Navigating the Bumps in Life

One of my favorite things in the whole world is to ride on the back of a motorbike down the red dirt roads to the villages of Cambodia, between rice patties and trees and children and cows, the wind against my face and my eyes feasting on the landscape. This is the stuff of poetry.

And then there are the bumps.

After all, they are dirt roads. The small bumps make me slide forward in the seat little by little, until it’s finally time to get readjusted. Then there are the bigger bumps, the ones that make your body weight shift upward (like when you accidentally hit a pothole and fly up off your seat…except not quite that big)—and those are the ones you can use strategically. You can use the jostle to pop right back into position. Or you can ignore it and just stay really uncomfortable. If you ignore it long enough, I'm sure you could probably lose your balance (but don't worry, I've never done that on a motor bike!).

I’ve been thinking lately how there are a lot of bumps in life, and how I’m in the middle of one right now. There are bumps when we move, when we change careers, when we begin or end relationships. Sometimes we expect them, and sometimes we don’t. But in either case, we have the choice to use them strategically or to ignore them.

The thing about these bumps is that they don’t really have much to do with the horizontal direction you’re heading. You can be on your way anywhere: you can be on a straight stretch of road, you can be on a blind curve, or you can be approaching an intersection. They have to do with your positioning vertically—how you’re sitting on the bike that’s beneath you. How you relate to the thing that is always with you, no matter where you go.

I’m in the middle of a bump. I have the chance to evaluate how I’m relating to what's always with me—myself and Jesus.

Am I where I want to be with Jesus? Am I engaged in the kind of relationship for which He has made me? Am I delighting in Him, and am I believing He is delighting in me? Am I seeking Him, listening to Him, loving Him, obeying Him? Am I overwhelmed by His presence, His love?

And am I where I want to be as a person—am I mentally and emotionally and physically healthy? Am I forgiving and showing grace to myself? Am I anxious or depressed or buying into perfectionism? Am I taking care of myself?

Here I am, with the choice to inventory and let go of the things that are weighing me down, to reposition and make sure I am in the place I want to be with regards to my God and myself. In her book Packing Light, Allison Vesterfelt (one of my favorite blogged) writes,

“You have wants, desires, needs, and ideas. These are all things you ‘pack’ with you for your journey. You might not even know you’re carrying them, but they’re in there. You’re walking around with a heavy suitcase” (p. 252).

I want to use this bump strategically. I want to toss unnecessary baggage off the back of the motorbike, focus on and enjoy the thrill of adventuring with Jesus, and make sure I’m in good shape internally.

And when this bump is over—well, perhaps the best thing about bumps in the road is that they remind us that we can reposition at any time, really. We don’t have wait for a huge unsettling event in our lives to check our internal well-being and our relationship with the Lord. All it takes is a little intentionality and we can slide right back to where we’re supposed to be—or a little closer, at least.

We may not always have the choice of avoiding bumps in the road, but we do have the choice in how we respond to them. Wherever you are in life, I pray your bumps afford you the joy of repositioning and enjoying a fresh perspective of yourself, of your surroundings, and most of all, of the Lord.

What are some bumps you're facing in life right now?

Are you anticipating bumps on the upcoming road, or have you just come through a bumpy stretch?

How do you usually handle bumps? 

Permissions for Life

Over the past couple years "permission" has become very meaningful word to me. It all started when I first came back from spending the summer in Cambodia a couple years ago. I was struggling with reentry to the States and was reading a wonderful blog post by Rocky Reentry that talked about the need to give yourself permission to grieve when you leave a culture.

Permission. In it I find grace and forgiveness. Through it I find freedom. In this season of life, rather than make a list of tasks or goals to complete this year, here are a few things I'm focusing on giving myself permission for.

1. Permission to say things you're not supposed to say

By that I don't mean I'm going to say things like, "That dress looks terrible with those shoes on you" (I'm not the one to consult for fashion advice anyway). I mean saying things like, "Truth be told, sometimes I get scared, and right in this moment I don't want to go to Cambodia." That doesn't mean I won't step on the plane tomorrow anyway (emotions are fickle, anyway, and in 5 minutes I could be pumped about going). It just means fear gets to me sometimes, and it's a very real battle to walk by faith and not by sight.

After growing up inchurch, it can seem un-Christian to be open about our struggles. It's incredibly difficult for me to be vulnerable about fear and faith when it comes to Cambodia—and any change. Yet perhaps admitting our weaknesses and clinging to His grace is the most Christlike thing we can do in these moments.

