You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Life’ category.
A few weeks ago while on my way home in the car with my girlfriend, I confessed something that I do my best to hide.
I confessed one of my greatest fears.
Ten years ago this past week, my life changed. While September 11 had the nation in shock and riveted to their TV sets, our family was disintegrating. And less than three days after our nation was attacked, my family began a journey that would come to define the next decade.
I don’t think we completely understood then what the next ten years would bring. But down deep, I think we knew things would never be the same. I can still remember the day they left. I remember saying goodbye in the parking lot near my job. I remember the tears, the uncertainty, and the determination to make light of a situation that was anything but.
I remember the pain and loneliness that followed. I remember the fear. I remember feeling more alone and abandoned than I knew was possible. And I remember finding places inside I didn’t know could hurt.
I remember waking up knowing I was still alive because the ache was so strong.
The Decade
It’s been a long ten years. I’m not the same person I was then.
None of us are.
And although this past week is a hard reminder of pages written, although this week brings memories of moments that changed our lives forever, there is something new.
There is hope.
There is a grace I now sense, guiding me through the coming days.
On that short car ride, I opened up and shared just a shadow of the pain that began 10 years ago. And I told of my greatest fear, of being left behind again.
I wasn’t laughed at. I wasn’t scolded or corrected. I was accepted. I was prayed for. I was offered something I’ve been praying for, for a long time.
I was offered love.
Promises
Later that evening, I was thinking about this week, and what it would mean.
I don’t profess to hear God audibly, but as I stood in the shower, I broke down. Because I heard Him, clearly, in my heart.
This time will not be like the last.
I was His son. And this was His promise. This was my rainbow.
This was my promise that my family would never have to go through this again. There wouldn’t be any more Thanksgivings at Denny’s, or days spent volunteering at a food pantry just so there would be something on the table that night.
I am His son. And this is His promise.
This time, this decade will not be like the last.
Passion – Healing is in Your Hands
It’s 9:02pm as I write and it’s 96 outside.
A few weeks ago, the family and I were discussing our desire to cut expenses. We talked about replacing our single pane windows and adding insulation in the attic. We dreamed about lower utility bills and a more comfortable house, and we resigned ourselves to the simple fact that we rent.
We talked, we wished, we moved on.
Learning
I’m learning that some of the most powerful words we will ever read, hear or speak will be questions or requests.
Do you know how much you mean to me? Are you OK? Do you need help? Will you marry me? I really need….
Petitions, questions, entreaties. They convey value. They let us show how much we care for and how we value those around us. They force us to be open and vulnerable.
If we never asked, we’d never receive. If we never risked the honesty and vulnerability that questions bring, we’d never know the depth of love or see the full palette of color that life can offer.
Phone Calls
I never asked the God of the universe if He could take care of our windows.
Why? Was it because I thought it too trivial? Or was it because I thought I wasn’t important enough?
I received a phone call this afternoon from our property manager. She wanted make sure we weren’t concerned if we saw some of the maintenance guys on the property. They were simply taking measurements for our new windows. Oh, and by the way, they want to increase the insulation in the attic early this fall.
Ask
If I profess to serve the God of the heavens, and if His promise to me is to care for my family and I, then I shouldn’t be surprised. Because this is the action of a Father who knows the needs and desires of His kids, and works to fulfill them. I shouldn’t have been surprised, not in the way I was.
A Father caring for His children shouldn’t have shocked me. Does a Father love to surprise His kids with gifts? Yes, absolutely. Does He enjoy blessing them with more than enough? Yes. But should it be a surprise when He meets their needs? No.
I have a long way to go before I begin to understand what being a son really means. I’m hard-headed, determined to be self sufficient, and hate feeling week or in need. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m stupid to think I can walk this path alone. Because I cannot. I need friends who will ask the hard questions, who will convey beauty and grace. I need brothers who will force me to face my own fears.
And I need a Father who cares for me even when I forget to simply ask.
