Ctrl+Alt+Del?

I go through periods of really hating this blog. It doesn't live up to my idealized expectations. I am neither witty nor profound. I want to go back and delete a number of my posts, or at least severely edit them. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to write much of it.

Even though this isn't really read by many people (and trust me, I'm ok with that), it still bothers me that this doesn't represent my "best work". I force myself to hit "publish post" as soon as I'm done with my first draft, for better or worse. I cringe when I read it later, seeing numerous flaws that I itch to correct.

But I don't. In my search for honesty, transparency and vulnerability I let it all sit out there. I've tried so long to manipulate everyone's perception of me that to simply blurt out some fear or hurt is near torturous. It's entirely possible that this is an incredibly stupid idea. It wouldn't be the first time. But I've become so sick of the masks and illusory projections that I want to rip the curtain back. The Wizard is a sad, little man.

Please trust me on this - I'm not looking for sympathy or validation. I'm in a transitional period that's lasted the better part of a decade now. It's not particularly pretty, it's just me. And trying to be more than just me has gotten me in some pretty bad places in the past.

Freedom?

So I just started reading Through Painted Deserts by Donald Miller. It's about (as far as I can tell so far) his journey from Houston, Texas to Oregon. Having just been to the Pacific Northwest about a month ago (and wanting desperately to leave Upstate NY), I figured it would be a good read.

Right from the very beginning the theme of leaving has captured me. I have a hard time leaving anything if I don't have something specific already lined up for my next step. I'm getting to the point where I just want to leave, to strike out on some adventure with only the vaguest destination in mind.

I've always equated lacking a plan with being irresponsible. I'm bound by the fear of things not working out, the fear of finding out that what's "out there" is actually worse than what I know here. But now it seems that I may be reaching the point where it's just worth it to take the chance.

I feel my life has been split into a number of pieces and parceled out to all my obligations and expectations. A job and a wife. Rent and a car payment. Even my fantasy football teams demand some attention. I feel trapped, even . . . lost? At the very least unsure of where I am. And completely clueless as to where I am going. I am not living life. Life is consuming me.

Ok, so I thought I was going somewhere with this, but now my wife has some sort of wedding dress shopping show on TV and my brain is trying to crawl out my ear. I doubt I had anything profound to say. But I will be giving some thought to the idea that making a move without having everything lined up in advance may not be a bad thing. Being open to change and adventure could actually be a very good thing.

Lessons On The Bus

It's disheartening to be confronted with your own ugliness. Again.

By taking the bus to and from work, I get to spend over an hour each day in a rather confined space with some . . . interesting people. Of course you get some "normal" business folk like me, just going to and from their 9-5 (or 8-4 in my case).

But then you get the . . . "others". And it's amazing how quickly I can discern a book from its rather unkempt cover. I've become so skilled at sizing up a person at a glance and assigning them to a neat little box.

A neat little box that I'd like to keep far away from me. All I want to do is find a seat not too close to anyone, put in my earbuds or dig out a book, and ignore everyone around me until I get to work or home. But yet they seem to insist on invading my space. They may speak too loudly on their cellphone, they may scratch themselves with grimy fingers, they may just . . . smell. Yes, some of them smell. And not pleasant.

So I resent them. I resent them for infringing on my desire to be blissfully blind to the plights of others. I resent the possibility of my cleanliness being compromised by their proximity. I've worked too hard to be separate and distinct from these "others".

And who are they? They are poor and unemployed. They are uncouth and lacking in hygiene. They are homeless. They are mentally ill.

They are my "least of these".

They are the Jesuses on the bus.

And I sit as far away from them as possible.

Bad and Loving It

I have a problem with doing anything poorly. It's the perfectionist in me. If I try a new pursuit and I'm not good at it, I almost always immediately discard it and go looking for something else.

If some friends invited me to start playing croquet with them, I would probably buy my own set to start practicing. I would scour the internet for tips and techniques to improve my "game". I probably wouldn't inject myself with HGH, but I may consider it if I was lagging behind.

And it's kind of weird that I act this way, because I'm not all that ultra-competitive. I'm perfectly fine with losing, or just playing a game and not keeping score. I just hate the thought of being bad at something.

I think it's pride (duh!). I do a lot (often unsuccessfully) to avoid suffering embarrassment. I put a lot of effort and forethought into protecting my fragile ego. And to what end? To construct the illusion of a competent person? To inflate my value in the eyes of others by being "that guy who's good at stuff"?

I want to learn to enjoy being bad at something. Maybe I'll start singing out loud in my cringe-inducing tone-deaf voice. Okay, maybe not. But I'd at least like to start engaging in things I haven't tried before without the crippling self-doubt. I'd like to enjoy the process, not just the feeling of mastering a new subject. I'd like to try, then fail, then smile and try again. I'd like to find worth and value in something other than my rate of success. I'd like to learn what it feels like to fall and be caught by the strong arms of Father.

I want to do something poorly, and love every minute of it.

Vision

It's that time of year again - the season of political campaign ads. Every commercial break there seems to be some smarmy politician patting themself on the back or sticking a knife into someone else's. I hate politics for a variety of reasons, but part of it is my inherent distrust of anyone with a Vision.

