sunshine and social commodity.

This week, Chris Martin from Coldplay visited the Bowery Mission. In case you don't know, the Bowery is a shelter as well as a transformational program for men and women to move out of homelessness. There's so much I could write about what happened, but truly my favorite part was just the simple humanity of it all.

The Bowery Mission is the great equalizer of life.

I have the honor of working with all sorts of people, from all walks of life. Believe it or not, there is not a type for those experiencing homelessness. It can affect anybody, at any time. And when someone like Chris Martin walks through the door, this doesn't shift. People remain who they are, where they are.

But there's an exchange that takes place when people gather in this manner, a collaboration of spirits that cannot be labeled by fame or power. There is no helper and helped, there is no us and them.

It's just love, given and received without a price.

The only expectation is that you bring yourself, as you are.

You see, when Chris came, he brought with him everything he was, in as simple a way as possible. But because of who he was, with his music and his words and his connection to the world, he brought many people joy.

And the people in the community, those experiencing homelessness, they brought everything they were, in as simple a way as possible. They brought their history and their hard earned wisdom, their faith and their hope.

And they brought Chris Martin joy.

They each had social commodity that they could sell but they chose to lend it instead.

In a world where people are trying to get ahead and money rules the market, we forget that some of the most influential moments in life happen because someone decided to lend out their social commodity.

Someone decided to share the gift of connection, and it didn't matter if that person was more or less, what mattered is that they became equal.

Equal in compassion, equal in friendship.

Equal in joy.

I think sometimes we become fearful of connection, either because we feel we have nothing to give or because we don't want to spend everything we have. We don't want to lose our commodity, we don't want to come up broke.

But the truth is that the more you spend the more you receive. This is the oldest wisdom in the book. It doesn't matter how much money you have, or how many people you know--if you are alone, you are broke.

And if you hoard your social commodity, it will turn up tarnished and rusty and diminished in its beauty.

Our lives are richer when we share what we have, whatever it is. It's hard and it can be uncomfortable and it may even be out of our usual routine.

But when we do, it can change everything.

It can take people coming from an experience of homelessness and place them next to one of the most influential and well-known musicians in the world.

And it can take one of the most influential and well-known musicians in the world and put them right in the middle of a shelter.

And this moment, it doesn't matter if you are from the hills or the valleys, we are all on level plane.

The same sun shining out of our souls.

And this is what it means to be alive.

This is what brings us meaning and purpose and....

Joy.

Our worlds get a little brighter.

And a little bigger.

And our hearts do the same.

So.

In this new year, if you have a chance to spread your social commodity only a bit farther...

Just do it.

You won't regret it.

And I think you'll find that the more you give the more you can receive.

Add a little more value to the world.

We need your sunshine yet.

suffering and common denominators.

Life is mostly pain, and what you decide to do with it. There are some other things mixed in too, love...sometimes hope. But mostly, we suffer. It's the great common denominator of life.

Suffering.

You may not experience it as strongly or intensely as the next person, but it's there. I don't know what form your pain takes or how exactly it impacts you, it's different for everyone. Pain is personal like that. I remember my first supervisor telling me that you can't measure people's pain, that it can't be quantified because what's painful for you may not be as painful for him or her or them. But it's theirs nonetheless, and it weighs just as heavily as yours, even if you don't understand it.

Someone recently asked me why there is suffering in the world. The question was really a round about statement, laced with bitterness and a sense of "what's the point". And truly, this is a question for the ages. We have all sat, numb and listless, staring into the vast, emptiness of sorrow wondering how in the hell we ended up here. Wondering, if life was really worth it after all.

After all the let downs.

After all the injustice.

After all the sickness.

After all the death.

Is it still worthwhile?

Still possible to maintain?

Still meaningful? 

Can we endure the suffering and reach for hope, no matter how excruciating it may be?

I think this is the question.

For some people, their heartbreak will always be there.

There are some wounds this side of heaven that will never be whole.

But there is also infinite joy.

Not necessarily happiness, because we all know happiness is fleeting. But a deep sense of pride, an experience of unbridled joy that comes in the form of emotion, gift wrapped in moments that can never be taken away. This is the gold of life, sacred and priceless and nonexchangeable.

And if you think about it, our days are sort of like an equation. Things get added and things get taken away, and we are just trying to make it to a hundred percent. But what if a perfect score was not the goal? What if it didn't matter what the answer was, as long as it wasn't zero?

Here's the truth.

Life will make subtractions, big and small and anywhere in-between. And that's OK. Suffering is a part of life. I'm not sure that there is an answer for why suffering is that would satisfy my weary heart and erase the aftermath of pure, unfiltered pain. Pain may not have an answer, but it does ask a question:

What are you going to do about it?

Because the only thing to really do is to keep adding more to your life.

More joy, more hope, more love, more laughter. So that when subtractions come knocking on our door, our reserve is ready and in place and able to keep us afloat. It is far too easy to let our numbers slip into the negatives, to close ourselves off to the sweet, stickiness of life.

We are so afraid.

Afraid to add on more, because what if.

Let me tell you, that what if is never going to go away. Life will always be scary, messy, vulnerable in every possible way.

But we cannot give up.

We cannot let darkness win!!!

Numbers are INFINITE.

They can go on forever and ever, as long as we keep adding more to our equation.

