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Many years ago I began a journey that, at the time, I thought would have ended in days and weeks. Not decades.
I’ve been in Texas for more than a decade, married for more than two years and only recently have my wife and I found a church that may just become home.
10 years of searching. Why? Because I wasn’t looking for just a church, or just good worship, or just just a good message. I, we were looking for honesty, vulnerability and community.
And although she and I have both found good friends in Texas, we’ve not found that place that feels like home. Yes, our times of fellowship are wonderful and much needed. But I cannot escape the feeling that we’re sitting in front of a giant tub of ice cream choosing to scrape just the top few layers off.
We don’t go deep. We don’t get honest. We don’t talk about our struggles, our fears, our heartaches and our dreams. We don’t trust others with the valuable parts, the real parts of who we are. And because of that, we don’t have community. We don’t have family. We have friends, acquaintances, vanilla when we could have rocky road, pistachio or superman blue. We settle for a single scoop, when a banana split is there for the taking.
That’s not the fault of our friends, that’s my fault. I’m the one who doesn’t push the envelope, who doesn’t share, who doesn’t pour his heart into something and expose his vulnerable side.
It’s funny that my humanity, the very reasons I need Christ in my life, are the very things I’m afraid would insult my friends.
I’m not perfect. I’ve struggled, struggle, daily. I fight. Against lust, pride, greed, selfishness and the desire to just have a cold heart.
I dream. Of producing music, writing books, speaking to thousands of people and offering my life, my stories as encouragement.
And I fear, that by sharing any of this, I may be wounded, mocked, insulted, and thought less of.
And now I realize it is foolish to fear. For in doing so, I’ve not protected myself. No, I’ve been a thief. I’ve stolen the chance to chase my dreams, to plan for a family, to be a father, to fall, laugh, accept grace, and keep going. I’ve stolen the man my wife deserves because I’ve not lived fearless. And I am sorry.
I am a misfit. I always will be.
But I know I am not alone.
The Life-Light was the real thing: Every person entering Life he brings into Light. He was in the world, the world was there through him, and yet the world didn’t even notice. He came to his own people, but they didn’t want him. But whoever did want him, who believed he was who he claimed and would do what he said, He made to be their true selves, their child-of-God selves.
John 19 (the message)
Christ was a misfit. He didn’t fit into his own people yet the three years of his life changed the course of history and set in motion the very grace by which I stand.
Join me. Be honest about who you are, your struggles and pain, your dreams and passions. Your hopes and fears.
Believe who He is, and find your true self.
I’ve begun to wonder if we’re sometimes given perfect moments on earth, perfect summers, perfect days, perfect friendships to give us a glimpse of what heaven was like. Times we wish, hope, and cling to a fierce belief that if we just held on tight enough, things wouldn’t change.
I remember a summer when I didn’t want things to change. I had a good job, wonderful friends, someplace to go and people to be with every weekend. I had my family, I had friends, and I was loved. An imperfect world momentarily paused by perfect moments. I hoped it would never end….
We lose something important, something vital when we’re so hurried.
Early this year, Texas forced me to stand still for two days because of an ice storm that gripped much of the south. We were not able to leave our driveway for days. Part of me began to get a little stir-crazy. But part of me also enjoyed the forced change of pace. It was quiet. The loudest thing we heard in those few quiet days were the neighborhood children sliding around the ice covered ground, living their perfect moments in an winter wonderland. A rare treat for the south.
And as I sit here now, 13ish years beyond that perfect summer, I know that I cannot remember that summer without remembering what came next. Without remembering the heartache, the numbing loneliness, the thoughts of suicide. The perfect summer lead into 10 years that rocked my world, reshaped my world view and altered the very fabric of who I was.
I no longer see myself as the person, the boy I was at 21. I don’t have the childlike heart, the innocent exuberance or the trusting nature I had then. I worry more, I fear more. I’m scarred, stitched together scraps that don’t fit exactly the way they should. A puzzle with pieces missing, an incomplete picture.
