When We Don't Have the Words

"I wish I knew what to tell you." I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say this, or something like this, to me. It's usually happened during times I was with a friend and carrying a heavy burden.

These friends would sit across the table from me, or next to me on the couch or in the car, or over the phone. They'd say different versions of the same sentiment:

"I don't have any great advice for you."

"I'm sorry I don't have anything better to say to you."

"I don't have any answers for you."

"I don't think there's anything I can tell you to make this better."

Every time, I'd look at them, smile, and say, "I know. And I didn't expect you to."

When I look back on those times, it's not some sage advice, some powerful maxim, some quotable proverb that I remember or appreciate.

It was simply that friend's presence.

It was that they were there with me, they had taken the time to hear me and see my pain. That made all the difference in the world. I didn't need anything more from them. I didn't need them to bear the responsibility of shining a bright light with the perfect words. Simply sitting with me kept the darkness at bay.

So don't feel bad when you're sitting there with a friend who's going through stuff and you don't have all the right words to say.

The fact that you're sitting there is already enough.

Flickr photo ©2010 ...storrao...

Politics and Controversy: Can We Do Better?

I don't like to delve into politics too much. It's not that I don't follow them; I do. It's not that I don't think about them or discuss them with friends; I do.

But sometimes I get so tired of what politics and controversial topics in general have done to my friends and family. And I'm exhausted by what it's done to my Facebook and Twitter feeds. People arguing, people name-calling, people standing on soap boxes, people saying things like "It had to be said," people posting links to "the best article ever written on this issue."

And nobody's mind being changed.

And a wake of anger, frustration, and hurt feelings left behind.

I dream of something better than that. There has to be some other way to live and interact with each other. What follows are two areas which, if we can be honest with ourselves and change our thinking/tactics, will allow us to begin to do this "life" thing a little better.

Media

For as much as our society has progressed and developed, for as much knowledge and awareness we (should) have because of the internet, our current media climate isn't too far removed from the days of "yellow journalism" during the Spanish-American War. We're moved by flashy headlines, catchy tweets, faux journalists who can sit around a table and argue with each other, and labels and buzz words like "the one percent," "the war on terror," "obamacare," "lamestream media," "toxic politics," "big government," "conservative," and "liberal."

It's gotten to the point where someone can tell me their views, and I can usually tell which TV stations, websites, and personalities they listen to. (And if you say, "I watch/read stuff from a bunch of places," I'll respond, "But I know which ones you actually listen to.")

While we're quick to point out the biases of the news outlets and TV stations of the "enemy camp," we should all understand this: As much as we want to believe that the media sources (companies AND people) we follow have integrity and care about us and this country, they are all first and foremost businesses and money-makers.

They don't put bread on the table unless they have viewers, listeners, and followers. Just like advertisers work tirelessly to cater a company's image and message to appeal to their target audiences, so do media outlets, and so do media personalities. They may have some true convictions, yes. Then again, maybe they don't. Glenn Beck knows what you want to hear. Rush Limbaugh knows what you want to hear. Jon Stewart knows what you want to hear. They're all skilled, talented communicators with skilled, talented teams around them who know exactly how to pluck the right strings of their audience (us).

For example, when someone says that the White House is waging an all-out war on religion, that's not an accurate statement by any standard of truth. It's rhetoric being used very intentionally to manipulate people. We don't like when something we love has come under attack--and so we respond and rally around anyone willing to stand up for us (insert news station/website/personality). If our government was waging an "all-out war" on religion, we would know. It looks a lot like people dying or going to prison.

Don't underestimate the power of language--it can bring life to people, it can shine light into dark places, and it can let someone play us like a fiddle.

We're all recipients of that life and light at some point. We're all susceptible to being played, as well.

Additionally, even if we think a news report is well-researched and fairly presented, the fact is this: the media decides what is news and what is not, and therefore is biased. This is why, all of a sudden, tons of people suddenly care about children being abducted in Africa--as if it hasn't been going on for decades. This is why people suddenly think a new Benghazi investigation is the most important political issue right now. It's not that these issues aren't important, but they reveal the sway that media and politicians have over what we get worked up about.

Social Media

For me, the saddest part of the way we deal with politics and difficult issues is what we're doing to each other. I have a friend who, last week, said it better than I can:

It breaks my heart to hear the way people talk about controversial topics in our culture: no regard for the humanity of anyone involved.