Which means that even if you enter into the negatives, it's OK because there's always a way to go up from there. Keep holding on--it takes as long as it takes and will come to you when you're ready.

But the only real way to lose is if we stop living all together.

If we stop feeling.

Tempting though it may be, it is not the answer.

So, can you manage the pain?

Can you bear it enough to push your way through it?

Some days it will be easier than others.

It's not a contest.

And remember, it's personal.

But you can do it.

You can get through this.

It may be more painful than you could ever imagine.

And you may be burdened beyond recognition.

But your purpose is infinite. 

And your suffering matters.

So let it matter for good.

Let it change you, grow you into a person that appreciates more, settles for less.

Just don't let it harden you.

C.S. Lewis once said, "The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell."

Don't create your own personal hell. 

That's the devil's job.

Don't beat him to it.

Let your pain have purpose.

Stop trying so hard to avoid it.

Go through it.

You aren't alone.

Pain is the common denominator.

And you don't have to solve for x!

Because the answer is yours, and yours alone.

But not yours alone to carry.

So go on.

Head towards infinity. 

I pray that hope will meet you there.

And that one day, you can add it on to someone else's equation. 

magic and privileged spaces.

I like to observe people. Many refer to this activity as people watching, but for me it's deeper than that. I think what I like most about seeing people interact (or not interact) is the effect that one person can have on so many. I'm always struck by those individuals who seem to light up a room, who can make everyone around them feel special in one way or another--who know how to engage in an almost magical way. I say magic because honestly it can look like a spell is being cast on the crowd. Whatever this person is made of is unique and specific to him or her, but almost always people remember the way that person made them feel.

What I like most about connectors (that's what I call them) is that they don't have to be loud or gregarious or quintessentially cool. The thing that draws others to them is that they are completely themselves. People aren't always used to that I don't think--this ability to let social norms go and just be comfortable despite how those around you are conforming. It's particularly hard to do when an environment is toxic or not conducive to growth. To stand up and stand out when so much is trying to tear you down is no easy feat, but I've seen people do it so beautifully.

I think that sometimes we believe we don't have the ability to enact change unless we are in a position of power, but this is simply not true. One of my absolute favorite people in the world is an employee of the Greyhound bus services. Every time I head home, he is checking the tickets and luggage of the typical, weary New York  traveler. We are not a always pleasant bunch, worn and rugged from the constant bustle of the city and tending towards a healthy dose of cynicism. But this guy--he is relentlessly positive. He is not particularly noticeable at first, there's nothing necessarily striking in his features. He is quiet, very humble in his presentation and incredibly polite. But here's the thing--he notices everyone. I mean this guy takes the time out to talk to every single passenger, even if it's just for a moment, even if it's just a simple hello. He genuinely cares about the people he is encountering and the people can feel it. For me, he has become the comfort in going home, sending me off with a warm smile and caring hand. He doesn't know my name and I don't know his, but I can honestly say I have been changed by knowing him.

When you get to experience this type of person in this type of place, it is a little oasis in the difficult terrain that is everyday life. I call these people and these places privileged spaces. In counseling we refer to the relationship between the client and therapist as privileged and confidential, meaning that the client is coming into a space in which she can feel completely free to be herself--no judgment, no fear of condemnation, and no relational danger. The space is safe, and because of this, the client has room to heal.

I think that when people have the ability to make other people feel safe and warm and welcome, they are creating an every day privileged space. For just a moment they are letting others know that it's OK to come as they are, it's OK to be where they're at. They are changing the nature of the environment completely, changing the terrain.

Here's the thing--connection is a team sport, but it's made up of many players, and we've all seen how one player can change the game. In the smallest way, in the tiniest moment, the game can be won.

I want to be a game changer.

I want to be a connector.

I want my life to reflect the sacred ground of the privileged spaces.

Because life can be cruel and rocky and full of pitfalls.

And we are not alone.

We have people around us, whether we like it or not.

We hold the magic.

So, are you using it?

Are you sharing it?

Are you taking the time to reflect the good inside of you despite what terrain you are in?

I'm trying, person by person.

It doesn't take much.

Be thoughtful.

Be purposeful.

And most importantly, be yourself.

Look for the privileged spaces.

Thank those who have gone before you,

and then live it out yourself.

free to create, creating freely.

There are days I wish I didn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I place a high value on life and consider it to be an extraordinary gift. And yet, this knowledge does not take away from the fact that we are often asked to bear things that we simply cannot, so much so that we sometimes reconsider living. Call it depression or call it suppression--either way, we shove the feelings down and grimly wade our way through the muddy waters of another day.

I think for me, I've always experienced things so strongly, so acutely. I can't bear to feel the sting of loneliness or insecurity. I hate to see the vulnerability of others. It's not that I lack compassion. I just can't manage to sustain eye contact with the hurting places, the deep spaces that are dark and full of fear.

I worry if I go there, I won't be able to come back out.

Recently, I was asked what type of box I would place my fears in--what it would look like, feel like. How I would secure it and make sure those fears couldn't get out, how I would ensure my own safety. I realized my box would be clear. I would want to know at all times where exactly my fears were lurking. But the more I thought about how I would lock that box up, the more I came to the conclusion that it was not the fears I was afraid of.

It was myself.

That I couldn't trust myself.

Couldn't keep myself safe.

