Feeling Apart

Feeling apart.

Do you have a part of you, you wish you could get away from?

If this resonates with you, know that it is also me. Know that it is everyone I’ve met and worked with.

I love my job and the people I work with. I work with high school youth every day and get to learn with them the beauty and complexity of our social, spiritual, emotional, intellectual, and physical beings. Practically this looks like shooting basketball trick shots, dancing to rap music, laughing way too much, listening to hardship, reminding youth of goals, home visitations, and crisis intervention. One of the reasons I love my work is because of the variety of environments and moments I get to be with youth. Present in the highs and the lows, in the downtown east side and on the top of Grouse Mountian. Yes, we go skiing. Did I mention I love my job?!

A common thing I try and do is invite youth to consider other people’s stories to help them place or give language to their own experiences. This narrative type of therapeutic intervention sometimes fails miserably and other times it works well, propelling people into further insight and self-awareness.

So without showing all my cards, here are two true stories.

Story 1.

Jarrod (*name has been changed to protect privacy) is sixteen. He’s funny and likes to share stories about his ridiculous co-workers. Jarrod can seem shy at first but grows to trust people quickly. I recently had a conversation with Jarrod and he was overwhelmed. Deadlines, family conflicts, and finances made sleep a stranger to him. His eyes held the weight of expectation, his words fought themselves by saying that he was trying and that he was not trying hard enough. But in the moment of our conversation, he was done. Ready to block out the world and give up. He was considering ending his life.

At that moment, I felt how badly he wanted to feel differently. He desperately wanted the part of him that overthinks and is stressed to disappear.

As a support in his life, it would be unprofessional, unhelpful, and hurtful if I said something like this…

• Hey man, this is too much. Could we spend time together when you are feeling better?
• You’re way less fun to be around when you’re depressed like this.
• Thanks for sharing but it doesn’t look like you’re trying hard enough to change.

I feel cold and ruthless just writing that. Of course, those things should never be said to anyone.

Story 2.

I recently had a conversation with someone that left me feeling unheard, hurt, and ashamed. The majority of the week I had been caring for others and really felt like this was going to be a time when I could share some things that were difficult for me. I left feeling disappointed and questioning my value. I hated feeling like I was not enough, I was ashamed of the part of me that wanted to be cared for.

I knew I wanted to feel different. But guess how I responded to my feelings of disappointment and loneliness…

• Andrew why are you feeling hurt, I hate it when we feel like this. Get over it.
• Andrew, no one wants to be around you when you are like this.
• It’s not helping anything by feeling hurt, try harder to not let this happen.

What!? The very phrases I would never even consider saying to one of my youth are the phrases I said and routinely say to myself.

Maybe you can relate.

Do you have a part you wish you could get away from?
Do you treat that part of you like an ignorant, unprofessional youth worker?

I’ve spent the greater part of 25 years trying to get away from the parts of me that I don’t like. Trying to ignore the parts of me that others ignore. Making enemies of the parts of me that others have waged war against. It’s an exhausting cycle, trying to hate the person that walks around with you every day.

I know I don’t need to tell you that hate does not bring healing. It never will.

I’m slowly learning how to be the me that I am to my students, to me in the second story. To be someone who listens, creates space, and is compassionate towards all parts and feelings that may come up on a given day. And of course, there will be days where I fail miserably and other days where I’ll succeed. But always choosing to be present with each part in the highs and lows. Although it is daunting, I can begin to heal when I can be with what I feel. Not exiling, not shaming, not getting angry at what I feel. Just being with.

Okay, one more story.

This one is different than Jarrod’s and mine because He was perfect in every way. Every part is in harmony. The creator of life. Set apart from all of creation. Creation separated and grew apart from him, but he saw our brokenness and pain.

And so God came.

He came down to earth in the fragility of a baby. He came to seek and to save, to touch and to heal, to be present with all parts of humanity. He came to show compassionate love and grace to the parts of us we’ve been trying to hate for 25, 45, 65 years. He came because he knew that we needed someone who would see all of who we are and it wouldn’t be too much. Our sickness and shame, our grief and anguish, is not too much.

He came because he wants to be close to you, even when you are apart.

Even if it is just a part of you that wants to believe God wants to be with you, listen to that part, maybe have a conversation with someone about what is coming up for you or send me a message.

If you are in the Vancouver area I’d invite you to check out Alpha to learn more about the God who wants to be with you.