Don’t bargain with God. Be direct. Ask for what you need. This isn’t a cat-and-mouse, hide-and-seek game we’re in. If your child asks for bread, do you trick him with sawdust? If he asks for fish, do you scare him with a live snake on his plate? As bad as you are, you wouldn’t think of such a thing. You’re at least decent to your own children. So don’t you think the God who conceived you in love will be even better?
Matthew 7
(the Message)
Future of Forestry – Sanctitatis:
I’m learning that there is little on this earth more rare or precious than the offering of a glimpse of ones heart to another. In that moment of surrendering a portion of who you are to the care of someone else, there is magnificent beauty, there is tremendous purity, there is trust.
Honesty
Part of this surrender means honesty even when it hurts. It means facing my fears. It means having to admit that I’m terrified of becoming my father, that I have self esteem issues, that I am broken and imperfect, blemished and scarred.
It’s exhausting.
But nothing worthwhile comes without cost. And if it’s pain I must face to find the freedom my heart yearns for, then so be it.
In these moments
Moments like this, moments of trust, filled with dreams, moments written with the pen of expectancy on the stationery of hope are the moments that make ordinary lives extraordinary. They’re the moments when unspoken hopes find breath, whispered prayers find their voice and broken dreams find their wings.
These are the moments that make life beautiful, that rewrite our stories and bring clarity to what has already been written.
In these moments when eternity pierces our reality, there is life, hope is birthed, and if we let it, a beauty we’ve never known plants a seed inside of our hearts. And that seed, if nurtured will grow into new stories, stories of lives intertwining together. Stories of new hope, new life, new chapters.
If we let it, that seed writes the story we always wanted but hardly dared to dream about.
Wither/Ascend – Stavesacre:
Watch me fly
Freedom like wings and I will use them
Freedom like wings and I will spread them wide
Watch me fly
Freedom my wings and I will use them
Freedom my wings and I will spread them wide
And rise up
One day my ashes will return to earthly slumber
Spread far and wide across the desert and the sea
Until then I will leave each day in awe and wonder
And look forward to each sunrise
I think we fear that word.
If you’ve lived long enough and loved hard enough, then your story will undoubtedly reflect most. Then there will be a moment when you said goodbye to someone and never thought it would be the last words you’d speak.
My family is still dealing with the shock of an unexpected goodbye.
Donald Miller in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years says, “My uncle told a good story with his life, but I think there was such a sadness at his funeral because his story wasn’t finished. If you aren’t telling a good story, nobody thinks you died too soon; they just think you died. But my uncle died too soon.”
Unexpected goodbyes, losing a loved one whose story wasn’t finished rearranges your life, it change your perspective. If the pain is deep enough our view of the world can be so impacted that we begin to fear saying goodbye. We become so aware of the fact that loving caused the pain that we try to minimize that risk. We close our hearts. We stop loving. We decide that the pain was so intense we’d rather live our lives slowly dying inside because we no longer allow anyone in, than open ourselves up to feeling that loss again. And a beautiful life full of color begins to fade.
We protect ourselves, we guard our hearts from all pain. We shut out the risk and because of that, we shut out life, we stop our story.
Hello
Goodbyes aren’t easy because they remind us that life can change unexpectedly, painfully, achingly. We forget that goodbye must follow hello, and it almost always precedes the next hello. If mankind never said goodbye Lewis and Clark would never have pushed west, America would never have been discovered, man would never have set foot on the moon, and I would never have met the lifelong friends I have here in Texas.
Goodbyes may never be easy, but they can be beautiful. When that goodbye is said to someone you love immensely, there is beauty if you know that this person is following her dreams, if you know she is passionately pursuing the next chapter in her story and is stepping out in faith in spite of the questions and the doubt. It will be beautiful because you know that this goodbye will be followed by new hello’s, new stories and new beauty. This goodbye will be followed by pages and pages of a life’s story being written, pages that would never be written otherwise.
When the person you’re saying goodbye to has a beautiful heart and you realize that this goodbye is a necessary part of the creativity that will result in a beautiful life; when you can see the hands of the Master sculptor forming her into a Proverbs 31 woman, goodbye may not be easier, but you see the beauty.