That I would maybe even let the fears get out and get to me.

Or that perhaps, I was the scariest thing in the room.

That my clear, safe box was actually a mirror.

And that my fears were simply a reflection of my worst self--

that I was afraid of my darkness.

my shadow.

You see, it is not the things outside of me that scare me most--it's what's inside, what's at the core. That I won't be able to stand up and stand out, that I won't be able to stay. That I will live in cowardice and crawl into the corners of my soul, wrapping myself in the trappings of insignificance so that I cannot be found to be a fraud.

So you see,

I am also afraid of my light.

I am afraid that I can't keep it going.

I am afraid that when all is said and done, the furious beating of my fragile heart will cease to exist all together.

It is a terrifying thing to live with the thought that you may not have lived at all.

So what do we do, when what we fear most is our own self destruction?

Because the only person that can stop us is ourselves--

And we are our own Achilles heels.

We know which pieces of us are tender and prone to bleeding.

We know our dark.

But we also know our light.

So what if we fought back with not who we see in the mirror, but who we have the potential to be?

What if we believed that we were strong and capable, though flawed and fragile?

What if we believed we could be afraid and still be strong?

What if we believed that it was OK to face our fears and fail?

Because the failure did not indicate a battle lost,

but a battle fought?

Before the war is won?

What if all of our little battles were leading up to something great, and the losses were just minor in the grand scheme of the overall victory?

Is it possible that we aren't really losing at all?

But that we are gaining just a little more light in the fight?

That even though the outcome was not what we hoped for that we still won something that can never be diminished? 

Here's what I'm learning: when we are free to create we create freely.

Our fear of ourselves tarnishes our gifts.

It makes us doubt ourselves and place ourselves inside of a box.

A box that beckons to us with seductive words of false security, a box that kills our dreams and leaves us safe but dead inside.

SO, who's stifling your soul these days?

Well?

Is it you?

Are you the one responsible?

Have you let fear win over creativity?

If so, it's time to GET OUTTA THAT BOX.

And go forth in battle--

for the war has yet to be won.

surprises and gifts.

I think one of the most beautiful things about our day to day existence is that we never quite know what is going to happen from one moment to the next. Most people fight this sense of chaos, the pull of uncertainty and change. We want control, we want to be masters of predictability.

But so often, the power that comes with choosing leads us down the wrong path.

And then, when we are least expecting it, heaven gives us something sweet and surprising, full of goodness and almost always unexpected truth. Something we never would have asked for or looked for or even acknowledged by ourselves. Something that is so needed, deep down in our soul, something that strikes us to the core and rattles us into new life.

I'm learning to embrace these unprecedented moments.

I have spent such a long time thinking about what it is that I desire/want/expect, when all along the pieces of my life puzzle have been put together in ways I never imagined, but always needed.

When I signed up to be a mental health counselor, working with homeless men from NYC was not exactly in the cards for me. I  could not imagine a more unlikely, unusual job for a 25 year old female from Virginia. And yet, here I am, two years later--convinced that I was exactly where I was supposed to be and incredibly grateful for what it grew in me in the process.

You see, working with these men taught me things I could never have learned otherwise--it taught me strength and community and how to stay when all I wanted to do is leave. It taught me the importance of standing up for what is right and that I always, always have a voice. It gave me more gifts than I could ever possibly count and than I ever could have expected and I sit here today in both awe and humility that I got to be a part of something so sacred.

Surprises can be like that sometimes--sacred and full of mysterious authenticity. I wonder at how a situation can be so wholly healing by complete and utter accident, but then I remember that it is often not I who made the plans to begin with, though I surely did try.

And thank God for that.

So, what surprises have landed on your doorstep? I'm here to tell you to take them. Embrace them, because they could be your greatest gifts. When you see something pure and good and totally undeserving, take it because that is a gift for you, and we don't know when it will come around again.

And when something happens to you, hard and tragic and potentially soul crushing, remember: there may be a surprise in that too. This does not take away the sting, the blurry tear-filled eyes and the aching heart. But there's always a gift to be given, and a gift to be received. Don't let your sorrow take you too far from the path of hopefulness--pain is a cumbersome package but you never know what you'll find inside unless you look.

Be surprised, take the gift, and hold on tight. Tuck the moment safely away as a keepsake, something to remember and something to push you forward when you have forgotten how to get to where you are going.

And if you don't know where you are going, good.

The right gift usually finds its owner.

And the surprise is always worth the suspense.

After all, when was the last time you heard someone say they hated their surprise party?

Because I am of the opinion that if we look hard enough and learn to accept what comes our way, life can be just that--

a surprise party waiting to happen.

More: A public service announcement.

Do you ever wonder if you aren't living up to your full potential?

Or, if you're like me, do you ever wonder if you even have potential?

I have found that most of my life I have spent making myself smaller.

That I was so busy just trying to survive, that I forgot to live.

To breathe.

To be myself.

And not the supporting character self.

The LEAD.

The can-do, kick-ass, strong as hell hero.

I have spent my days apologizing and second guessing and politely denying that I may have some magic inside of me.

I see this very often with the men I work with.

They come into my office, unsure and avoiding eye contact, because they too have believed an untruth about themselves.

But let me tell you, when they discover who they are,  I mean who they really ARE, it's like light exploding in a room.

