Luke Brasel Counseling

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  • We Need Good Men

    We Need Good Men

    I cruised along the interstate and approached a car with a bumper sticker. Some drivers slap on so many bumper stickers you can barely see the car. Their vehicle becomes an art collage on wheels. But this car just had one, an indication whoever owned it really believed what it said. I read the message:
    “I believe in dragons, good men, and other fantasy creatures.”

    Ugh. Believe what you want about dragons and fantasy creatures, but good men? My heart dropped along with my foot- I sped up to glance at the driver. But really her story mattered more than her face. Tinted windows and the fact we were driving at 70 miles per hour kept me from judging her and her story. But I wondered nonetheless: What harm has come to her by the hands and/or heart of men? And what might she be feeling as Father’s Day approaches?

    Unless she stumbles upon this blog and makes an appointment, I will never know her story. Beyond my curiosity, though, I sadly agree with her on one thing: Good men are rare.

    Most of us men are lost, searching for validation from work, women, and any other person or thing that moves, speaks and carries the ability to tell us we matter and belong. We’ll go to some pretty terrible lengths to answer those questions in our heart. And other men, women, and children suffer when men seek these questions out poorly; then the wounded limp off to print bumper stickers.

    As she lost hope over a decade, a single woman asked, “What am I supposed to do when all the decent guys seem to be married by now? Are there any good men left at 40?”

    A sacred silence followed her question.

    I don’t know…Yes, I think…I hope.

    Her fear compounded in the fact that first impressions cannot distinguish a good man. The true character of a man takes years to unfold, and often it’s the rough and difficult stories that create context for character to shine through.

    Good men are revealed over time by the stories people tell about them. Never do they knowingly tell the stories themselves. Character finds its way into stories, and stories follow a man.

    It was The Muppets who sang, “If you need to know the measure of a man you simply count his friends.” Another way to say it might be: If you want to know a man, listen to the tales people tell about him.

    There are good men out there. I’ve heard stories about them.

    I watched a video of a guy I went to school with. His wife, also a musician, was telling the story of how they met. He strummed his guitar nearby while she talked on stage. Early in their relationship, she in her deep desire for security attempted to make him out to be the dashing hero who would rescue her from her pain.

    “I’m just a man,” he replied.

    Four simple, quiet words spoken with humility and power. He knew he wasn’t enough to heal her wounds and save her life. He wasn’t God. He was just him. Strong, trustworthy, broken, and limited.

    He’s decently famous now, but back when I barely knew him, I could tell he was a good man. His presence carried weight and invited respect.

    Another story comes to mind about a good man who went all in. It’s possible to get married, commit your heart and life to a woman, and still keep one foot out the door. Not this guy. He told his wife, Even if you cheat on me and lock me out of your life to sit in your shame, I will sit on the front steps of our house and wait for you to invite me back in.

    We need stories like these. Heck, we need men like this.

    To you women and children in search of good men: As best you can, find ways to invite us to be good men. I know, we’ve hurt you. Find ways to transform your pain, longing, and loss into a vision for whom we could be.

    Then tell the truth with grace and care. If you see any goodness deep inside of us, tell us. Please. Trust that we men are doing the best we can with what our Ma and Pa gave us. Then invite us to more. To feel more. To know more. To give more. To be more.

    To men in the process of becoming: What stories do people tell about you? And what is your next move in the process of living a better story?

    And to the woman with the bumper sticker, may your heart and story one day reflect the hope of Lucilla at the end of the movie Gladiator: I believed in good men once. Help me believe in them again.

  • Where are You Headed this Summer?

    Where are You Headed this Summer?

    Summer is here. For many that means the chance to get out of town. Where are you headed this summer?

    Any time a trip looms on the calendar, a sense of ancipatoon begins to snowball. Sure there are errands to run and things to pack, but when the adventure of a trip looms, checking off the to-do carries far less burden.

    Last week I stood in REI staring at backpacks. My old pack has frayed and loosened enough that it’s time for a new one. Here’s the truth: I am going to buy a backpack to use for a trip, and then it’s going to sit in my closet for the majority of the next year. I’ll use it again, but mostly it will collect dust. But as I stand in the store staring at all the features I want but will hardly use, I begin to hope and see the possibilities.