We've prioritized our stances, views, even our convictions over the people in our lives. I'll thank social media for this one. We post links to articles that represent one side of a divisive, controversial, or difficult issue and preface them only by saying, "THIS." or "YES."

We post statuses or tweets that say things like, "I don't know how anybody could ever <fill in the blank>" or "Wake up, people--<condescendingly insert some "truth" that the rest of us are too stupid to know but you probably heard it from Fox News or MSNBC>."

We post things that blast Republicans. As if we don't have Republican friends and family reading.

We post things that blast Democrats. As if we don't have Democratic friends and family reading.

We post things that blast gay people. As if we don't have gay friends and family reading.

We post things that blast Christians. As if we don't have Christian friends and family reading.

We post things that blast atheists. As if we don't have atheist friends and family reading.

We post things that blast poor people. As if we don't have poor friends and family reading.

We post things that blast wealthy. As if we don't have wealthy friends and family reading.

As if there isn't blood and flesh and heart and spirit on the other side of the screen reading our words.

As if making a point or being right is more important than finding ways to pull our friends and family closer together.

As if our hastily typed 140 characters on Twitter or our thoughtless rants on Facebook are the most tactful ways we could express our thoughts.

I blame social media because (generally speaking) I don't see the same blunt, I-don't-care-how-this-comes-off approach people take online when I'm with them in person. When we see someone's face, when we look into their eyes, when we're able to physically witness the pain we would cause them with our words, we're suddenly much more careful with what we say.

And that's a good thing.

***

Forgive me for believing that we can do better. We can find better ways to believe what we believe, to follow our convictions, to express ourselves, and to disagree about all of it.

Can we start by acknowledging that we're all probably at least a little right, and a little wrong? That from time to time, we all get sucked into the current of what our politicians or media want us to get sucked into?

Can we start by committing to care more about each other than being right? By recognizing that our words have a powerful impact on each other and that requires we treat them with the gravity and responsibility they demand?

Can we let love move us, guide us, and dictate what we say and what we care about?

Maybe the current is already too strong to turn back. Maybe we don't change the world with this approach. But I know I would love to see my little world of a handful people show each other that we don't have to play along.

Would you join me?

I See You

To my friends who are parents or have wanted to be parents and have tasted the loss of a child or children, directly or indirectly.

I want you to know that I have no way of knowing or understanding the depths of your loss. That I have no advice or prescriptions or platitudes for you. No fixes. No solutions.

I want to simply say that I see you.

I see you, and I know that you sport a certain scar that will never fully leave, whether it's been months or decades.

You carry with you something you let very few of us see.

The grief of hopes and expectations frozen in place.

The whiplash in your neck from moving with such great anticipation of life to halting to a stop in the void of it.

The fear, the anxiety, the dread of the thought of trying again.

The moments, days, even seasons of canyons and chasms between you and your partner as you each deal in your own ways.

The knot in your stomach, the gritted teeth when someone asks you why you haven't had kids, or another kid, yet.

The white-hot fire that flares up which you keep under control when someone suggests you are selfish for not having kids.

The frustration you feel when you read yet another news story of someone who abuses their privilege as a parent while you are still left without.

The dagger that sticks you as you read another post of a happy couple with the happy news you wanted to have.

The shame that constricts your chest for feeling jealous of those couples.

The little things--a date on the calendar, a scent, a line in a movie, an item in the grocery store, a family at the park, a balloon, a sound, a song, the family picture that could be three instead of two, four instead of three--that bring your grief rushing back momentarily like brain freeze.

The nights of restlessness.

The feeling of powerlessness.

The questions.

The doubts.

The anger.

The sorrow.

The hundreds of little things that I and most other people in your life will never see, hear, or know.

Even with those secrets, I see you. I see you carry all of it. I see this part of your story.

I want you to know that when I see you, I see strength. Even if you haven't felt strong, you are. And you blow my mind.

I see life. I see life in you and the way you love people. I see life around you in the way people love you because of who you are. I see life ahead of you because there is so much in store for you.

With all your joy and grief,

your laughter and hidden tears,

your hope and anxiety,

your strength and your scars,

I see you.

Here Comes the Sun

Winter has stayed a bit too long this year, can't we all agree?