It's like nothing can stop them from outshining all the stars in the galaxy.

It's like witnessing a miracle, a brand new spark in the dark dark universe that shines and shines and says I'M HERE.

I want more for myself.

I want more for them.

I  want more for you.

Can you imagine what it would be like if we all believed that we had something spectacular to offer? If we lived like the world deserved us, like we knew that our lives held meaning and purpose and impact that no one else could offer?

Can I tell you that THAT is the truth we need to believe?

I  remember when I was young, I had an intense fear of "faking it".

Or, in other words, of being found out I was a fraud.

But did you know, that the most successful people are not the ones who necessarily have talent, but the ones who BELIEVE they have talent?

They ones who say yes and speak up more and recognize their own inner gifts?

Many of you know I work with men recovering from homelessness. And I have to tell you, that there is no special "catch all" to describe how a person comes to find themselves in this particular position. We have people of all shapes and sizes and of every talent. People who were wealthy and people who were poor and people with degrees and  people who can't read.

And they are all a little shook up by their situation.

They are all second guessing a bit their worth at this time in life.

But the ones who move forward?

Those are the ones who have told themselves over and over, "I can do this."

They have internalized the belief that they have something to offer, they have gotten back up and looked around and said "I am HERE and you need to know it!"

They have remained humble, remained open to help and have accepted it as it has come to them.

But they have not let their circumstances determine their worth, they have not let it darken the hope on the horizon.

They have looked around the room, held up their head, and said, "I deserve to be here".

And they do.

And so do you.

Do you know this?

Do you show this?

Do you let it guide your decisions and your steps and the way you see yourself and the opportunities in front of you?

If not, you need to reassess what exactly it is you are believing.

You need to check and see if the fraud you are so afraid of committing is actually the fraud itself--

that you aren't worthy.

aren't good enough.

aren't able.

How discontenting would it be to come to the end of your life and feel you did not use your gifts?

Your talents?

To realize you were acting all along, but it was the wrong role?

Be more.

Do not do us a disservice.

We need your light.

The public will thank you.

listen to your heart (attack).

I struggle with bad habits. Working with people who have all sorts of addictions has taught me that this is normal. I find it interesting that even when we know that something is bad for us, we do it anyway. There are days and even years where we hide in denial, but almost always, we figure it out. We get to the end of our rope and the beginning of our desperation and we say to ourselves--

I can't do this anymore.

And then we continue to do it anyway.

It's like our head knowledge and our heart knowledge don't link up. We are pulled in opposite directions, and the tension alone threatens to tear us apart. So what do we do when the habit is as painful as the abstinence, and the relapse is relieving?

We have to press on.

I think so often we believe the illusion that once we decide to stop doing something unhealthy, the gratification is instant. We see the people on TV or the social media account that gives us the blissful "after" picture--the one where the person is all smiles and better off and moving on and all the other independent stuff we associate with freedom.

But man oh man is the process excruciating.

Our heart feels like its being squeezed so hard it could burst.

Which is probably close to the truth.

I actually learned recently that a heart attack is caused by a lack of blood flow to the heart.

That in a healthy person, the blood headed to the heart has lots of oxygen, and essentially when an artery is full of gunk it prevents this oxygenated blood from getting into the heart.

And the heart freaks out.

It's in pain.

It needs that blood to survive.

For people with heart problems, they are warned of the issues associated with poor nutrition or lack of exercise.

But yet, so many ignore the signs and symptoms until it is much too late. Until their heart begins to literally die, muscle by muscle.

And I think, breaking bad habits is like that.

We know what is hurting us, but we continue in ignorance.

Because our heart knowledge can't catch up with our head knowledge.

And so we have a heart attack.

And it takes some time to heal.

And that healing does not come easily.

In fact, it may feel worse than before.

Change is like that sometimes. We want so badly to feel like we are doing the right thing, but sometimes it feels all wrong.

That's the trouble with bad habits.

We are so used to living a certain way that to change that way of living is unbearable.

Even if it's unhealthy.

Even if it's hurting us.

Even if we could be or could have or could gain so much more.

We settle in until our body can't take it anymore and our heart screams at us to STOP choosing that which is making us sick.

And finally, we listen. But though we make that initial step, the journey to recovery is long and not without many trials.

So we have to remember to be strong, to surround ourselves with hope and courage and memory.

We need to remind ourselves of where we came from and why we are doing this and how we are going to get there.

And we need to be able to withstand the pain of healing.

The digging the dirt out, pouring the peroxide in, searing kind of healing.

The kind that lets wounds heal without risk of infection or scarring.

Even when we want to stop the process.

Even when it seems that we cannot go a step further.

We must endure.

Because that healing will give us our life back.

It will leave us clean and whole and brand new.

It will lead us back to ourselves.

So in this time of healing, this time of all-consuming, everything-you-got breaking, continue to reach for heaven beyond the hell that is your habit.

While the gratification of relapsing may provide temporary relief--

it is terribly fleeting.

Your wound will heal.

And eventually, your heart will go back to it's normal beating.

It's normal breathing.

And all that fresh oxygen?

Well, there's nothing like the first breath of air after years of suffocating.

Or the beating of a heart after coming back from the dead.

diamonds and hope.