    I envision hiking a mountain trial as my kids shove their water bottles into the pack and pull out snacks. We’ll sit together as the sun sets, watching wildlife emerge after a day of hiding from the heat. Maybe we’ll even catch a glimpse of a wolf or grizzly in the distance. Someone will reach into the pack to grab binoculars. Dusk will give way as the stars join us overhead. At some point as nature serenades us, my wife and I will debate about sitting late into the night or departing to get the kids to bed.

    As I stare at the unending choices of backpacks, this story brings me energy and life.

    I don’t picture the backpack on the floor in my closet for 350 days. You know what else I don’t think about? The letdown upon walking into house after the trip. The death of a grand adventure buries the soul. I remember coming home from camps as a kid- saying goodbye to friends only to lie facedown on the couch at home. Alone. Lonely. Wishing only to recreate the intimacy and laughter we just had.

    A summer trip is a great microcosm and invitation to look at hope in our life. Our heart is made for story, so we look for stories to invest ourselves in.

    P.T. Forsyth said, “If within us we find nothing above us, we succumb to what is around us.”

    In anticipation of a trip, a story of possibilities looms ahead, and the potential for adventure, beauty, and connection seeps into us and fills us within. When the trip dies, though, what stories will carry us? We could look toward the next trip. I can walk into an outdoor store and feel my heart begin to dream. But every trip ends and leaves me empty.

    Most of the stories we hope in die. In the midst of the letdown, we either place our hope in a larger story, or we look around us for a something to hope in. Really our inner life becomes a search for a story big enough to sustain our heart, which leads to hope.

    And hope we must have. Hope we must find. There is the Latin phrase “Dum Spiro Spero”, which means, “While I breathe, I hope”. Of course Dum Spiro Spero depends on the stories we invest in. Either we fail to resist the small stories around us, jumping from hope to hope, or we find a Story above us big enough to sustain us within.

    This is not a one time battle, by the way. To live well and with heart, we must wrestle with hope and story by the day and hour.

    So this summer, have a great trip. And watch over the ways your heart looks for a stories.

    Process:
    What stories fuel you this summer?

  • Like a Silly Jump Rope

    Like a Silly Jump Rope

    I tore my calf muscle back in February. It was a sequential process, actually. I took our dog Bandit for a run on a Sunday evening. On Monday, my calves screamed at me all day long. I functioned just fine, but they burned with each step. Later that week, I went to the gym to play basketball as usual. Little did I know I was about to experience my first Old Man injury. Early in the first game, with my calves still on fire, I drove to the basket, pulled up for a shot, and came down to a “popping” sound.

    Normally I am the last guy in the gym to be heard. When my calf tore, let’s just say everyone knew it.

    I almost crawled to a bench and later hobbled to my car. The shot went in, by the way. Nothing but net.

    Weeks later, in my attempt to rehab, I bought a jump rope. I stood in the sports store for far too long, staring and comparing different jump ropes. They ranged from cheap plastic to expensive leather.

    As I contemplated my purchase, it occurred to me: All a jump rope is is accountability. I can jump without a rope.

    But you know what? I won’t.

    I might start out hopping and grunting, but eventually my legs will tire and I will rationalize a reason to stop. I need a rope to swing over my head- a rope to keep me jumping, a rope to slash across my shins if I slow down or give up. I need the reminder to sweat, to hurt, to keep going. I would not jump as long or hard without a string to hurdle.

    I need a jump rope for accountability. I also need it to gauge my progress. Having a thin little rope to conquer allows me to count and track my growth.

    It seems so silly and shameful: I had to spend money on a rope to make me jump and keep me jumping.

    The heart works the same way. How many ways do we think we can live alone, without accountability and the help of others to gauge our growth?

    If I am honest, much of me wants to live alone. Maybe not physically. But deep in the tunnels of my psyche, I have learned to get by without accountability and the influence of others. I can do this life on my own. I don’t want to be pushed. I don’t want to expose the ugly parts of me, at least not to another human being. It feels easier not to be known.

    Our heart needs the discipline and consistency of a few safe people just like lazy and wounded calves need a jump rope. To rehab the heart requires connection, not with anyone and everyone, but certainly with a few good men and/or women.