I feel like a three legged table.
I may never have another summer like I did when I was 21, but I’ve learned that perfection is overrated. My friends, my family weren’t perfect, I wasn’t perfect. My imperfect view of an imperfect world lied to me. Things were not perfect. And they never will be.
We cannot live our lives looking for perfection, because if we do, we will miss the opportunities to freeze our butts off while sliding around an ice covered street in Texas, we will miss the chances to dance with our spouses in the kitchen, to play in the rain or get lost in a song. If we hurry through life searching for those perfect moments, we will miss the beauty that already exists in our imperfect lives, our imperfect relationships, and our imperfect families.
I look back on that boy of 21, of the years between, and I have to remind myself that this story isn’t finished.
Tables can be repaired, tears can be mended, puzzles can be completed, and fears can be faced.
I no longer look for perfect situations. I’m beginning to see the beauty in the imperfect. And I will keep dancing with my wife in the kitchen and kissing her in the moonlight. No, life may not be perfect, but getting up at 2am to watch a lunar eclipse together is something I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I don’t have perfect, I have something better. I have life. And I’ll hold onto that with all I am.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Kickstarter, it is a fundraising website designed to give those with great ideas a platform to present their idea to the world, and then ask for funding from anyone interested in seeing that idea come to life.
Bands fund their indie albums, people create new ways to keep coffee hot, charge your iPhone or send something to space.
Recently, one idea has garnered a lot of press. The mini museum(http://www.minimuseum.com).
33 pieces of history. Pieces of the London Bridge, Abe Lincoln’s house and a triceratops horn. 33 nearly one-of-a-kind items for $299. I love it. I think it’s an awesome idea as it places things you’ve only heard about in your hands.
I want one.
But my desire goes far beyond the cool factor. And I couldn’t figure out why until now.
Stories.
It’s not 33 pieces of history. It’s 33 stories. 33 stories and the many stories that will be created talking about how cool the mini museum is. Stories to be told around around something that holds stories already told.
I don’t want it for the cool factor, I want it for what it tells my heart. That I’m somehow more important for having it. That it somehow brings value to my existence.
It’s not that I need a piece of the Berlin Wall, but that I need stories. And part of me wants to replace the stories I do have, my past, with something better.
Because I don’t like my story.
I don’t like the pages I didn’t get to write. And I don’t like some if the pages I wrote myself.
I want a different story. I don’t want to be the son of an absentee father. The son of divorced parents. Or the son of a family that’s been through the hell we’ve been through. I’ve somehow bought the lie that something new and shiny can change the tarnish staining my past.
It can’t. Nothing can.
But it’s not the tarnish that matters. Because if you look below the tarnishing, you see the indelible ink imprinted on my soul.
“I’ll give you a full life in the emptiest of places… You’ll use the old rubble of past lives to build anew, rebuild the foundations from out of your past. You’ll be known as those who can fix anything, restore old ruins, rebuild and renovate, make the community livable again.” (Isaiah 58:9-12 MSG)”
Museum or not, my past, your past is unchanging. But it is not my present. Nor will it be my future.
The stories I live will not be defined by the knickknacks on my coffee table, but by those I chose to love, and those who love me. My past defined a large part of who I was, but the ink on my soul defines my future. And nothing can change that.
For the Cross – Bethel Music
It’s been a while since I’ve sat down and talked with you like this. Since I’ve come without a list of needs or desires, hopes or hurts.
Since I’ve come simply to say thank you.
Thank you for grace. For your provision. For joy.
For her.
I came home today and she and I just talked.
And then one of her favorite songs came on.
And we danced in the living room.
Our living room, in our little house.
Surrounded by our yard that our dog loves to run in.
Our lives, my life.
Thank you.
You didn’t have to send your Son. You didn’t have to care so much. You didn’t have to love me the way you do.