Instead of the silent wonder we felt as we turned our faces up to the sky and first let the wet crystal flakes come to rest on our rosy cheeks, we only remember the muck and slush of the aftermath of one too many blizzards. The back-breaking weight of hundreds, maybe thousands of shovel-scoops thrown to either side of us.

Instead of the novelty of wrapping our necks in soft scarves, the warm invincibility of layers built of jackets on cardigans on Henleys on V-necks, there's only the sharp sting of cold floorboards on the naked, bed-softened soles of our feet as we climb out of bed in the morning.

Instead of soul-warming chai lattes, we think only of rain that falls sideways and scrapes its cold fingers along our bones.

Instead of the glow of family gatherings, we think only of the loneliest moments in our car as we shiver waiting for the heat to work.

Instead of Christmas lights and snow as white as our smiles, we think only of short days and longer nights.

It's like our spirits are covered in a crusty layer of salt. We're tired of it.

But today...today is different. Can you feel it, too?

My breath leaves my mouth in slowly spinning strings of white. They dance and disappear into the cold air. I like to think they'll travel to faraway places, like New Zealand, and come back to me years from now in a warm breeze to say, "You haven't even begun to taste life."

Slight chill aside, the air stirs with something warm, bright, fresh. It smells like evaporated rain, like slow-cooking hope.

And there it is.

The whole sky above slowly fades up from black to pale, pure blue. I look at the horizon, at the edge of the earth where the tree lines stand as the levees which keep all of our angst and worries and stress and longing from spilling out endlessly into the rest of the world. Just above those trees, the sky blooms with deep violet.

Soon, violet will turn crimson. And then it will come:

The sun.

But not like it's come up for the last hundred-or-so days. Not winter sun. This is spring sun.

This is the sun that will plunge its hands deep into the earth and hold them there until the ground stops shivering beneath our feet and begins to feel the relaxing waves of warmth move through its tissue.

I can almost hear life pushing itself out of the ground at the mere thought of it.

This is the sun that will rest its rays on the back of your neck as you enjoy your chicken-salad-sandwich lunch outside for the first time in months.

This is the sun that will set your kids' hair ablaze with gold as you do the important work of absolutely nothing but fun in the backyard.

This is the sun that will come to your window like Peter Pan came to Wendy's and beckon you to fly away on some new adventure, to let your age and responsibilities and cares fall haplessly to the tiny streets of London far, far below.

This is the sun that will weave its way through the barbed wire you've wrapped around your ribs, soak straight through the stone you've laid up around your heart, and cause new flowers to burst out of the barren ground you thought was done with love and hope and life.

Can you feel it like I do?

Can you feel it picking the cold, dead air from your skin?

This is the spring sun. This is hope. This is new life.

Here it comes.

I'm Not Saving Myself

It's 6 a.m. I'm leaving for work.

I walk out of the front door into the morning air. The cold immediately coils itself around my ankles, my wrists, my neck, my face. The breath escapes my mouth like constantly curling fingers. It's mostly dark, but the edge of the horizon has started to burn and glow with the deep red of sunrise. As I make my way to the car, a flash of purple in the midst of all the gray and brown catches my eye.

A handful of spring flowers have popped out of the earth around the mailbox. I stop and stare at them. Even in the low light of dawn, they seem to shine bright. I stand there with the flowers, all of us shivering in the cold, and all of us quietly saying the same thing:

Spring, we're longing for you, desperate for you to come.

***

It's been a long winter--too long. In more ways than one. I don't recall ever needing spring as urgently as I have recently. I'm weary of this season, and I'm ready to move on to the next one.

Speaking of transition, I'm at a weird spot, friends.

Let me be honest--when I got married at 22, there was absolutely a feeling of relief: Oh, thank God I found my person. I do NOT want to be one of those people still looking when I'm 30. Every person who finally meets their love and walks down the aisle with them feels this, too: an overwhelmingly freeing sense that you dodged the struggling-single-person bullet. Come on, married people. You've been there.

I was there. I've felt it. I thought I was in the clear, that my worst fears about being single and alone were all but buried in the grave.

Hold the phone.

I'm in my late twenties, and I'm single again. Back to square one. Much like the characters in almost every single story the boys in my 7th grade classes write, the fear of being single and alone has come back to life, full zombie mode. Trust me--I would love nothing more than to not worry about this, not think about it, put my head down, and focus on how awesome single life can be. (And so much of it can be.)