    But I don’t want to need anyone, you say.

    I know. Me neither. But we do.

    And if your heart still shames you for being so needy…walk outside, stand on one foot, and start hopping. See if you even break a sweat before you start thinking about buying a jump rope.

  • Unbroken

    Unbroken

    My daughter loves my attention. There are times when her passion knocks me to the ground. Literally. She wrestles and hugs with such force that my wife and I fear personal injury. One afternoon, I arrived home from work, and I felt like the sled on a football practice field. I braced myself for the hit and leaned forward so as not to lose my balance. For the moment, my daughter was all about daddy.

    I walked into the kitchen in search of a snack. She followed in search of her dad. I poured a glass of water and opened a bag of pretzels.  She lifted my untucked shirt and stuck her head inside. I maneuvered around the kitchen with a caboose. As I ate, she began to tell me about her day. We went to the zoo today, Daddy. Steven did something funny at the monkeys, and Theresa…

    My mind shifted to my workday. Before I knew it, she was on the couch with her face planted in the corner. In a span of about fifteen seconds, she had asked me a question, and I had stuttered in my answer. I asked her to repeat her question. Instead I got what I deserved: an angry and hurt daughter. In my hesitation and lack of response, she knew I was not present with her. My own fear and shame around unresolved stories at work kept me from the full attention my daughter craved.

    My daughter is only six, and she already knows the cost of broken relationship.

    The Cost of Broken Relationship
    Healthy relationship requires people who also know the cost of broken relationship. Disconnection is a story we know so well that we have spent a lifetime in attempt to avoid it. Our story begins in Genesis. Adam and Eve had it all. They had full freedom, permission, and invitation to enjoy creation as they desired. More so, they had God. They walked in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the morning in His presence, unbroken relationship with Him and with each other. There was no praying and wondering whether God would answer. Eve never had to worry about Adam tuning into the ballgame instead of her. Adam never worried about Eve making a grocery list as they made love.

    We all know what tragedy happens next in Genesis 3. But in the interest of understanding your own heart, pause for a minute. Resist running ahead with the story. Ponder your own desire for perfect relationship. Are you aware of your own capacity for unbroken connection, and the loss you feel when relationship breaks down? This question is crucial, and yet very few know themselves well enough to answer it.

    What you do with the cost of broken relationship has everything to do with the presence you offer your others.

    What we do with our ache for unbroken relationship becomes the foundation for our character. Every human being has been reeling from the pain and loneliness of disconnection since our exile from Eden. As we grow up, our character is chosen and built based on how we decide to handle our heart’s longing for unbroken relationship with God and others.

    How well do you know your own heart? Can you put to words what is stirring inside of you at any given moment? Both our woundedness and sin stem from our unmet longings, desires, and hopes and how we have decided to live in a world of broken relationship. A heart made for Eden cannot but long for its home. As magnificent and awesome as this world can be, the best intimacy it can offer is flawed and fragmented.

    Are you aware of your longing for perfect relationship? Where has the search for Eden taken you? How does this show up in your relationships now? This is the beginning of knowing your story.
    God invites us to be aware of our own heart (Psalm 139:23, Proverbs 4:23).

    When I was not aware of my own heart, I abandoned my daughter for a brief moment. But she felt it, and her tears proved what I do with my heart affects the presence I offer, and it matters.

  • Theology of the Heart

    Theology of the Heart

    A friend recently shared a story of an accomplished, successful seminary grad now CEO who treats his family and colleagues like the dirt he walks on. Not again, I thought.

    There are too many of these stories: Young men and women get excited about God, have a desire to learn about him and his story, so they apply to seminary.

    With wide eyes and open minds, they immerse themselves in both the challenge and gratification of higher education. I remember hearing a seminary professor talk about the passion and energy of first year students. He spoke about them as dry sponges the size of an ocean, ready to soak up every bit of knowledge they could.

    Sadly, though, the professor warned his students of the seemingly inevitable: A cynicism snuck in between year 2 and graduation. It never failed that students in their final year would lose their vigor and enter into a stagnant state, even to the point of judging and writing off the energetic first-year students.

    The same can happen to all of us as we journey longer into faith and life.