Hope can be a distinctly cruel thing. I remember a client once alluding to this idea--the feeling that hope is fleeting, that it is unreliable at best. When I look at people of great resilience, people who have overcome and failed and bounced back again, I am skeptical of their optimism. I am not inspired but rather wary of their seemingly persistent attitude of positivism in the midst of great distress.

I  am embittered by it.

I feel betrayed by hope most often. Reading the Psalms sometimes, I wonder at the bold acclamations that David made. He was so sure, so certain that God would rescue him from his troubles. That God would bring him out of the miry pit, keep his feet from slipping and his enemies forever at bay. I wonder at these verses.

From what I've seen of life, we are never too far from the edge of death and danger.

Where then, is hope to reside?

Do we keep our faith in the promises that are before us, even when they get dried up one by one?

I am learning that hope is not an outcome, but a process.

That there is a reason to joy, even when the smoke of uncertainty comes to suffocate it out.

And I do mean to joy--the act of being joyful, or the action of it.

I once asked a much different client (than the one  mentioned at the start of this blog) what it meant to him to read the Psalms in light of his current situation.

In light of losing everything.

In the certain shadow of death and--

the promise of difficulty.

This was a person who had nothing left, a person whose ground had been uprooted and turned and made barren through no fault of his own.

He was born into great privilege, safety in both family and provisions.

And  here, in the middle of his time, in the height of his career

he was brought low.

Very low.

Imagine as low as you can, and then go lower.

And yet--

he stills hopes.

Not without doubt, not without pain.

He struggles with the path that led him to where he is today.

He wonders at the raw senselessness of it.

But still, he hopes.

He says that though his circumstances are troubling, his faith has shown him that God is still good, still working in  the  middle of his wasteland.

That though God had not protected him in the manner in which he expected, that God was with him still.

That he believed beyond hope, past what he could see in front of him.

And this, this is what brought him inner peace.

Inner joy.

The  knowledge that though he could not see it now, a treasure was waiting for him.

And I don't mean necessarily in the literal sense--though I do believe that's possible as well.

I mean in the invisible sense.

That the things gained in the fire were worth the heat.

The strength.

The grace.

The hope.

So today, I am feeling joy beyond the hope.

Remembering that the fire will eventually burn out.

And maybe, just maybe

I'll find a diamond beyond the coals.

A treasure, priceless in value.

Indestructible.

And unable to be broken again.

loneliness and open hands.

27 can be a lonely year. Actually, I think it's safe to say that any year of your life can be lonely--whether married or single, in community or by yourself. We are all prone to the feeling that there is no one there to hold our hand. No one to walk with us through dark spaces, no one to cheer us on.

And sometimes, this is true.

I've known people in committed relationships who often feel misunderstood and unheard, and I know people who are alone who feel connected to others no matter what.

But for me, this year, I feel lonely.

It's not to say that I don't have a faithful family of supporters. I can say with no doubt that I am loved, that I am known, and that at any time there are a handful of people who would drop everything to be with me. There are moments in my week where I am so full of joy I could burst, so full of hope that I can't help but dish it out as often as I open my mouth to speak.

And yet, the loneliness is still there, lingering.

Fullness and meaning, emptiness and grief.

It seems this life we live is intertwined between two ends of the spectrum, that no matter how much love we can hold there is always the possibility of brokenness.

For a person who walks in extremes, this is highly uncomfortable. I want to hold on so tightly to the good or wallow miserably in the bad--I cannot tolerate this middle ground. I can celebrate in the season of plenty, and cry with the best of them in pit of despair, but at least tell me when they are going to happen.

Give me some time to prepare.

I think this is why loneliness sneaks up on us. We can be surrounded by those we love and whom love us, and still fear the day they will be taken away.

In the same turn, we can be all by ourselves, safe from the possibility of a broken heart, and still yearn for the feel of a family.

None of us are free from this longing, this ache of the soul.

So then, what is there to do?

The way I see it, we really only have one option.

To embrace it.

All of it.

The hard things and the beautiful things and the icky things and the pure things and the things that drive us absolutely crazy.

They are apart of life.

Apart of us.

I guess then the thing is acceptance.

Will we choose to embrace what has been set before us?

Or will we lay down and die?

I can tell you from experience that wallowing in misery is OK for a time but extremely redundant.

I can also tell you that the more you avoid the thing the bigger the thing becomes.

So face it.

Let me tell you something--it's quite alright to be lonely.

It's more than fine to be frustrated with the path before you.

It's absolutely within your right to grieve and yearn for and fight what has been discouragingly sitting at your front door.

Do all of these things.

Give yourself the time to feel it, to name it, to recognize its existence.

Then move the hell on with your life.

Because here's the thing--there will always be seasons of despair and prosperity, pain and healing--

loneliness and hope.

We have to live with open hands.

No matter what gets placed in them.

We don't always get to choose.

And yet.

Every day is still a gift.

There are still so many things to choose. 

We don't get to pick up some and leave the rest behind.

It's all jumbled together.

And that--that is the paradox of living.

That it is possible, in so many ways, to feel incandescently alive and painfully aware of loss all in the same breath.

This is called being human.

We mustn't lose it.

The thing that makes us love and hurt with others.

The thing that connects us.

I have found, that the more you know, the more you know.

And that it is much better to know a whole lot than know very little.

Much better to live with open hands and a tender heart,

then to lock yourself away in  your loneliness.

So take it all in.

Let it all out.