You didn’t have to give me her, but you did.
And secondly only to finding the grace that You so freely give, she is my most precious gift.
Thank you.
Angel – Martin Smith
Some people collect photographs or records. Figurines or stamps. Coins or antiques.
Although I’m personally a fan of antiques, old postcards and good music, some of my most cherished collections are memories.
You can see them in the picture here.
Yes – I know they’re ticket stubs.
Little pieces of paper creased by time spent in my wallet, or faded by time spent in a drawer, a book or my bible.
They’re still memories.
The last time I saw Delirious live. The birthday present concert-slash-road trip to Tyler from my sister. The time my mom and I got to experience PBS’s Antiques Roadshow. Taking my other sister to the movies. Or the New Years Eve Symphony performance where I sat with my wife. Only, I didn’t yet know she’d be my wife.
Memories.
Ticket stubs. They’re not pretty, they’re not beautiful to look upon, or a creators greatest masterpiece. But it’s not the paper itself that holds the value. It’s where the paper takes me, it’s the stories the paper tells, it’s what the paper reminds me of, and its the hope these memories bring.
Memories of great experiences, of laughter and joy. Memories of moments that moved me to tears, or brought me to my knees in worship. Memories woven together with hope. Hope, because I am reminded how beautiful my life is. Hope, because I know I serve a God who loves me.
Hope. Because He left a book of memories, of stories, of hope, for my wife and I. For our families. For our futures.
Hope, because we’re not alone. And hope, because even when we face a mountain, we stand beside the mountain maker.
Jesus Culture Ft. Martin Smith – Walk With Me
I am a big fan of the classic Christmas movies.
It’s a Wonderful Life, Mickey’s Christmas Carol, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Rudolph, Charlie Brown and many others harbor the beginning of wonderful memories for my wife and I.
As with most Christmas movie purists, I immediately look down upon newer attempts to capture spirit of this time of year like one would look down upon Handel’s Messiah being put to polka music.
However, Elf has broken through to the realms of tradition and has taken its place as a classic holiday movie.
It’s not about how funny the story is or how the family becomes a family because of Buddy’s presence. Although those things help the story, for me it’s the whimsy and wonder Buddy shows for all things new.
Blissfully ignorant of or directly because of the cynicism of the big-city dwellers, Buddy met Christmas trees, taxi cabs, the worlds best cup of coffee, revolving doors and tall buildings with the same wonder and innocent excitement that helped Jovie fall for him.
And as we celebrate the closing of one chapter and the beginning of a brand new one, I am challenged by the way Buddy met each day. Challenged to live a life that free of the fear of mans opinions, to stand in wonder of the wonderful things that surround us each day, challenged to fill our waking moments with the magic and whimsy we often allow only in our dreams. Because that is living life and that is my new years resolution.
You can think about a lot during your commute home. Especially if that commute takes you through a $3 billion (yes, billion) construction zone. And if that commute includes 4 disabled vehicles blocking one of two open lanes.
I thought about a lot. I worried about a lot. I wondered when the drive would end and if this was what hell was like.
But mostly, I worried.
I worried about finances, about our future, about making good decisions. I worried about Christmas and family and all the other things I couldn’t fix.
I drove, and I worried. And as I got ready for bed this evening, I realized how wrong I was.
My wife isn’t feeling well. And as we were saying goodnight yesterday evening, she asked me to read to her. So I did. And I read:
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
Matthew 10:29
I worried. For nearly 2 hours today I worried. And He’s already taken care of it.
I may make mistakes, I may not be perfect. I may face more long commutes. I may not have all the answers. But I am not alone. I am perfectly loved by a perfect Father.
And in that, I can rest.
I spent four days in the hospital this week. Attached to IV’s. Healing from something I didn’t even know had attacked me. I didn’t know how to spell it’s name until Monday evening. And Monday afternoon, when that stomach ache kicked in, I had no idea where the week was headed.
