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.