In the Red Zone

I was driving down the road the other day. It was cold, the wind was high and would colour your cheeks red if you gave it the time. Nevertheless, the sun was out and it’s light filled the river with brilliant silver.

I was driving home along a less travelled road. One direction lead to the nearest town, the other direction lead to nowhere and nothing. 

I rounded the bend and saw two cars pulled over, hazard lights ablaze with one car on each shoulder. In the middle of the road was a man. His head stood about six feet tall. He wore brown pants, a large orange puff jacket, and he was desperately darting between each car. I slowed down and stopped behind the car pointed in my direction. Instantly, the man rushed over to my driver’s side window. As he did the other cars pulled back onto the road and drove off. I wound down the window in my red 2001 Toyota Corolla and said “hello”. The man placed his hand on the door framed, leaned in, and asked “please, can you give me a ride into town?” 

I looked at the urgency in his eyes, the redness of his cheeks and replied “for sure.” As he ran around the front of the car, I tossed my bag in the back seat and he jumped in. 

It did not take long for us to exchange names and start a conversation. He began to tell me about his off the grid home in the woods. He loves to be in nature and as such doesn’t get to see people that often. I explained to him that I love to work with people and don’t get to be the woods that often. He laughed and continued to tell me about how he got where he was. 

We pulled into the central gas station and I parked the car. We talked some more. I turned off the car. We talked some more. 

After he finished telling me about his life, he thanked me for the ride and invited me over to his off the grid trailer later that day. More than his desperation for a ride, he was desperate for someone. A someone to talk to who would listen, a someone who could be a friend. 

His desperation motivated his actions to come up to the car and hope that he would find someone who could give him what he needed. A ride, a conversation, a friend. 

On the same day I met my new friend, I also heard a story of a woman. It was cold, and she was out of the house in the middle of the road. She had an illness that caused constant bleeding, so she rarely left her home. She was known in the community only by her illness. Her clothes stained red, signaling others of the hazards of touching her. 

On this day, a man walked down the road just ahead of her. The people with him called him Teacher and Healer. In desperation she pushed her way through the people who stood as stiff as cedars. Closer and closer she grew until her hand was close enough to touch his cloak. And in her greatest act of desperation she reached out and touched the one called Healer. 

Instantly, she was healed. 

Often, we are so concerned about our self image that we are afraid to look desperate. Too ashamed of our weakness that we don’t want to be seen crying out for help.  We hide our red cheeks and our red clothes in the comfort of our homes.

But, I have found that the people who stand in the middle of the road meet people who offer rides. The people who are desperate enough to seek healing in front of their community are the people who find it. 

The people who ask acquire, because they position themselves in places to receive what they desperately desire. 

Who are you desperate for?

A someone? A friend? A healer?

Before He Was

Before his mom broke the bathroom door in desperation. Before her anxious eyes saw him hanging from the shower rod. He was planning.

Go to the garage, get the rope, tie the knot, left over right, lock the door, triple check the door is locked. Twelve minutes before mom gets home. Start the clock.

You see he was smart. He tripled checked all his plans would work, every detail aligned with what he’s heard and searched. He was determined not to make this an attempt, he couldn’t handle any more disappointments.  

But before he went to the garage, he was texting his friends. Their words piled up in red, notifying him that he would not be attending his thirteenth birthday party this year. His friends always singled him out. Somehow hurt was constantly tied to him.

You see he was consistent. He consistently got expelled, was in trouble, and kept people away from him. But before he was consistent, he was lonely.

Before his dad used to come home. Daily, his dad would wish him a good day. His mom would walk him to the corner of Gibsons and Oak Street before school. She would carefully watch as he walked the last block all by himself, and entered through the classroom doors. He was so grown up. But now, there were no more walks and no more room to grow up.

You see his dad left so long ago that he no longer occupies memories, let alone the house. He felt abandoned and was simply getting away from the loneliness.

Before death was an option, he used to depend on girls. Trying to take feelings that should be given. Trying to get away with someone who would stay. Before the fourth period, he would usually leave school. Walking back home along Oak street with a girl who was also trying to get away. Loving each other as empty houses before mom got home.

You see he was good at noticing when other people needed love. Hurt was familiar to him as the thoughts that reigned in his head.

Before he was sat down in a white-walled office and given a blister pack to help control his thoughts, he was in pain. But before he had words, he had pain. Abused by family from almost day one. They too, in need of love that stays. Long before he was medicated, he was trying to beat the pain.  