And yes – I could sit here and question why it happened. But I’m choosing not to. Because I know the answer. There is an enemy that seeks to destroy us, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, physically. He attacked. We won. Moving on.
I spent the large part of the first two days on morphine. sleeping between doses as my body learned to deal with dinner via IV. The final few days I was more with it as my body was healing, I didn’t need the morphine, and I was better able to deal without food.
The hardest parts were the nights. I was exhausted. And I’d begin to doze off around 11pm but would snap awake at 12:30 and just lay there for hours.
In the middle of the night, when you’re lying in a dark hospital room unable to sleep, you begin to question, fear, and freak yourself out.
I didn’t want more medication to help me sleep. I simply wanted to go home.
But each night, all i had to do was look to my right, and there she was. My Eve, my Wife, my Bride. She stayed with me the entire four days. Burning through all the vacation time she had and some she didn’t. Helping me put my socks on, tie my hospital gown, sit up, sit down, use the bathroom, take a shower and anything else that gets very difficult with an IV stuck in your right hand.
She was there. She never left. And through those nights, her presence, and the presence of my Heavenly Father kept me going.
My Eve,
I love you more today than I did a week ago. I am more thankful for the time we get each day, and more conscious of the precious gift you are. I will never be able to repay you for this week. But I will spend every day trying to show you the same love you showed me.
You were courageous this week and you conquered something we never saw coming. You were gracious, forgiving, kind and gentle. In a word, you were amazing.
And you were by my side.
Thank you. I cannot wait to live the next pages of our story with you.
You are beautiful.
And I love you. Forever.
The deepest things in life are deep for a purpose. They are not meant to be easily found or happened upon. They are meant to be desired, longed for, searched for and highly prized.
We don’t value what comes easy. And the deep things in life, the beautiful things in life are things of immense value. Their beauty is only truly appreciated and understood by one who has forged into the dark places and retrieved the jewel that laid there.
The pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?
No.
But the pearl at the bottom of the ocean.
The priceless painting in the remains of a home.
The diamond in the alluvial stream.
The dream in the ashes of your past.
Go there. Find the deep things. Your life wasn’t meant to be lived in the shallows. We were called to go deeper and to call others to what we find.
You have something beautiful, something of breathtaking value hidden deep within your heart. The one who is meant for you, the one you are meant to find is the one for whom you will plumb those depths. And they, yours.
But you will never find them, nor your purpose, nor the stunning breadth of color that life can instill in you unless you face the depths of your own life first. Find the beauty that is in you, that your Heavenly Father placed in you first.
Find that first.
And everything else will follow.
You are amazing, you are beautiful.
You have a purpose.
Find that, hold onto that, fight for that, and nothing on this earth will stop you.
Bethel Music – What Does It Sound Like
I try to keep a level head and not to get so caught up in something that I no longer seem grounded. But this is Christmas, this is different. And all those Hallmark movies and Christmas specials aren’t just trying to sell us something. They are echoes of a deeper truth.
There is magic in Christmas. There is excitement, joy, hope. There is a deeper sense of worth, a call to slow down and see the value in each other, and to share what we see in them with them.
My family isn’t perfect. We have no white picket fence. We have our issues and challenges. We have our scars and stories. But they’re my family. And as my wife reminded me tonight, we are not broken. We are not perfect, but we are not broken.
Why? Why do I hold to such hope when circumstances have been so hard? Because there is joy. Joy because we are not where we were. Hope in where we will be and excitement in what lies ahead.
There is value in each of us.
Christmas was just the beginning. The beginning of the story of all stories. Yes, it’s a hard story with moments of pain and loss. But in the midst of this story, and in the midst of our stories, joy, hope, redemption, value, healing, adoption, peace.
Life. Abundant, everlasting life.
So I have hope. I have Christmas. And I am blessed.
FindingTheCourageToDream.com 