the floor and braced myself, I flung open the cabinet door. It was time to assess, and to face, my impending garish potato nightmare.

And ... it wasn't that bad. At all. A few potatoes did sprout some aux cord thick-size vines. But the potatoes still felt firm to the touch, which meant they were fine to eat. Otherwise, they looked the same. What my anxiety imagined proved quite inaccurate when compared to reality. When the reality met what I imagined, my imagination's fables withered.

You see, something shifts -- for our good -- when we confront out loud our fears and worries. This is why we're encouraged us to pray to the Lord, particularly in times of trouble; the literal forcing our anxieties to endure being spoken changes it (this is not all that prayer accomplishes, but it's a part of it). Actually, it changes us. We've known this for centuries, and science sheds light on why and how this helps us.

"Cast your burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain you" -Psalm 55:22

When we keep a fear bottled, under wraps ... we lose perspective on its size, and its capabilities. We overestimate its power.

You know this from experience.

When an anxious thought loops in your brain, it gathers anxiety momentum in its orbit. Pretty soon, the class you're not doing so well in becomes a thought that you'll flunk out of college, and then life as you know it is irrevocably swept away. Pretty soon, the crush who takes longer than usual to reply via text becomes a loop of your anxiety whispering to you that you're perpetually unlovable. Lies! All lies. But sometimes, lies can be hard to resist and disbelieve.

So speak it out loud. When it starts to loop again, speak it out loud, again. We must 'cast', and keep 'casting.' ESPECIALLY the stuff that, once you say it out loud, you know will sound ridiculous because it's so untethered from reality. Gird yourself to fight those potatoes of fear (yes, I know, it's an odd phrase that won't catch on), and then happily embrace the surprise that once you square up to those spuds of anxiety, you feel better. Say the words to someone you trust. Speak the prayer to God. It can be stream of consciousness, inarticulate, random, angry. God does not copy-edit our prayers for grammar, punctuation, or style.

you can't do everything

A few years back, the Avett Brothers wrote a gem of song called 'Ill With Want' that features this truth-spitting lyric (starting at 2:18 until 2:58):

"Temporary is my time
Ain't nothin' on this world that's mine
Except the will I found to carry on
Free is not your right to choose
It's answering what's asked of you
To give the love you find until it's gone" (I added the underlining)

I appreciate this description of what it means to be 'free'. Because freedom as some no-strings-attached, tabula rasa reality isn't how life works. Freedom inherently contains both limits and possibilities. 

That's a grace for us.

It turns out that most of life's choices include both limits and possibilities, in tandem.

To choose ... to move to a new city for college, grad school, or a job means accepting the limits of not living in other, equally-as-awesome places. Those are real limits. But it also allows some freedoms. It allows for freedom to put down some roots in one particular place. We could only pursue such freedoms after accepting the real limits of being in one place at one time.

To choose ... to invest in a relationship with one person (or one group of friends) means accepting some limits to the time and energy required to also befriend other people. That can be hard. And yet, it makes possible the freedom of getting to know deeply one person (or one community). That sort of possibility only works while accepting some limits.

To choose ...  take a nap means accepting that (for the duration of that nap) you're limited in doing anything else. It's impossible -- while napping -- to finish homework, to chat with friends, brush your teeth, or play that video game. But there's a freedom in rest, because we're created to need rest. The only way to that freedom of rest is through accepting the limits a quality nap imposes.

From time to time, we'll face good choices of how to use our time and resources. Sometimes the choices are easy. Sometimes, the choices are harder.

But we gotta choose. It's impossible to truly say 'yes' to some stuff without saying 'no' to other stuff.

Choices. Limits. Possibilities. Freedoms.

Optional Prayer: Lord, help me choose wisely with whatever I might choose. Help me choose how to respond gracefully to unfair criticism, how to devote my time, how to care for others, how to love in harder times, how to love in easier times. At night, help me choose to put the phone down, and go to sleep. Help me choose to share my anxieties with you. Help me choose to respond to others respectfully when I want to respond harshly. Help me choose to see the dignity in how others are made in your image, especially those with whom I disagree. Thank you for not making it impossible to do everything -- I don't admit it much, but I actually don't like too many options. It's way too overwhelming.

RSV to the P

"Say not, 'Why were the former days better than this?' For it is not from wisdom that one asks this." 

-Ecclesiastes 7:10

A best friend of mine's favorite book in the Bible is Ecclesiastes. It's a quick read. If you enjoy figuring out song lyrics, you'd like Ecclesiastes. If you're someone who doesn't enjoy it when people try to be naively optimistic, Ecclesiastes is for you.