    If what you learn about God does not translate to repentance, redemption, restoration, and deeper capacities to love, what is it worth?

    The danger of any serious Bible study comes in the attempt to stockpile data without it reshaping our character. Sometimes the more knowledge we have, the further we distance ourselves from the heart of things.

    We cannot master God or our heart as educational entities. I’ve tried to make them so. At one point, I attempted to outline and memorize books I read. If I can just memorize and master knowing about God, I will attain the life I want. I came up empty, no more connected to God and with an awareness that I somehow knew less than I did before.

    God simply does not work this way. We bring our fear, loneliness, and shame to the desire to know God, and in an attempt to distance ourselves from our pain, we create a formula to master him.

    If it is easier to talk about theology than your own heart and relationships, you may want to take an internal look.

    There is a theology of the heart. The head has its theology, learned from books and the best of teachers. Exams and degrees and masterful sermons reveal an air-tight, well-versed head theology, respected often by peers and those who feel like they know less.

    The theology of the heart, though, shows itself in the most overlooked places: the way we relate to others.

    The truest theology fills our mind and runs freely through the reservoir of our head and drips patiently and steadily into our heart, filling it fully to the brim. The result is a person who can be themselves and be loving. With themselves. With others. With God.

    But pain and suffering too often expose the theology of our heart. It is quite possible to know right and become the evil we say we despise.

    To learn your own theology, you must do more than look at doctrine. My wife knows my theology more than anyone else. So do the people I have loved and the people I have hurt. While my daughters know I go to church, hear me pray, and listen to me read Bible stories at bedtime, we have never discussed my views on predestination, soteriology, hermeneutics, or Dispensationalism. They, too, though, know my theology better than most in the tone I talk to them when they disobey and the patience (or lack thereof) I show when they reject me.

    When we care more about knowledge of God than letting truth change us, we harm others and leave them lonely and wounded. We miss out on God in the process, too, all the while thinking we have him because we know about him.

    Jesus tells the Pharisees, “You study the Scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.” These men who know the most about God miss his presence before them and harm those around them by how they relate.

    Every bit of who we are is relational, and unless we connect what we learn about God to how we interact with him and treat each other, we will remain as blind and offer no more life than these Pharisees.

    I hope to never hear another story of an MDiv who shames his children and employees and hides behind his title. And yet, I know there are places in all of us which need reformation and renovation.

    God, help us all.

    May we pursue a theology in our head that transforms the theology of our heart.

  • Sadness Waits for Us

    Sadness Waits for Us

    On a family trip to the beach, my little girl played on the edge of the waves. My wife and I played nearby, reading our novels and catching up on months of going and going without rest.

    As kids do, my girl moved from the water to the sand and back again with her green shovel and bucket. With her feet in the water, she leaned over to fill her bucket and dragged it back to her sand castle.

    Her back to the sea, a wave washed in and erased her footprints.

    She packed the sand and created her castle, then returned to the water to repeat.

    She refilled, dumped, and built for over an hour. My daughter brought joy to the beach and everyone who watched her work. She molded the final tower and stopped to admire it.

    With a proud smile, she walked over to alert her parents. As she pulled us from our books, she turned and pointed toward her castle just as a wave crashed over her work.

    Her smiled faded like her footprints.

    The wind blew. A seagull flew by. Still her face waited to respond. You could read the calculations of time and effort on her blank stare.

    And then after another wave washed over her flattened castle, she let the tears wash over her.

    The wind and the crashing waves could not drown out my girl’s cry. For five good minutes, she wailed and gazed at the spot where her castle once stood. Then, wiping her tears away, she walked back to her bucket and shovel. She picked them up and with reddened eyes and wet, teary hands, she went back to work.

    My girl, once the epitome of sadness, became joy again.

    Sadness quietly waits for us. For my daughter, it waited until her heart opened to welcome her loss. Life continues to crash like waves onto the sand, but sadness is far more patient than the waves. In moments of grief, we know sadness lingers nearby. Part friend; part enemy. It does not shout or call out for our attention. It sits still and quiet beneath our layers of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. The actual act of acceptance comes when the heart opens itself to the loss, even to a sandcastle.

    Sadness is a coming home to the heart.