You see he was tough, but he wanted to cry. He was beaten but was breaking inside. He was mean, and he wanted to die.

But before he died, there was pain.
Before pain, he was lonely.
Before loneliness, he was left.
Before abandonment, he was an object of selfishness.
And before the abuse, he was Eithan.*

And even before he was Eithan.

God, he was Yours.

*In the past several years I have had dozens of conversations with youth who have tried to commit suicide or were planning to commit suicide. I encourage all of us to recognize the privilege we have of being a part of every child’s ‘before’ story. Yes, there is pain, loneliness, hurt, and abuse… So let’s enter into conversations with youth, take time to love them, even before the pain. And remember that there is a God who loves them so much more than you ever could, and He chooses us to be His hands and feet to kids like Eithan.

I Don’t Apologize

I recently made a new friend. We meet on my first day as a Student Intervention Worker for the New Brunswick School District. In my position, I get the privilege of interacting with many different youth in middle schools. Their experiences often exceed their age and their behaviours often succeed their pain.

But my friend is truly a great kid. He is brilliant. His poppin’ red shoes always match his vermilion snap-back. He loves to laugh and work with his hands. He is wildly creative and a clever storyteller. But unfortunately one of his role models also happens to be his drug dealer.

As he shared with me some details about his life, I would ask questions to try and better understand him and his situation. As the questions got deeper, his stories often ran out of steam and a dead-ended lie would cause the conversation to turn around. Each lie was like a puff of smoke, attempts to hide the cold reality from any onlookers. Every day I remind him that he doesn’t need to lie for me to like him. I like him regardless of what skateboard he has, what drugs he’s tried, or what experiences he’s had. But how do I blame him? It is easier to lie than to speak the truth. The truth is often a bitter reminder that what he has expected is so far gone it seems impossible to get it back.

In addition to lying, my friend has developed a history of noncompliance. That’s the politically correct way of saying that he chooses not to listen to anyone who has a different plan than his. He has tried, in the past, to meet the expectations of others. But has failed. Now it is easier to just not listen to the expectations in the first place. To simply ignore those invitations. This behaviour has become a habit and has numbed his ability to feel social consequences and hear expectations. Sadly, year after year his report cards say ‘failed to meet expectations’. But the reality is that it is not just him. It’s me and you too. In fact, there is a whole world of people who have consistently, year after year, failed to meet expectations.

Yesterday, my friend chose once again to disrespect a teacher. When we were out in the hall, I gave him the choice to work alone or to apologize to the teacher and rejoin the class. To that choice, he chuckled and stated ‘I don’t apologize’.

It is impossible for me to be too harsh with my friend because if I am honest, I am often the same. I continually lie to myself, to others, to God. I believe that pretending who I hoped to be is more likely to get me what I think I need, rather than truly sharing who I am. I orbit around other’s approval. Filling night skies with stories of smoke. In my own space, I grow numb to heavenly expectations, deaf to a divine calling. Then when confronted with my choices, I see no need to apologize. It is the ‘you do you, and I’ll do me’ culture. I don’t need to apologize because I don’t see why I need to.

Everyone has failed to meet expectations, but not everyone chooses to apologize. There is, however, one who has never failed. And He gave us himself so that we could truly live. A life beyond a life of lies. I am grateful that I have him with me like a Soul Intervention Worker who asks me hard questions, exposes the lies I believe and then gives me a chance to apologize. Then I can have life to the fullest.

So today I think I will learn from my friend and chose to apologize.

I am sorry.
Sorry I left. Sorry I lied. Sorry I chose not to listen. Sorry I fail to meet expectations again and again. Will you forgive me?

And in His perfect grace he responds
“I forgive you. And, I still like you. Regardless of your lies, failures, and the drugs you’ve tried. Remember, that my expectations were not placed so you could lie in your failure, rather so you could choose to live in my life.”

We Met Outside

I knew a man who was on the outside.

Not only did he live outside, but he was camped on the outside of society. Not often noticed. He would walk highways, searching for a place to lay his head. But no rest was found on the road. His heart like his home was also worn on the outside. Seen by anyone who would look. Each strand of his long grey beard was another story of pain, disappointment, and hurt. I met and left him on the road, outside of the city.

I knew a son who was on the outside.