A closed hand isn't much use to anyone.

But an open hand?

Well an open hand is much easier to hold in my experience.

go slow.

New York City is wired to be fast, in every sense of the word. Slow is not in our vocabulary, or in our preferences. You come here because you want bigger, brighter, bolder. You come to live and work and breathe productivity.

Slow is not an option.

Oftentimes, the word fast also comes with the word impatient. We've all been there, mostly because we live in a world that offers instant gratification in so many cases. But lately, I feel like I've been practicing the art of passing time. I've been learning the value of slowing down, and let me tell you, it's not an easy thing to learn.

I hate waiting.

I  hate waiting for the same reason I hate not having control.

I don't like not knowing the outcome. 

I don't like feeling like I'm waiting for something better. 

I want the reward now. 

More than this though, I want the feelings that come with the reward. I want to feel happy, healthy, whole, full of everything good. And when I feel the stress, when I feel the discomfort that comes with life moving slowly, I can't tolerate it. It freaks me out.

We all fear that the season we  are in will be permanent. That things won't change, that we in fact will  stay the same forever. But if there is one thing I know about life to be true it's that change is perhaps the only constant there is--that saying goes all the way back to the ancient philosophers of Greece, so it's backed up by centuries to prove  it. 

Life promises us change, no matter how slowly it may come, or how difficult it may be to wait for us.

I find it one of the greatest ironies that as people, we both loathe and yearn for change. 

We are rather inflexible creatures.

So, what do we do when we are moving so slowly we fear we are stuck? What do we do when we think we are doomed to suffer the season we are in indefinitely? When we can't imagine how to begin to get the change we are seeking? 

What if change wasn't the outcome but the process?

What if instead of letting the slowness slowly suffocate us, we use the opportunity to slowly change ourselves, our way of being?

Here's what I know: change produces perseverance, and perseverance, character.

Sound familiar? 

There's hardly anything new under the sun that hasn't been taught before.

It's just when we choose to learn and acknowledge it.

And that's important.

I'm trying to pay attention to the season I'm in. I'm trying to sit in it, really let my roots grow down deep. I'm resisting the urge to squirm and wriggle my way out of it, I'm resisting the urge to complain.

It. Is. So. Hard.

It is so natural for us to want better for ourselves. To want the best. 

Especially in NYC. The best is what we are known for. Dreams are made here. 

But you have to be willing to fight for them.

So really, fighters are made here.

Change is born here.

Change is, and always will be, a process. It doesn't come easy, it isn't quick, and it certainly won't be comfortable. 

I am choosing to embrace this slow race even though I can't see the finish line.

I will not give up.

I will not stop running.

Instead, I will look for ways to change the race.

I will look for ways to grow right here, right now. To train my soul and my body, to become a better runner, a runner who is focused, present, and strong. 

Long distance means pacing yourself.

It means being excellent in the moment.

It means paying attention to the process, not the prize.

It may even mean the the process is the prize.

And if that's the case--I don't want to miss it. 

I don't want to wake up and realize I was running towards the wrong thing.

An elusive thing, an idea of what I feel should be the prize.

So these days, I'm running. Slowly, with purpose. I'm trying to mind my pace because I know there is merit to be found in the training process. 

It's OK to go slow. 

Don't rush and miss what's happening in and around you. 

They are both of insurmountable value. 

Because change is happening, whether or not you can see it, whether or not you can feel it. 

So, move towards a change you want to see.

Not one that happens to you. 

Go slow.

Stay aware. 

Keep running.

Slow and steady wins the race.

And hope is always, always right around the corner.

learning how to go.

Life is very confusing. I'm learning this more and more as I grow up. As much as I want things to be black and white, I am discovering that we mostly live in a world of gray. There are no pat answers, no simple solutions to the things that happen to us. Because they do, happen, with or without our permission, with out without our consent.

I find it very strange that right after I learned how to stay, I learned how to go. It's funny how that happens, like the lesson we needed to learn we couldn't, not until we first understood its complete opposite. I have come to understand that our reasons for staying are quite often our reasons for leaving. We want to be whole. We want more. We believe that we can find it where we are or elsewhere, but the defining factor is the same.

We want life.

We want to believe that things can be better. That we  can be better.

But often, we lack the courage to go looking.

We convince ourselves that what is in front of us is all there is, all that could be. We make ourselves and our lives smaller, we dim the lights and pull down the shades and say--it's alright, there's still enough light to see.

I've grown accustomed to this thinning of air, this listless reality in which I am unafraid but stagnant, content but not full.

I convinced myself that as long as I was not suffering, I was living.

As long I was not miserable, I was OK.

But slowly, day after day, the water slowly rose around me. I woke up suffocating, no longer recognizing myself, no longer recognizing the landscapes I had built up around me.

I had learned how to numb to protect from fear and pain, and with it I had numbed my potential for joy.

I had numbed the core of who I was in exchange for a life of safety.

The funny thing was, my world was not really safe.

It was familiar, yes. Predictable and comfortable and consistent and...

dysfunctional.

So not safe, no.

It is a wonder to me how many of us keep ourselves trapped under the weight of our past.

How often we replay, how often we recreate that which was taught to us as normal.

We are creatures of habit in every way.

They say that a bear who has been caged for years, will continue to stay within the confines of that cage even when the door is opened to freedom.

