Month: June 2018

Yesterday I started reading a novel about the spiritual journey that references the Chartres labyrinth. (If you’re not familiar with the labyrinth, be sure to Google it.) There is a replica of the labyrinth at a church near my home, so I decided to stop by there during my sunrise bike ride this morning.

I kept hearing a word during my bike ride.

Unlearning.

Unlearning is often the most diffcult part of learning. In order to develop new habits and ways of thinking, we must also unlearn the destructive and unhealthy aspects of our life we have already developed. This word was on my mind as I arrived at the labyrinth.

Entering the labyrinth, I thought about my life. Things that happened to me. Decisions I made. Actions I have taken. Big and small events that have shaped my life. Walking along the path, I reflected on the twists and turns of my journey.

Arriving at the center, I reflected on who I have been, who I am today, and who I would like to be, asking myself, how can I unlearn what needs to be elimated from my life?

Standing to walk the path back to the start of the labyrinth, it hit me. Maybe one of the ways to unlearn is by gaining a different perspective on the path that led you to this point. Stepping back onto the path, I noticed my view is different from when I walked in. Could it be I need to look back at my life with fresh eyes and look for opportunties to heal and grow rather than feel condemnation? Can I view moments of regret with new eyes and open a doorway to a second chance? Will I embrace moments of death and seek resurrection?

Two things happened on my walk back that I cannot explain. First, at the start of my journey out of the labyrinth, a gentle rain began to fall. It felt as though drops of grace, mercy, love, and Shalom were coming down to heal and calm my soul. In that moment, I was reminded that the Creator desires healing and wholeness, redemption and renewal.

As I continued walking, something else happened. A crow landed on a nearby tree and began crowing. Crows often represent death or bad luck in literature and myth. The foreboding sound of the crow continued for minutes, cutting through the thick morning air, a reminder that unknowing can be difficult and often requires something to die. A story we tell ourselves. A way of thinking. A relationship. A habit. Or something else holding us back from growth.

The crow also reminded me not to give up on the journey. As I took my final step out of the labyrinth, the crow left its perch and quietly flew away. Risk is always inherent in growth and change, but we must never give up.

One last reflection from my walk. Just like walking the Chartres labyrinth, where you find yourselt at any given moment can be deceiving. There were moments I appeared to be far from the end, but in reality I was getting closer with every step. We must learn to trust the journey and unlearn those things which mislead us.

Every day, I seek not only to learn, but to unlearn. To move on from some things in my life to create room for what is better. The journey will seldom be easy, but the struggle will bring healing and wholeness. I am thankful for that reminder early this morning.

This is my 49th year as a son, my 18th year as dad, and my 4th year without my dad. While I don’t remember the day I was born, I remember the day I became a dad and the day I lost my dad. I remember standing in the delivery room as a baby boy entered the world, let out a cry, and changed my life forever. I also remember the day I held my dad’s hand, told him I loved him, and watched him take his last breath.

Fatherhood is not about overpriced greeting cards, a cookout, or a tie. Unfortunately, our consumer culture has seemed to transform the celebration of dads into another reason to spend money.

Fatherhood is a messy, challenging, fulfilling, and wonderful journey. It calls us to face our weaknesses and embrace our fears. It forces us to look inside ourselves and think deeply about who we are. I have learned that much of how my son thinks, speaks, and acts has been shaped by me. Looking back on my life, I know the same is true for my dad and me.

This means it all can get passed down, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. For every quick-witted joke, there can be words delivered without gentleness. Acts of compassion may be accompanied by flashes of impatience. Love for knowledge is tempered by addiction to technology.

I don’t pretend to think I’ve done it all right. I look back and see plenty of places where I dropped the ball as a dad. Things I should have said and done and things I shouldn’t have. Behaviors and attitudes I wish I hadn’t passed on, and others that make me proud.

We are all products of our parents and, for those of us who are parents, our children are products of us. This captures the beauty and fear found in fatherhood; you have a profound impact on who your child becomes.

As I look back over my journey as a son and father, I see joy and sorrow, goodness and brokenness. I see places where struggles and strengths have been handed down.

This requires us to turn to grace. Grace for our dads where they fell short. Dads, grace for ourselves where we’ve screwed up. And grace for our children as they sort out this adventure called life.