You know that this goodbye may increase the distance between you, and it may be hard. But you know it will deepen your roots and strengthen the bonds between you. You know that for this eagle to soar, she must leave the nest. And because you want her to soar, to become all she can be, because you want the world to see in her what you already do, you say goodbye.
It isn’t easy. It may never be. But it will be worth it.
Choosing love will open spaces of immense beauty and joy for you, but you will be hurt. You already know this. You have retreated from love countless times in your life because of it. We all have. We have been and will be hurt by the loss of loved ones, by what they have done to us and we to them. Even in the bliss of love there is a certain exquisite pain: the pain of too much beauty, of overwhelming magnificence. Further, no matter how perfect a love may be, it is never really satisfied . . . In both joy and pain, love is boundless.
-Gerald May, The Awakened Heart
Goodbye
Sarah – your story is beautiful. Your heart is beautiful. You are beautiful. Go! Step out into your future. Embrace your life. Fill it with love, passion, and creativity. Change the world and be changed in the process. Live a life worthy of the dreams in your heart! Benjamin Franklin said, “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” Go, do just that!
I love you!
Future of Forestry – Set Your Sails:
Through the ache this week has brought, in the swirling eddies of pain at the loss my family is feeling, there is a current flowing. Ripples of something much deeper, a truth that I believe my uncle knew or sensed even if he couldn’t put words to it.
He knew how to love. You never questioned your worth in his eyes. Yes, if you were one of his kids or a friend of his kids or anyone under 25 and you did something dangerous or stupid, you would know. But you wouldn’t doubt the heart behind his words or actions.
Yes, he could be impulsive at times. He was a tattooed, beer drinking, Harley riding mans man. And yes he liked pretty waitresses and working on old cars. But you knew where his heart lay. He absolutely loved his kids and his girlfriend.
My uncle may not have been a wordsmith, you wouldn’t catch him throwing clay or putting brush to canvas. But in his own way you never doubted that he loved you, was for you and wanted you to know you mattered.
Lessons Learned
The world needs people whose hearts are fully alive, who chase after their passions and dreams. The world needs people who love what they do and do what they love. And the world needs those who are unashamed and unafraid to tell those they love how much they mean to them.
If there is one lesson I’ve learned this week its this: don’t wait. If you love someone, if they mean something to you, tell them.
Tomorrow, we will remember, we will tell stories. Tomorrow my family gives a final send off to a man who lived life like it was meant to be lived. Tomorrow, in a storm of fireworks and sparklers, surrounded by friends and loved ones we say goodbye.
Thank You
Thank you, Uncle Chuck for modeling who a man was supposed to be. For being a father to your three great kids and the others who considered you a dad.
Thank you for the fireworks, the reminders of how important family is, and for living life fully.
I, we all will miss you. But we are better for knowing you.
Tomorrow
Tomorrow, I will not just say goodbye to a man who meant the world to many. I will also say hello to many who mean the world to me.
And tomorrow, I will make sure they know.
One of my biggest struggles with my faith is the voice I’ve always given God.
I’ve always struggled to understand the tone of Gods voice. I’m guilty of placing Gods word into the tone and delivery method that my father used.
When I did that, God became a stern, aloof, shell of a being that was present physically but absent mentally and emotionally. When I did that, life became empty, devoid of any hope and drained of color, excitement and any and all things that made life beautiful.
Realization
A few nights ago, I read Hebrews 11.
But without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him.
-Hebrews 11:6 (NKJV)
I’ve heard this verse countless times. And each time, I’ve always imagined my dads voice telling me I had to be diligent, that if I wanted to please God, it was all up to me.
I always interpreted that to mean I could never seek enough.
I knew that if there was no pleasing my earthly father, then why even bother trying to please the Almighty? If I couldn’t be diligent enough in my homework, penmanship, exercise routines or mowing the lawn, how was I ever going to please the Creator of the universe?