He was outside his family and culture. An orphan, sitting outside his new home. He felt the sadness of loss, knew the bitterness of betrayal. His words were locked on the inside his brave heart, but his tears flowed freely on the outside. He had lost everything he knew. Left outside by his family. Then, I too, left him for the last time, as I walk outside to the airport.

I knew a boy who was on the outside.

He was outside because inside was not safe for him. His home was being used as a brothel, like a poison filled glass bottle for strange men. He was not safe, so his mission was to make others feel that way. On the outside he was a bully, on the inside his only friend was fear. He was to scared to let people in, so I too stayed where I met him. On the outside.

I knew a friend who was on the outside.

He lived outside by a creek, under some blackberry bushes. His tattoos told his stories of love, loss, and good intentions. The tape around his forearm does more than show his veins, it shows his struggle. When we first met I knew we would be friends because he was honest. Transparent as air. He called me his friend because I listened. He knew how to let people inside, even though he lived outside.

I knew a mother who was on the outside.

She was talking with the police outside her apartment. Her three beautiful children inside, surrounded by broken glass, and the incense of abuse from the night before. As I held her youngest, his shaking body stilled, then fell asleep. He was a picture of the outside. A violence storm in need of rest, in need of glassed waters.

I knew a woman who was on the outside.

Her 6th lover had just sent her to get water from a well outside the town. She was tired of looking for love. But soon everything changed. For it was outside the town where she met Him. The tired man who stopped for a rest. The seventh man. The one who would be her living water and eternal lover.

I know a Saviour who is on the outside.

A King who stepped outside of heaven to be with the people like me. When I go outside looking for rest, I find him there resting long before me. When I was broken, betrayed, scared and thirsty he met me. And instead of being far away, he chose to come close to me, to you, to everyone who has been on the outside.

Just Be Still

I have the absolute privilege of supporting a young boy living with autism. He is the cutest bundle of joy, with creativity that far surpasses mine. He has taught me immeasurably more than I could ever teach him. Every moment I get to spend with him is just such a gift. He has a limited vocabulary so often the most effective way of communicating with him is to give him options to choose from. Once he hears the options, he repeats the words of option that he needs or wants.

For example, when we are playing and it is time to transition to a meal I say “Do you want milk or water with your lunch?” And he replies “Yes, milk”. I look at him and quizzically respond “Please?”. He pauses, and then says “Yes, milk… please”.

This way of communicating works well for many reasons. Choices help people feel like they have some control, choices can help people take responsibility, and they can help create healthy patterns. He has learned these patterns well, he always expects similar options at similar times of the day. He noticed that everytime he has a choice it means that the current activity is coming to a close. Recently, however, he has learned the word “just”.

So now, when we are playing with cars and it is time to wash his hands. I ask “Do you want Andrew to wash his hands first or you?”. He looks at me, scrunches his lips, and defiantly says “No wash, just cars”. As if I was out of my mind even suggesting that we move on the something else. He knows exactly where he wants to be and what he wants to be doing. Just cars. Or depending on the day it could be just hockey or just TV.

Just, is his way of communicating that there is nowhere in the world he would rather be than where he is doing what he is doing.

Just.

• 

When I look at my life I see the multitudes of options presented to me each day. From the people I choose to be with or the clothes I choose to wear, to the classes I choose to be in or the books I choose to sit on my desk. We all have a lot of choices. And it feels sometimes if you don’t make a choice you may miss out on both the milk and the water. If I don’t choose now it may be too late to choose later.

Jobs, relationships, vocation and vacations, we all have choices to make. But how many “Just” moments do we have.

How many moments do we have where we know that we are exactly where we are meant to be? Just being all you are in perfect justness.

I recently had a just moment.

I was sitting on cold stones by the edge of a brook. Its smooth water sounded like the turning of pages in a picture book. I gazed into the stained glass pool. Flashes of silver fish reflected the last of the fading sun. A tiny bat endlessly darted from fly to fly above. The fire beside me cast out heat causing the rocks to sweat and the fish to dance all the more. And in the embrace of that moment, I heard the invitation to “Just be still”.

Just be still.

Don’t rush on to the next choice. Don’t fear missing out on all of life’s could be’s. Don’t spend your whole life living as if tomorrow was today.

Just be here, just be still.

Sometimes We Don’t Understand

Sometimes fewer words
Are better
Sometimes we need to see
Before we can understand
These are some times

Sometimes we need to change
At least, we can change our definition
At most, our lives
To surrender our ears to silence
And to open our eyes to gaze

For in the beginning was the Word
But when He speaks
Do we hear syllables and vowels
Or do we see the heavens, the waters
and the winds that howl?