If you want to skim through it (and you have a Bible nearby), it's about one-third of the way in. Psalms, Proverbs, then Ecclesiastes.

This above verse has clanged around in my brain lately. The hourly deluge of 'What's Catastrophically Wrong Today In the World' (i.e. daily headlines, social media feeds, news of evils and injustices small and large) can make it feel like everything (everywhere, all at once), is uniquely worse than ever before.

And yet. And yet this sage verse -- "Say not, 'Why were the former days better than this?' For it is not from wisdom that one asks this." -- re-grounds my daily perceptions in enduring reality:

a) It helps me resist believing the lie that life will be worse tomorrow. That's crucial. But it doesn't help me resist this by minimizing today's evils, or by turning a blind eye. It widens my view. It reminds me that for so many, this sort of evil and injustice is an old, long reality. Tomorrow won't be worse, because...

b) ...Yesterday wasn't always better. "Why can't it be like it used to be way back when? Used-to-be way back when was so good, and simple." That just isn't true. It helps me to resist giving too much stock to 'the good old days'.

c) It helps me resist a particular shame. You know, the kind of shame that comes when we learn something new, and then feel like we somehow should've known this information all along. We're not the only ones to believe this. Knowing this helps me resist feeling shame for once believing the world was better.

d) It reminds me that there are others who -- while they've fought injustice -- have also lived with and endured with such evils for a long, long time. It's nothing new. Therefore, I can't become impatient when evils and sin don't immediately disappear. That seldom happens. The patience of those who've more directly struggled with evil inspires me to check my impatience to want everything all fixed, right this instant.

Where does that leave me?

It leaves me skeptical, but not (quite as) jaded;
resolute, but not (quite as) naive;
playing catch-up, but resisting shame about needing to do that;
faithful, but not (as) surprised;
distressed, but (more) hopeful that one day, all that's wrong will be made right;
overwhelmed, but not (as) no longer believing there's nothing I can do;
motivated, but not (as) prone to thinking I can fix this through sheer effort.

So thankful this verse is here ... that way, when I need reminding, it's still written down. It's not going anywhere.

"Let's just make this clear: I have no idea what I'm doing. I am stumbling through this like everyone else." -Dr. E. McCaulley

Blessings on your week this week.

grace forgets

 

Had a chance some time back to talk with someone named Rory I played basketball with when we were much younger; I had not seen him since then.

Basketball was never quite my sport (more of a baseball and tennis guy myself). I was OK but not great on the basketball court, and I harbored zero illusions that I’d ever progress beyond the basic lay-ups, free throws or jump shots (though I did show potential at drawing fouls).

What was a pleasant yet innocuous conversation took an unexpected turn when Rory began apologizing to me for the time many, many years ago when, out of frustration, he heaved a basketball at me during practice.

You know those mistakes you make, where if you ever get a chance to say sorry to a person you wronged, you plan to apologize (no matter how long after the fact it is)? I was hearing one of those apologies. He profusely expressed his remorse, and said that he now coaches young kids playing basketball, and that he always shares this very story with them when he discusses showing respect on the court, and being a team player.

Here’s the thing: I absolutely remember nothing of this ever happening.

I don’t doubt that Rory’s telling the truth. It’s not even one of those events I forgot, but then remember once it’s brought up. I just plain do not recall a bit of this.

So I’m grateful Rory apologized for something that so clearly anguished him for so long. But I also wish he could have known before apologizing just how much I didn't remember a bit of it.

In all our perpetual, crippling ways in which we critique ourselves, we could stand to reflect on this reminder: people are rarely as critical or as exacting on us as we are on ourselves. We quite naturally zoom in on our perceived flaws. We replay them over and over and over and over and over again. We claw our emotions in self-loathing over something we said that we thought was wrong or awkward. We can too often believe that everyone remembers and replays our self-perceived worst moments as vividly and as often as we do.

But they do not.

It is healthy to apologize for when we’ve wronged others. We could benefit from extending the same grace of healthy forgetfulness to ourselves. Doing this doesn’t feel as natural, but it is more like reality. It’s a relief to eventually truly realize that other people just aren’t watching us in a sort of nitpicky, hyper-critical, waiting-for-us-to-mess-up kind of way.

I remember Rory as a very good basketball player, a friend from scouting, and a decent guy, teammate and classmate. A moment that was a tsunami of regret from his vantage point … was absolutely nothing from my vantage point. It’s a helpful story he shares with his players. I do hope he also shares that he got to apologize to me, and that I remember absolutely nothing of it.

There’s much grace in learning to see ourselves as graciously, and as forgetfully, as others do.