How often do I imprison myself?

And for what reason?

Because it's easier?

Or because I don't think that I deserve any better?

I want to practice going.

I want to run as fast as I can for life, real life. Life that is full of joy and hope and faith and scary, all consuming love.

I want to be open to loss so that I can receive the gifts of life.

I want to believe that no matter what, there is light.

That things, no matter how unstable, do not subtract from the beauty that is living.

Because we are very much alive.

And we do have a choice about how we get to be in this world.

Whether we choose to keep fighting or whether we hide--

we cannot change what happens to us.

But in what happens to us we choose.

Like I said, I'm learning how to go.

I don't think our destination is always a geographical location, and I don't think that where we're headed always matters.

But it's how we choose to get there.

What we choose to reflect.

It's ok to want more for ourselves.

It's ok to look up and out, to see all the potential.

To hope for change.

To open our arms as wide as we can and say--I'm expanding my horizons.

There is more.

Learn how to stay, and be content. To fight for what's in front of you and give it everything you can.

And then, learn how to go.

Feel the push and the pull and the fear and do it anyway.

You'll never know until you do.

And it could just be that you will find what you never knew you were looking for--

and that it is much, much better than you ever could have dared to believe.

then love some more.

From a very young age I have always helped people. I grew up in the Christian faith, and was told to love my neighbor as myself, so I did. It was always a part of my life, this loving others. Turning the other cheek was also a part of my Christian tutelage, and while this one was much harder, I lifted my head high and did as I was taught. I wanted to be a good Christian, and being a child, I wanted to be loved for being good,  period.

There's nothing wrong with being good, you know. But the problem for me was when I couldn't be good, when I couldn't love the way I was supposed to or I wasn't quite patient enough. These feelings haunted me, left me feeling uneasy and unlovable and well, bad. And bad isn't a great place to dwell for a seven year old. So I tried with all my might to be good.

As I got older, I gave up. As is the case with most adults, I realized that perfection is quite the fleeting reality. I continued to do my duty and love, because I knew there was something to be found in it, some meaning that I couldn't quite capture but knew was important. I learned things from loving others. I learned that people had much more to them than meets the eye, I learned that pain and suffering often leads to beauty, and I learned that hope is the most intangible, tangible item out there.

I also learned that in my human state, it was impossible to love all the time. Sure, it's easy to love for a day or even a week, to sit with hard people and hard things when you know you can leave at the end. But what I was finding was that relationship was hard. That when push came to shove and I had to stay, things quickly got ugly. I found I didn't have as much grace as I thought, or that the nice feeling I got from helping quickly faded when I had to be still, when I had to love in the face of surmounting difficulty.

And so, I began to despair. I began to dislike that I wasn't as gracious and loving and compassionate as I thought I should be. I became bitter towards God and the church, for making me feel like I wasn't enough, for making me question my goodness. And because of this, I feel into a deep depression. The kind of depression that's so far down into the pit that light is impossible to find, the kind of depression that takes a fight to get out of.

I remember God meeting me there. I remember reading the story of Jacob, and how he wrestled with God. I remember thinking that God was saying that I was going to wrestle for a long time, that it was going to be excruciating and hard and dirty, but that I was going to wrestle and overcome. 

I didn't know it then, but that was the start of my healing, the start of really knowing God for the first time in the way I was supposed to--not for some performance or cultural expectation or even because the Bible told me so--but because God wanted me to see Him. And he wanted me to know that love surpasses my ability to do good, that it's not about doing good at all.

He wanted me to know grace.

The grace that wasn't earned, contrived, or expected. He didn't care how well I could practice loving others, and he knew that when I did that, I wasn't in fact loving them very much at all. I was doing some good, yes. But mostly, I was looking to fill a part of me that could only be filled by someone else.

I love that when we look at the gospel, Jesus met the lost, the least, and the last first. I love that he met them where they were at--that he saw them and knew them and filled what they needed at that time. If they were hungry, he fed them, if they were lonely, he hugged them. It was all very basic really.

I am learning, to love, basically. I am learning to see the people around me and care for them because I am cared for, deeply. I am learning to celebrate life, to value the stories I get to be a part of, to look people in the eye when they are in pain. I am learning to stay and to hold on and to not give trite answers. I'm learning how to question and sit in doubt and cry out why with the people around me.

I am learning to love, and then love some more.

People idealize volunteer work in so many ways. I know I did. I lived off the high I got from serving in Nicaragua or feeding the homeless for a day. And these are all good things, I'm not saying they aren't. But I have found that it wasn't until I sat with broken things, day in and day out, that I truly understood what love is.

I had to re-learn love, because I was doing it backwards. I had to stop striving, because my striving wasn't genuine, and it was slowly killing me. And thank God I did. I remember looking around me and seeing the people who loved best, the people who I knew cared on a deep, authentic level. I remember that most of them were different than me, different faiths, different faces, different backgrounds. But I remember thinking, they are loving me because they want to, not because they have to.

Was I loving because I wanted to, and not because I had to?

I want to see people, really see them for who they are. I want to listen and hear and know what it is that they are looking for. I want to not be afraid and turn away, to not be sure and try to fix.

There's a quote that says, the deeper the sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

I want to love, and love some more because I am finding that the more I do this, the more joy I can contain. The more I know God, the more I know myself and the meaning that is found even in the sorrow of living.