    Our fear of and resistance to sadness often make grieving feel more like a category five hurricane than a common storm. C.S. Lewis captures the fight we make against sadness when he says,

    “Feelings, and feelings, and feelings. Let me try thinking instead.”

    Thinking becomes a safe alternative to feeling. I have never met a client, or a therapist for that matter, that enjoys nakedly bearing his soul. For as long as the human race exists this side of heaven, we will cringe at the invitation of vulnerability. When we deny our heart the grief its due by thinking or pretending, we side step vulnerability in favor of intellectualism. While intellectualism may save you from tears, it cannot heal the soul.

    Only honest tears restore the heart.

    Then and only then can we return to the sand, look back at the sea, and pick up our shovel and bucket to build again.

  • Here We Go Again

    Here We Go Again

    My wife and I sat at dinner a week ago as tension spiked between my two daughters. Someone’s portion of leftover Easter candy outweighed the other’s for dessert. As we attempted to iron out their issue with intense negotiation, I looked over at my wife and thought: Wow, it’s been awhile since she and I have had one of those “cancel all afternoon and evening plans because we have to work this out” fights.

    Uh oh, I thought. We must be due.

    Surely not, though, we’ve been doing so well lately.

    It never fails that once I have this thought, we are only a day or two away from a conflict.

    Sure enough, a day later, after putting the kids to bed, we found ourselves in the living room staring each other down.

    Over our almost twelve years of marriage, the frequency of our fights and conflicts has lessened, but it still happens. And I am glad about this, too. Don’t get me wrong; I hate our quarrels. But in my experience as a psychotherapist and couples counselor, the couples that do not argue or contend with one another often possess a lifeless relationship. Translation: If you choose to care about life and each other, expect conflict.

    Good, healthy God-given desire and passion offer life, and often they create tension in the process.

    As I reflect back on our argument last week, I recognize I stuck to a couple principles that gave me the focus and energy I needed to engage my wife and our disagreement in a healthy way.

    Stay in It

    The temptation is always to check out. Physically leaving has never been my thing, but there are other ways to disengage. In moments of relational stress, the heart wants to be anywhere but present, and the mind will seek to disengage with fantasies, daydreams, or seemingly more pressing topics. Pursue the tension. Stay in it.

    Guys, often women simply want to know you are in the trenches with them. Your physical and emotional presence, whether you surrender your point or not, can end up providing your strongest and most significant truth: You are not alone. We are in this together, and we’ll get through it.

    Do the Work

    Nothing worth having comes without a fight. The path to the relationship your heart desires is always through. No relationship which seeks to go around, under, or over the pressing issues will survive. As Proverbs says “There is a way which seems right to a man…” In marital conflict, the way that appears right is the path of least tension and resistance, and it ends in further disappointment and less connected relationship.

    Commit to do the work. This process always includes self-awareness, telling the truth, and healthy interdependence along with grace and forgiveness. The only good way out is through.

    Build a History, Become a Historian

    This one comes with an asterisk. You can trust your history if you have stayed in it and done the work enough to have created a history. When my wife and I found ourselves wading through the muck last week, I never once doubted we would make it through to solid ground. My mental conversation went something like this: Here we are again. This stinks, and it will continue to stink until we move through it.

    History takes time and patience to build. Seasoned healthy marriages contain couples that have committed long enough to know they will make it through. If you have built a history, remember the path you have traveled in the midst of conflict. You might even find an object to symbolize your past struggles and triumphs as a reminder.

    If you have not yet cut a path with landmarks to look back on, know that it’s worth the work.

    Believe in Baseline

    I am making the assumption you married for a good reason. At some point before the mess of conflict, your relationship created a baseline you both enjoyed. As Mat Kearney sings, “Your the only one, That little crook in your teeth and your 5 inch feet…You put too much salt on everything you eat, Wake up freezing ‘cause I stole the sheets, And you talk to the wall, pop your gum in your sleep, You’re the only one.”

    Your baseline includes the way you laugh together, the idiosyncrasies you love about one another, and who you both are together in the best of moments. In the midst of tension, remember your baseline and the work that got you there. While your attraction to his corny jokes may fade in the flares of anger and the sting of hurt, believe that baseline still exists. This vision for what will be and the memory of what has been, at times, provides the motivation to stay in it, do the work, and build a history you can trust.