I must remind myself constantly that many of the things my son does that drive me crazy, he might well have learned from me. I’m sure that this same correlation is true between my dad and me. When we can embrace the fact that we are all broken, we can find a little more patience, show a little more kindness, and exhibit the kind of love we wish we could show every day.

I have struggled with feeling unworthy and unlovable most of my life (I’ll tackle that topic in future posts). This unworthiness often causes patience to erode quickly. Over the last few years this revelation has helped me learn why I’ve always been so impatient.

These last few weeks, my patience has been tested as I have faced unworthiness dead in the face. The voices shouting inside my head, telling me over and over I’m never enough…

In 1 Kings 19, the Lord appears to Elijah, not as a wind, an earthquake, or a fire, but rather, as a gentle whisper. This week, in the midst of the winds, earthquakes, and fires in my mind, the Lord spoke quietly… through a glass of wine.

It got me thinking about how fine wine is made:
It must be allowed to ferment.
It requires time to age.
Pop the cork too early and you may miss out on the rich flavor.

Life, like wine, can be rich and wonderful, but it requires patience.

I must be patient with myself, never forgetting I am work in progress, a broken, weary traveler on this journey called life. Healing from years of difficulty will not come overnight.

I must be patient with others. They too are broken, weary travelers. They have also experienced pain, grief, loss, and a host of other challenges. Their healing will not come overnight either.

I must be patient with the process. Like making fine wine, life often takes time. It calls us to stop trying to hustle and be still. To listen for the still, small voice in the silence. To wait.

We don’t always know what the wine will taste like when we pop the cork, but if the ingredients are of high quality, the waiting is worth it.

I still struggle with feeling unworthy and unlovable, but this week, in the midst of a storm, that whispering voice reminded me that a rich life cannot be hustled. Like fine wine, it must slowly and patiently be prepared until the time it can be poured out and enjoyed.

Space, the final frontier… These words of Captain James T. Kirk were heard at the start of every episode of Star Trek. In the years since that show premiered, humans have gone into space, walked on the moon, visited Mars, and sent probes to the edges of the solar system.

As technology has taken us into space as explorers, techonology has also invaded our space.

When was the last time you went out to dinner, sat at a social gathering, or went pretty much anywhere else where there weren’t at least a few people with necks bent down, peering into a small box in their hand?

Confession time: I am often the one doing the peering.

Before it seems I am yet another person bemoaning the evils of smartphones, let’s be fair. There are many benefits of this technology. How else would I be able to figure out whether someone is saying Laurel or Yanny?

Seriously though, there are benefits to smart phones. Lives have been saved, people have made positive contributions to the world, and much good has been done thanks to these advances in technology.

But like most things, it has a dark side, an underbelly we often ignore, refuse to acknowledge, or simply don’t care about.

One of our biggest threats is the elimination of space. Not necessarily physical space, but emotional, mental, relational, and spiritual space. The places where intimacy, vulnerability, and reflection do their greatest work.

If I am busy scrolling down my news feed, I can ignore the feelings of regret, shame, anger, and disappointment.

If I am texting whoever I can think of, I am neglecting my ability to embrace solitude due to my fear of loneliness.

If I am checking email, I can bury those emotions I just want to forget.

If I am playing a game, I can rob myself of time to unleash my own imagination and creativity.

When these things invade our space, they invade our humanity. I am not trying to blame all school violence on smartphones, but, how much anger has been built up and undealt with due to disconnectedness? How many people have been ignored, excluded, or forced to hide their feelings until it is too late? (This is not a post about gun violence in schools; this is simply one example that comes to mind.)

How many people struggle with depression, anger, disillusionment, and a host of other problems at least partially due to the invasion of our space, those gaps where when we can reflect on and face the things we don’t want to talk about?

I invite you to join me. Starting today I am going to be more intentional about taking back my space. When I come home, my phone is coming out of my pocket and going somewhere away from my body. I am turning off almost every notification. When I go to dinner, visit friends, or attend other social gatherings, I will leave my phone in the car unless I have a specific reason to take it.

Allowing my space to be invaded has made my journey of healing more difficult. It has often fueled anxiety, empowered depression, and instigated anger and impatience. No more. Today, I am taking back space, the final frontier of my peace.