Loving is scary and hard and unpredictable at times. It hurts, to hurt with others.

But the alternative is death.

Death of the heart.

Death of the soul.

Death of the body.

I think I'd rather reach out for love.

To look for God.

To know love in the most basic, true way. Love that doesn't require anything, love that has no stipulations or requirements or rules.

To stop striving.

To rest.

I will never forget the most powerful example of love and light that God brought into my life. It was right smack dab in the middle of a season of depression that left me gasping for air and looking for answers. And in this season, I worked in a multiple disabilities classroom. I worked with small children who were wheel-chair bound, seizure prone, and very sick. Children who would face a short lifetime of suffering and difficulty and hardship, children whose families did not even have time to ask why or wish for something different.

It was the most difficult job I have ever loved. There were more hard days than good ones, more days of crying in the closet and questioning and unbelief that life could be this hard, this unfair. But in that space, I learned what love was. And it wasn't me who gave it. It was these children, who entrusted me with their lives and believed in me and gave me hope. These little people, who knew what it meant to live, to love.

I named my blog "Overjoyed" for a very specific reason, or actually, for a very specific person. In the MD classroom there was a 8 year old girl by the name of Joy, who definitely lived up to her name. Joy was partially blind, couldn't walk without assistance, and had about four words in her vocabulary--one of which was "cookie." Joy would get so mad she would shake and scream and bite you and fall over on the floor. And then, within five minutes, she would squeal and laugh so hard that she cried and fell over on the floor again. She would give me hugs and slobbery kisses and make me feel unbridled, pure LOVE.

She taught me that love is messy.

That there is no formula, no perfection, that can ever replicate this all consuming, give until you have nothing left, love.

She didn't care what I looked like or what I said or even what I did because she didn't live in my world. I think she lived in God's world, where the only thing that mattered was showing up and being yourself.

We used to say in that classroom, "I'm over-joyed" whenever we needed a quick break. It was our way of letting the other know that we had reached our limit, that we needed some space to recoup and try again. But I also think it was our way of recognizing the weight of what we were seeing, the joy and the pain, right next to each other in that room. Our way of seeing life come from death over and over, our way of feeling the joy and love and sorrow all at once.

So today, I am trying to remind myself that while love has a cost, it's a worthy one. I am fighting to stay and to reach out and to not give into selfishness--not because I have to or I should, but because I know that when I do I find joy.

Real joy, that lasts forever and ever.

Joy that looks darkness in the face and says, not today, friend.

Because love, well. Love goes into the darkness and comes out light.

I don't know anything else that can do that this side of heaven.

Love.

And then love some more.

learning how to stay.

Grace seems to be an unending theme in my life these days. And as with most things, I am learning that grace has an opposite. And for me, that opposite is bitterness.

Some days bitterness covers me so heavily and so completely that I don't even feel like a person anymore, but a thing. A thing that is dark and brooding, a thing that is bringing death and not life. Bitterness it seems, can take on an identity of it's own. It can eat away at you and move in on you and make you feel like you'll never experience light again.

Bitterness is ugly.

And it makes me feel ugly.

So instead, I have turned to grace. And grace is not easy by any means. It's not something we wake up and feel, it's not something that's automatic. Grace is messy and incomplete and in the middle. Grace doesn't categorize or give you answers or show you a calculated way of doing things.

Grace is a practice.

I had a friend that once told me "love expects the best".

I am finding, these days, that I mostly expect the worst.

The worst of people places and things.

The worst of God even.

I am constantly preparing, constantly protecting myself from everything.

It turns out, that grace only goes with vulnerability.

And it turns out, I can't offer it to others unless I offer it to myself.

And it turns out, I can't offer it to myself, unless I accept it from someone else.

And you see, this is where the bitterness comes in.

Bitterness tells me I can be angry and unforgiving and selfish because people have been angry and unforgiving and selfish with me.

Grace says the opposite.

Grace says our value does not come from whether we are bad or good, but that we are loved where we're at.

Grace says we don't have to have it figured out. It begs us to drop our expectations, to believe in love and faith and beauty and life despite despite despite EVERYTHING.

Grace says this world is a mess.

Grace says I am a mess too.

But it also says that it's OK to be messy.

So, these days, I am learning to practice grace. To practice letting people in, to stop seeing flaws and start seeing souls instead.

Bitterness has worn me out.

I'm tired.

But grace?

Grace is warm and inviting, grace is opening the door and looking up and out and saying--

I see you.

I see you and I care about you.

Grace is moving toward.

Grace is not giving up.

It's learning how to stay, even when we are afraid.

Bitterness is moving back.

We are the equalizers in this world.

We are the vessels of God's grace.

We get to decide when we are going to stop valuing people based on their goodness or their confidence or their looks or their talents or their popularity.

We decide.

I'm going to start letting grace seep deep into my being.

To stop demanding perfection of myself and those around me.

Grace.

It's not a novel concept.

It's rather old actually.

But somehow, I forgot.

And it has become a tune I long to hear most, a familiar verse that bears the resemblance of home.

That bears the resemblance of hope.

And oh, how beautiful hope is to our weary, wandering, broken bodies.

Practice grace.

Practice healing.

Grace is accessible to us.

Carry it with you, every day.

And leave bitterness behind while you're at it.