    As I sat down to write here, I attempted recall the fight my wife and I had. I wanted to remember so I could paint the scene, describe it in detail, and illustrate it well. To be honest, though, I cannot remember what we fought about. Whatever took hours of our attention that night and bled into intense silence and the avoidance of eye contact the next day lost its power as we found our way back to baseline.

    Now if I can only guide my eight year olds on the same path as they count and compare their jelly beans.

  • This Is Us

    This Is Us

    My wife posted an Easter picture of our family last week on Facebook that went viral. Ok, viral is a relative term when you only have a couple hundred friend connections. Her post collected over 120 likes in a few days. My wife is famous to me, but outside of our friends and family, she’s not a celebrity. She doesn’t usually get that kind of attention from her posts.

    For me, it caught me off guard to see names from the past respond to the picture. People I have not talked to since high school responded. My wife saw names like or comment she, too, hasn’t crossed paths with in years. In all the pictures and posts over the last decade of Facebook, why now?

    I will say, it’s a great picture. We intended to take a formal family shot, but my daughters had other ideas. One girl proudly salutes the camera like a sailor. The other scratches our heads with a cartoonish expression that says, “Best of luck getting me to be serious!” Shannon and I both lost all ability to maintain formal composure. We bursted with laughter.

    Facebook feels like the ultimate social experiment. It’s almost to say, if you put all of your friends in one great big dining hall, what would you want to share? All the while knowing that while they are in your room, they are also in their own banquet hall with all of their friends.

    The type of conversations and connections possible abound, and I am always curious to see what status posts get responses and what posts simply fade into cyberspace never to be seen or noticed again.

    There’s the nature or traveling posts, like phone shots of rainbows and rainy days or the “Hey everyone, look at me next to the Eiffel Tower while you’re back home at work!”.

    There’s the recommendation posts: “Hey, does anyone know a good plumber who can respond NOW to my flooding toilet”.

    There’s the “Thanks all for the birthday wishes” messages.

    How about the sports posts- right now Nashville wants to celebrate the hockey series win over our evil Chicago rivals.

    What makes one post warrant more attention than another? I pondered this as I considered my wife’s post this week.

    It is the power of presence, I think.

    As I scroll through other posts, it appears direct face shots tend to receive the most response. I don’t mean shameless selfies. The pictures where people let their face be seen in an authentic presence draw us most. These do not ask for attention but simply share: This is me. This is us.

    And people respond with likes, comments, and emotions.

    We are so lonely, in a good way even, for a face to encounter our own.

    Our face holds our presence, reflects our very heart. When shame arises, our face shows it first. Our we hide our face. We look down and away. We divert our attention. We wear a hat or put on sunglasses. Sometimes we don’t even take them off indoors.

    We run from our own face. We present the face we want to be seen, and conceal the face we deem unworthy or unwanted.

    That Saturday we took the picture, we caught a wonderful moment of joy. By that time, our kids had eaten lunch and three scoops of ice cream. They had bags full of plastic eggs with treasures and various candies inside. The day was finally fun. If you had seen us hours before, though, you would have seen two kids who hated life and two parents fearful we were failing at raising children.

    If only someone had snapped that picture and my wife had posted it to Facebook…

    You know what? I think twice as many people would have clicked “like”. Not because anyone would take pleasure in our misery. It would be because in capturing the hard parts of life, one struggling heart might look into the face of another and say, “I am not alone. That is me. That is us.”

  • Living with Robust Sanity

    Living with Robust Sanity

    Many people think that what’s written in the Bible has mostly to do with getting people into heaven – getting right with God, saving their eternal souls. It does have to do with that, of course, but not mostly. It is equally concerned with living on this earth – living well, living in robust sanity. In our Scriptures, heaven is not the primary concern, to which earth is a tagalong afterthought. “On earth as it is in heaven” is Jesus’ prayer. – Eugene Peterson

    I used to coach baseball. There was nothing worse than having a player with loads of talent who either did not know or recognize his talents or worse, did not care. I look back and think about several players who possessed gifts and abilities most boys only dreamed about. A few of them figured it out. Others maintained an air of indifference to which I could only yell, “Wake Up!” in as many ways as I could creatively imagine.