My dad’s voice was always what I heard.
That evening something changed. What I read, changed. The voice I heard started to sound less like my father and more like a real Father. I began to hear love when I read:
It’s impossible to please God apart from faith. And why? Because anyone who wants to approach God must believe both that he exists and that he cares enough to respond to those who seek him.
Hebrews 11:6 (Message)
Suddenly it wasn’t about my being good enough, or trying hard enough, or being diligent enough. It wasn’t about me, or what I could do. Suddenly, it was about a Father who cares enough to respond.
Fathers
We know what one looks like when we see him.
We know the hopeful expectation of a childlike heart, faithfully waiting for dad to come home from a long day in battle (or at work).
We know the heart of a true father drops his keys, briefcase and sport-coat at the door, and in a moment he transforms from a fearless slayer of office-dwelling dragons into a cowboy, indian, storm trooper, or fixer of broken bikes and skinned knees.
We know the heart of a true father cannot wait to get home and see his kids.
We know he works not to find his purpose, but to provide for his family. Yes, he gives his all every day, but you don’t see him at his fullest until he’s tackled at the backdoor and in minutes has a grass stain on his trousers. You may see the employee in his office, but you see the man, when he bends over, picks up his son who’s been waiting, seeking his father all afternoon and says
I’ve waited all day to see you. And I am so glad I’m home. I love you. Now, let’s go play!
At that moment, though dad may not realize it, he’s building in the heart of his children the very foundations they will need for the rest of their lives.
And in that moment He is showing his kids the very heart of a true father.
A heart that cares enough to respond to those who wait at the backdoor, to those who seek him.
Passion – Waiting Here for You:
We shortchange ourselves and the lives we could live if we chose to wait for the perfect, when the good enough is staring us in the face.
We won’t dance as often as we should or tell that girl how pretty she looks, we won’t risk as much but we will also see less reward. Our relationships won’t be as deep, friendships won’t be as sincere and love won’t be as strong.
When we chose to wait for the perfect moment instead of capitalizing on the moments given to us, we miss out on drops of beauty that life rains only on those who chose to risk.
This past weekend I witnessed the interweaving of two stories, two lives, into one. Two people who learned the joys of risk, who’ve felt the pain of loss but who didn’t wait for the elusiveness of perfect when love knocked on the door to their hearts.
And now a new story is now being written, one full of hope, of life, and I’ve no doubt that in time, a new family as well.
A new story, not a perfect story, not one without risk, without pain. Not a story that wasn’t at one time bathed in tears, but a new story all the same. One bathed in beauty, wrapped in grace, and filled with dreams coming true and new dreams being birthed in the hearts of those brave enough to not wait for perfect.
This weekend reminded me that finding courage to dream requires action, it requires a guy be aggressive and chase after what he wants, what he dreams of. But most importantly, this weekend reminded me that life comes to those who step out in risk, who share their heart, who are open and who chase after the dreams written on their hearts.
Future of Forestry – Slow Your Breath Down:
Today was a Monday.
Not just Monday on the calendar, but one of those Mondays.
Today would have been a Monday if the calendar said it was Thursday.
And it was my fault, I didn’t start today as I should have.
It was going to be a busy day filled with important calls, meetings and deadlines. I had my first dance lesson scheduled for this evening. And my quiet time, the time that centers me, helps me find the path I should follow, and speaks peace into the situations I face, was all but glossed over this morning.
And Monday ensued.
I had things that to get done. And I got them done. Because I was so important.
I arrived early for the lesson.
In the parking lot I took a moment and reviewed the Groupon confirmation.
For Arthur Murray’s dance studio.
I was at Fred Astaire’s dance studio.
Monday.
Next Monday, things will be different. Because in that parking lot, I realized what I’d forgotten.
I was rescued from an eternity of Monday’s not to meet or attend meetings, to get things done or arrive early.
I was rescued to rescue.
Hillsong United – Aftermath
Last Sunday was quickly drawing to a close and as it was one of the few remaining cool spring days we would see in the DFW metro area, I did what any coffee addicted adult does.