But I do think about it. I don't live a normal life, but I have normal desires. I don't know how to reconcile those two.

My "bachelor" existence is a unique one--I'm newly single at 29, have a professional teaching career, and am a visible leader at a church of 1,400-plus people--which all means that my life is constantly under the microscope, there's hardly any public place where I'm not going to be recognized, and best/worst of all--people have supreme trust in me. People trust me with the well-being of their kids. People trust me to do my job well. People trust me as a leader. People trust me with their personal and spiritual baggage and journeys. People trust me to do the right things.

It's heavy, man. Every day, I feel insanely blessed to do what I do and have the life I live. And every day, I feel insanely burdened with the responsibility that comes with it all.

Here's a secret: I have no idea what I'm doing or how to handle it.

People who are not me have all kinds of opinions about how I should proceed with my life at this point, especially regarding the love department. If I'm really honest, I have a huge temptation to lift my holy hands up to everyone--with only two fingers raised. Know what I mean? I won't--but there are times I want to. Part of this process has involved me learning how to tune out all the noise, the voices, the opinions, the judgment. Fortunately, I have a tight team of really wise, insightful, and loving friends whom I trust with my life and who remind me what's okay to feel and what I might want to avoid. I owe a great deal to them.

There are also the friends who tell me, "You'll definitely find love again." While I appreciate the heart behind that sentiment, the truth is this: I have no guarantees about my future. Nowhere in life's rules does it state that I'm entitled to a When-Harry-Met-Sally happy ending. Good people are not promised good love lives. That leaves me conflicted. There's a part of me that's excited for the unknown, the adventure of it all. There's another part of me that has a natural desire for love. It's really easy for me to want to find a channel for that desire.

The way I see it, I essentially have three options:

1. Sit around while I hope and pray I find "real love." Which is like watching a pot of water boil. Which leads to impatience, which leads to frustration, which leads to a marathon of How I Met Your Mother, but only the episodes where Ted meets Victoria (a.k.a. depression).
2. Make it happen, Cap'n! I could jump into the first and easiest opportunities that pop up for relationships. The path(s) of least resistance. I could find myself in places I swore I'd never go looking for people (which, for me, is almost everywhere). Or to quote Death Cab, "This is the sound of settling." Bah-bah, bah-bah...

These first two don't sit well with me. The major risk I'd run (and it's not the only one) is this: I'd play into the idea that I should be saving myself, my energy, my creativity, my love for some hypothetical person or situation that may never come along.

It's easy to do. I already find myself doing it. One of my biggest problems is that I take my closest friends for granted sometimes and expend little energy to love them well--I'm short with them, I'm not fully present when I'm with them, I don't ask thoughtful questions or listen to them closely enough, I treat them like they're automatic, like they're a given in my life. I treat them in those ways, but then I think I'll magically be able to pull it all together for some pretend person I'll meet someday.

I'd be wrong.

But there's a better way, a third option, and it's a message that has been slowly sinking in for the last couple of months: Do not save myself for some hypothetical future. Love well now.

I'm prepared for the possibility that I could be single for the rest of my life. It's not what I want, but I acknowledge that it could happen. I'm not guaranteed another shot at romantic love. Heck, I'm not even guaranteed next week or tomorrow. What is guaranteed is today and the people I have in my life right now. Those people--my friends, my family, my coworkers, my students--they deserve everything I have.

I'm not going to set aside love in some reserve account--love gains no interest while it sits. Love is meant to be spent now.

The best thing I can do with my life is to love the people in it well. In every way I know how, with everything I have. There's no time to worry about next week or next fall or 2015. There is only now. I don't want to look back on this period of my life and realize that I spent it worrying and sitting on my haunches, that I wasted months or years longing instead of doing.

I have no strategy to my life other than that right now: love well. Don't hold back. Don't wait for life like it's a delayed train because I'm already on that train, and it's moving fast. I can't worry about where it will take me tomorrow. I want to make sure I don't miss what's right in front of me. Today. Now.

***

I roll the windows of my car down and let the breeze fill my car with warm air. Even through the dark tint of my sunglasses, the sun makes me squint my eyes as it floods my car with light.

It finally feels like spring, even if only for a day. It's enough to make me smile as I pull out of the parking lot and head home. It's enough that I finally feel my bones, my spirit, my heart thawing out. It's enough for now.