    One time I outdid myself with my attempt to motivate a player. Another coach laughed at me in the moment and kept laughing at the story for as long as we coached together.

    Jared played third base and hit in a power spot in the lineup. We depended on him to play solid defense, drive in runs at the plate, and pitch when needed. Jared probably accessed 75% of his talent. The other 25% lay hidden somewhere underneath his ball cap filled with curly hair and the perplexing maze of the teenage psyche.

    When I looked into Jared’s eyes, I wondered what realm he currently inhabited. If I looked long enough, I felt I too might drift off to Neverland and miss the baseball game in front of me.

    I exhausted ways to engage and motivate Jared. On one occasion, I had watched him trot out to his position at third base. To a baseball coach, a trot is about the same as sleep walking. I called him back to try again. “Jared, I want you to run out to your position again, but this time, pretend a wild wolf pack is chasing you. Your life depends on how fast you sprint.”

    Jared ran to third, and I turned to my assistant coach for moral support. Instead I saw a smile from ear to ear and the sounds of restrained laughter. Finally it spilled out: “A wolf pack?” he laughed.

    We play life like Jared played baseball. We get by at 35% or 50%. We are half-hearted sleep-walking creatures who do not know who we are or the depths of glory we possess inside of us. We’ve lost the desire to live fully, or we mask the desire with socially acceptable ways to cope.

    All the while, we lose vision for what it means to be fully human. We fail to comprehend our full God-given potential, and therefore miss out on a “robust sanity” that can change the world. What transformation in our families and cities might occur if we spent just as much energy getting heaven into people as people into heaven?

    Your life here matters.

     

  • Be Kind to Yourself

    Be Kind to Yourself

    Toward the end of his life, Henri Nouwen wrote these words,

    “Even though I often give in to the many fears and warnings of my world, I still believe deeply that our few years on this earth are part of a much larger event that stretches out far beyond the boundaries of our birth and death. I think of it as a mission into time, a mission that is very exhilarating and even exciting, mostly because the One who sent me on the mission is waiting for me to come home and tell the story of what I have learned.”

    As I read this week, I stopped, put down the book, and paused. Nouwen’s sentence struck me in its simplicity: we live on a mission into time. But more than simple, his perspective struck me as kind. In his welcome home party upon his death, God would wrap him in his love and sit down just the same as you and I would over coffee or lunch. With eyes intent on listening, the Lord would ask curious questions about what he learned in his life and time with people.

    In Nouwen’s kindness toward himself, life had become an opportunity to humbly learn. That’s it? What have you learned? For myself and the people I know, life feels much more complicated. Who has time to pay attention to learning when we must fight to survive? Bills arrive in the inbox or mailbox each month. The kids’ homework must get done each night on top of practices and field trips. Then I turn on the news to learn missiles are falling in other parts of the world and quickly I trivializes my own stresses. But then the week starts over again and the daily grind never stops. Beneath it all exists a shame I can never fully outrun, a shame to succeed that drives much of what I do.

    What if the One who sent you and me on the mission into time is waiting for us to come and tell the story of what we learned?

    It sounds too simple. It sounds too kind. Then I think about the kids I have coached. Often at the end of a practice, I would ask, “What is one thing you learned today?” I did not expect a bunch of 6 year olds in tee ball or 14 year olds in middle school ball to hit home runs like they were Babe Ruth in his prime. Yet this is the kind of drivenness, expectation, and demand for success we apply to our own heart and life.

    Kindness evaporates in the push for survival and success. I want to live with the kindness Nouwen applied to his own heart. My days would change. I would move slower, listen better, and forgive more. I would be more honest, take more risks, and love more deeply. I would compare myself less, appreciate my own gifts, and see them precisely as gifts rather than talents I have earned. I would fear less, stand taller, and look more people in the eye. Deep down, I would live with more joy, gratitude, and wonder. I would allow God, others, and myself to care about me. And I think, just maybe, I would learn to live loved.

    Process
    What are you learning these days?
    If you already knew you were enough, how much more freedom and space might you have to live loved?

    To further engage your heart here, check out Andrew Peterson’s song, Be Kind to Yourself