I went to Starbucks.
On the way, my car simply acted odd. When I pulled into the driveway I noticed an odd smell emanating from it. It wasn’t until after research online, reviewing the owner’s manual and some small panicking on my part did I realize it was most likely the cheaper gas I’d used.
It was just a car. But by the way I reacted, by the way my heart panicked, you’d think I’d forgotten to give a patient his medicine.
It was just a car, not life or death. So why the fear? Why the panicking?
Because I still stubbornly cling to the idea that I must perform. That this unfailing, unearned, unmerited, perfect love is something I must somehow be good enough for.
I never will be good enough. That is why it’s called grace.
Even if the odd smell is something worse than cheap gas, even if it’s something worse than just a car, even if I fail, that Love will still be there.
In the midst of the storm, and surrounded by a lot of unknowns, I cling to this.
I don’t have to earn it.
I will never have to earn it.
I cannot earn it.
I am loved perfectly.
There is far more to your life than the food you put in your stomach, more to your outer appearance than the clothes you hang on your body. Look at the birds, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, careless in the care of God. And you count far more to Him than birds. –Matthew 6:26
Brooke Fraser – Flags
If we are honest with ourselves, we all want our stories to reflect one thing, hope. We want our lives to show an unending belief in the fact that life is worth living. We want our history to be a testament of overcoming, of victory.
We want to live on the mountaintop. And we ignore the valley.
Too many of us have bought into that lie, into the stories of endless mountaintop moments, of perfect lives flying above the storms. Too many of us believe that if we were just good enough, we would finally find completion, we would know hope because we would know what we were hoping for.
That isn’t real life.
Last weekend I stumbled across a stack of old postcards lying scattered in a box in the back of an antique shop. As I thumbed through them looking for artwork that would catch my eye, something else made me pause and start over. I began to read the letters, the messages on the back of the cards. There were more than thirty, each dated from the early 1940s. And each one penned by Private Divis, opened with Darling or Dear Sweetheart and was sent to a Ms. Jennie nee Garnik of Chicago, Illinois.
They were love letters, letters of hope.
Sometime in 1944 they were married. They stayed married, to each other, up until Mrs. Jennie Divis’ death in 2007.
Sixty three years of marriage.
I would love to believe that once they were married, they hopped from one mountain peak to another, each more beautiful than the last. But real life tells me that in sixty-three years of marriage, they faced hardship, pain, and the loneliness of the valleys. I would like to tell myself that the young love I heard whispered between the words of each post card carried them through those years, kids, careers and life with a sense of ease, but I know differently.
And so do you.
Tomorrow
Tomorrow, Christianity pauses to remember a moment in time that rewrote our stories. And again, I am tempted to paint this memory, this remembrance with the quiet pastels that permeate this season. But in doing so, the bloody reality of what took place over 2000 years ago is lost. Tomorrow isn’t about bunnies, ducklings and little baby chicks. Tomorrow isn’t just the celebration of life, but of a life lived in sacrificial love. A life lived perfectly, because we were imperfect.
Tomorrow, we remember the death of a Saviour and mans first taste of salvation.
Tomorrow we will read the first of many love letters written to you and I more than a millenia ago.
Promises
And as I sat there and read those postcards, and as I read the story we celebrate tomorrow, I hear the same message. We were never promised lives full of mountain peaks and empty of valleys. We were promised however, that we would never walk this path alone.
We were never promised a life void of pain and heartache, but we were promised that if we followed this Saviour who lived perfectly and died in our stead, we would find our true life, real life, abundant life.
I am following Him, Christ. Because more than anything, that is the life I want. I want to know that one random Saturday in the year 2074, someone will be walking through an antique shop and will find my postcards, love letters, letters of hope to my future wife.
And I pray that they will reflect a hope greater that my own. Not because my story was one filled with the pinnacles of life, but because I have found the life, the One I was hoping for. I found abundant life.
FindingTheCourageToDream.com 