Sometimes we don’t understand
The Lord, Mighty God, King of Kings
That is His name
Yet, we see Him on a cross, the spotless lamb
Dripping in blood – slain

But Love is light
And light is seen
So in the darkest moment of his story
And the quietest moments of mine
Love shines the loudest

His death shouts life
His tomb screams victory
His scars speak healing

Even still
Sometimes we don’t understand
The language of love
We don’t understand the Word

For when he says “be strong” it will sound like restful days off
Or  “stay steadfast” will be articulated in doctors calls
Or the words “ do not fear” will be whispered in the presence of friends

What if the words we are waiting to hear
Arrive to our hearts through our eyes
And not our ears

Sometimes I think I am beginning to understand
That God’s faithfulness are novels etched on mountain stone
Songs of His delight sync within a child’s smile
His forgiveness in the setting sun

Sometimes when God speaks
Fewer words are better
For sometimes
My eyes have to hear
Before my heart can
Understand

Get Lit

You know when things just have to be real in order to be good?

Maybe for you, it is Starbucks coffee or a particular kind of chocolate or it has to be the real Nike shoes; none of this knockoff business.

For me, it is fires.

This morning I sat in front of an electric fireplace. It was six feet long with a perfectly square black border. So perfect I took a picture.

I stared for quite some time at the flashes of blue and yellow lights. I at first thought they were random. But if you tap your finger to the song “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles)” by The Proclaimers, every four times you tap your finger pattern would repeat. Flashing lights, quite the show.

Apart from the consistency of the electric fire, there was also no heat, no campfire smoky smell and I could not poke the nearest object in and out of the fire.

Imposter, fake, liar.

These amongst other names came to mind as I stared at it in disappointment.

However, I was determined not to live in this state of electric disappointment. Inspired, I gathered all the flammable things in my basement suite, loaded the car and headed to the river.

It was time for the real thing!

I walked past the people sitting in their cars carrying a cacophony of cardboard in my arms. My garage sale self soon found a private cove on the riverside. With a strike of the match, all my hopes were fulfilled.

The fire danced from my old assignments to my cardboard box of Mini-Wheats. Rising, swirling, leaping. My singed arm hairs can testify to the unpredictable nature of the real fire. It was perfect.

Unlike my experience this morning, my riverside fire had lots of heat. I curled my body around the pile of flames, to receive its warmth and watch it’s wonder in yellow and blue.

I was able to stack sticks and leaves and anything else that was with my reach in the fire. Slowly but surely the fire consumed it all. Why couldn’t all fires be like this?

If I am honest, I did like the electric fire at first. It was clean, even-tempered, and predictable. I could control the brightness and turn it off in an instant. It gave me all the control I wanted with none of the risks of having a real fire inside a building. Though it lied to me, it wanted me to believe it was real.

Ironically it’s fakeness is exactly what drove me to the real thing.

Uncontained, uncontrolled, so much more than flashing lights. That is what I want in my life. To live with a fire that dances to 500 miles unpredictably, is undeniably risky, and absolutely real.

Given a Concussion

I recently received a sports-related concussion.

I know, what a headache in the middle of school and work.

My concussion has resulted in many challenges such as forgetting meetings and burning food. And then there are the painful headaches caused by overthinking and exercise – both of which I do quite often. Consequently, I decided to leave the city this morning to spend some time reflecting.

I walked along the shore of a lake. Just me and the birds. Sand pressed beneath me and stuck to my tread and the next rock scraped off the new layer of my shoe. The grey sky was a perfect canvas for my thoughts.

I took my time because there was no pressure to out walk the trees. And then I remembered that I forgot to take my concussion medication this morning. Did I mention I have been forgetting things? The medication was prescribed by my doctor who did his thesis on concussions and with great care, he provided me with helpful information, a note, and a prescription. The medication is to reduce the swelling in my head and help with the headaches. The note was for my professors explaining why I am unable to do my homework. These were two great gifts that made this past week less challenging than it could have been.

I paused before stepping over a fallen tree along my path.

The more I work in the field of social work, the more I learn about people and where to get legal and illegal ‘medicine’. It is difficult for me to support people who turn away from their doctor’s advice and take matters into their own hands. I could have taken street-meds and simply skipped my classes with possibly similar results. Either way, I would have taken things that had been given to me. The only difference was that I went to my doctor instead of the guy downtown.