"But Steve," you say, "vision is good! We need people with vision, it's how things get done!"

Well imaginary person, I'll certainly give you that. I actually believe vision is a good and necessary thing as well. My distrust of Vision stems from my own past failures.

What I've learned from past experience is that it's possible to elevate Vision over people. That there can come a point where the needs of the individual must be subjugated so that the Vision can flourish. That in my passion to see the Vision fulfilled, I can lose sight of the importance and value of the people around me.

So I have vowed to not let Vision trump people in the future. Will I still screw up? Without a doubt. But by the grace of Father I hope to be more aware of the needs of individuals. I hope to have a vision that serves people, instead of demanding that people serve the Vision.

Jesus of the 2nd Chance

So I recently learned about this cool non-profit called People of the Second Chance. They're pretty much what they sound like, on the site it states -

"People of the Second Chance gives voice to a scandalous movement of radical grace in life and leadership. We challenge the common misconceptions about failure and success and stand with those who have hit rock bottom in their personal and professional lives. We are a community that is committed to stretch ourselves in the areas of relational forgiveness, personal transparency, and advocate for mercy over judgment."

Hmm, sounds a bit like this Jewish dude from way back in the day. I really love the idea of reaching out in grace and mercy to those who have failed, who have screwed up, who have hit the very bottom. I can't really think of much else that is more Christ-like.

I love that Jesus spent time with the sluts and whores, the disabled and lower-class. I love that he met people where they were, not demanding that they rise to a certain standard before he offered them truth, life, healing and restoration. I love that Jesus said -

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."

I love Luke 22:32. I love that Jesus knew Peter would fail, that he would betray him. But yet even there he is praying for Peter beyond his failure, already looking past Peter's betrayal to his 2nd chance.

And I love that he's not surprised when I screw up or fall short. That even in the midst of my failures he's there working with me through the process. That with unfailing mercy he's brought me through my second chance . . . and third . . . and ninety-seventh . . .

One of the most shameful things in our culture is to fail at something. We use failures as warnings, to frighten people into working better or trying harder. We especially scorn those who have failed because of their own selfishness, laziness, or incompetence. But maybe, as those who have received a second chance, we are uniquely qualified to share with others that failure is not the end of the story. But it can be a beautiful beginning.

Hope Deferred . . . Then Misplaced . . . And Finally Abandoned

Saturday night I climbed into bed, tried to calm my racing mind, then finally woke up my wife and asked her to pray for me. I was trembling, drowning in anxiety and suffocated by feelings of dread. Apparently panic attacks really aren't that fun.

It's such a humbling experience to be so helpless. Reason and logic were not sufficient to overwhelm the crushing weight of anxiety. I could do nothing but ask my wife to hold me, and ask Father to rescue me. The next morning I woke with my mind calm, but questions as to why this happened.

It's true that work has been a little more stressful lately (compounded of course by the fact that I thoroughly hate it). With summer coming to an end I'm facing my usual "oh crap here comes months of winter" depression. Our lease on our apartment is coming to an end and they don't want to let us renew it for less than a year. I was hoping to be out of Syracuse in less than a year, but I really hate the thought of moving to a new apartment for the third time in four years.

But still, I think it may be something deeper. I think this may stem from a very damaging agreement that I made years ago. It may be the result of a subtle thought that has gradually grown into an actual life philosophy.

In college I majored in Economics and minored in Finance. I took a couple courses that were about "Financial Planning" (I even briefly considered this as a career). A financial planner is just someone who works with a person to help them be financially prepared for various life goals. They'll help the person with a variety of matters, including having money saved for retirement, college for their children, etc.

One of the first things you learn in Financial Planning classes is the idea of "managing expectations". This just means making sure your client's expectations are realistic. If your client expects a 30% return, but their investments return 20%, they'll be disappointed. If you help them realize that a 15% return would be excellent, then a 20% return would be a very nice surprise.

I had no trouble grasping this concept, because it was something I had been doing pretty much my entire life. I learned at a young age that reality rarely (if ever) lived up to my expectations. I learned that hoping for something was simply a precursor to disappointment. And so I taught myself to expect little, to plan for the worst, and then to be pleasantly surprised if something good happened.

Little did I realize that this approach to life was self-sabotaging at best. Little did I realize that all those verses in the Bible about hope were actually important.

I'm learning that living without hope isn't a way to defend myself from being disappointed. It's not even living. Yes, at times it seems that disappointment and heartache is inevitable. And maybe sometimes it is. But maybe hope isn't what sets me up for disappointment. Maybe hope is what brings me through it.

I'm going to try to let go of "hoping" for a specific desired outcome. I've been "hoping" to get out of New York. I've been "hoping" to find a job I don't hate. I've been "hoping" the Yankees win another World Series this year.

But what if my hope is not an outcome, but a person? What if my hope isn't for something to happen, but rather for someone to be intimately involved in whatever my future brings?

"Managing expectations" has been my code phrase for trading hope for a bleak resignation that life brings only disappointments. I'm trying to let go of managing my expectations. I'm even going to try to let go of all my expectations, other than the constant hope that Father will be with me through it all.

Because if Father is part of my future, how can I not have hope?