A pair of eagles soared by honourably interrupting my painting.

A few weeks ago, I had supper with a WWII veteran. He told me about a time when he was in a POW camp in Russia. One day a Russian man came into the camp and asked if any of the prisoners knew how to fix tractors. My friend had farm experience and so he spoke up. After that, he would daily give of his mechanical abilities to repair broken machinery on this man’s farm. He was well fed by the farmer. So, every night before returning to the POW camp, he would hide his extra bread to give to the other prisoners. He was able to do the mechanical work, and therefore he was able to give bread to hundreds of men over his time working on the farm.

I am thankful for people who share their bread and who give of their lives.

In the same way, my doctor knew exactly what I needed and so I went to him to give me the things I needed. But so often in my life, I go to the wrong people for things I need. I try to take from people or things what they are not able to provide. I want them to give me what I think I need.

I forget to whom I should go.

It could be the concussion condition, but it is probably just the human condition.

Man carries 50lb rock up a mountain?!

I am lucky if I get my 10,000 steps in for the day. And by no means am I a fitness or outdoorsy guy. But in the past month, I have hiked over 100km. That is 50km uphill, sometimes straight up, and 50km downhill. And I know for those older than the internet, these hikes were probably uphill both ways.

On some of these adventures, it was more like doing stairs for 10km straight up rather than a hike. My untrained muscles would shake and my head would tell my body to give up. There were countless moments where I wanted to stop and go back down.

Before each hike I usually set a goal for where I want to end up, normally it is the top of a mountain. This goal gives me hope as a struggle up the trail. I envision the panoramic views and talk to myself “The mountain has a top, it has to… you can do it”.

I often get to talk to people about hope as a fundamental human need. Hope may feel like an abstract concept but all it is is a confident expectation. I expect to get better, for things to change, for healing, for the truth. For hiking, it is the expectation to reach the top. For Christians, it is a confident expectation in the fulfilment of who God is and what he said he will do. There is a lot to hope for in life.

However, I can not hope my way to the top of any mountain. I need the left-right, left-rights of life to move forward. My expectations of where I wanted to be, will not be enough to get me there. So I wonder what is it that keeps us going up the mountain? What leads us to our hope?

Wonder.

Wonder is a human need that I often forget about. In our hyper-visually stimulated world, hardly anything is left up to our imagination. We are not good at wondering about things we can not know.

For me, wonder is looking up at the mountains and thinking about how slow they grow. Its exchanging fingerprints with a passing tree. Wondering who organized the race of water running into a mountain top lake. Wonder energizes me to skip up the rocks so I can peek around the next corner. I hope I get to the top of the mountain, but I wonder what I will see. I wonder what colours the horizon will be wearing and how the wind will feel.

As I was hiking last week, I realized that I had forgotten how to wonder. I forgot how to just stare in awe at God. How to wonder at his plans, his goodness, his grace and mercy. What distracted me from wonder?

Rocks.

It is not normal for me to hike with 50lb rocks but the last time I did. I picked up a huge rock and began to walk. My sweat tripled in volume as well as my tennis-like grunts. The left-right, left rights slowed almost instantly. Not only was the rock extremely heavy, but I realized that all my attention and focus was solely on carrying the rock. I quickly lost all my motivation, and I wanted to quit. My wonder vanished and instead of feeling excited about the next corner, I felt weak and powerless.

I had to stop, there was just no way I could do it. I was scared, I thought if I stopped I would never be able to start walking again. If I stopped then what I was carrying would crush me. In exhaustion, I collapsed in the dirt.

Why am I carrying this rock, if I know that my hope of getting to the top of a mountain does not require me to haul a rock 7km up a mountain?

Why do we carry things we don’t have to?

Because if we reach the top then we get all the praise for doing something impossible. And if we can’t reach our goal then we have an excuse to give up. If we don’t make it there is no wonder why. But then we begin to question if we ever really hoped to make it to the top in the first place. How could we have hope if we chose to carry excuses about why we can’t. Our hope loses its conviction when we carry rocks. Our wonder is squandered.

Is it really better to know why you failed, then to have no excuse not to succeed?

No, but this is a tension in my heart. Jesus died and rose again so that I could have hope to live with him forever. His grace leaves no room for my excuses. He is the hope that doesn’t require me to carry rocks.

He is the wonder that walks with me with every left-right in this life.

Drop the rocks.