2. Permission to feel and own emotions

I'm not sure where the idea that emotions—particularly sadness and grief—are weaknesses came from originally. I believed that idea for a very, very long time, but the opposite is true. It takes far more courage to face fear and grief than to run from it.

I've learned the hard way that when we try to numb an uncomfortable emotion, we end up numbing all emotion. For years, I refused to let myself feel emotions because I didn't want to feel grief. A monumental moment for me last year was purchasing a box of tissues. (I know, kind of lame.) But it meant acknowledging tears and grief and in a way, welcoming them. Sometimes we all just need a reminder that it's okay not to be okay. Though it's difficult to sit with my emotions and feel my feelings (I'm not really an ushy gushy type of person), owning, feeling, and sharing emotions is an incredibly healthy practice.

3. Permission to love and take care of myself

This one can also seem downright un-Christian sometimes. What happened to "put others before yourself" and "God first, others second, and yourself last"?

I'm not sure I believe in that mantra anymore. If I'm not taking care of myself, how can I care for others? This is very obvious in the physical realm: if I have a diabetic patient who doesn't take care of his body's nutritional needs, he'll end up with life-threatening blood sugars, wounds that won't heal, hospital stays, etc that will prevent him from physically being able to help those around him. The same—maybe even to a greater extent—can be said for mental, emotional, and spiritual self care. The Lord commanded us to love others as we love ourselves. I think as we learn to love ourselves better, we will learn to love others better too.

4. Permission to ask for what I need

In a way, asking for what I need is part of learning to take care of myself. It's a way of setting boundaries. This is still new to me, so when I put it into practice it feels awkward and like I'm bumbling my way through.

This process is two-step: it requires me to know what I need (self awareness), and then it challenges me to follow through with the action of asking for it. One reason I'm drawn to this practice is that it helps prevent me from blaming others and playing the victim. It's easy to blame people for "not being more sensitive to my needs" or "walking all over me." But in the long run maybe it's better to muster up the courage to clarify boundaries and ask for what I need instead of assuming others will automatically know.

5. Permission to fail often and miserably

This is perhaps the hardest for me to write and accept. The perfectionistic side of me screams that this is heresy. Yet I have found failing often means more growth than success does, and my quality of life soars when I can accept my imperfections.

It's absolutely impossible to move forward in life without failing, without falling flat on my face. So I may as well make a break for it and stumble my way toward living a more full and joyful life.

Perhaps what makes failure so dreadful is not the falling itself or the pain or the slow process of getting back up or even the guarantee that it will all happen again soon. Perhaps the worst thing about it is the shame of knowing others will see me fall. They will see I am a fraud; I am not perfect. I am weak and scraped up and sometimes so broken I seek professional help to get back up. Yet I am encouraged by the wisdom Elizabeth Gilbert received long ago and now shares in her book Big Magic (p. 174):

"'We all spend our twenties and thirties trying so hard to be perfect, because we're so worried about what people will think of us. Then we get into our forties and fifties, and we finally start to be free, because we decide that we don't give a damn what anyone thinks of us. But you won't be completely free until you realize this liberating truth—nobody was thinking about you, anyhow.'" —Elizabeth Gilbert

I don't want to wait until I'm sixty to live from that truth.

6. Permission to forgive myself

With #5 comes, in all likelihood, the fact that I will make a fool of myself. And with making a fool of myself comes the challenge of forgiving myself.

A few months ago I was struggling with the concept of mercy, and a friend told me how one of the Hebrew words [checed] in the Bible that's translated "mercy" is also translated "steadfast love." I'm not a Hebrew scholar or anything, but this helped me grasp mercy. It made sense to me. In some cases, mercy and steadfast love are synonymous. This new perspective makes it easier to accept the Lord's mercy and understand how I can show mercy toward myself. To forgive myself, I must love myself. 

I'm still thinking through several other things I would like to give myself permission for, and I have a feeling it'll be a lifelong process to put these into practice. But keeping these in mind helps me keep my inner critic in check, and the liberating thing is there is no time limit—they are lifelong permissions, and they are permissions for a more abundant life.
 

How do you pursue living a more abundant life?

Are there things you would like to give yourself permission for or have learned to give yourself permission for in the past?

Exposing Ourselves for the Frauds We Are

Sometimes when I write, I feel like a fraud because I know I am not the best writer out there. I am not the best writer or editor or nurse or friend or any other role I find myself in.

Every time I decide to show up in those roles, a tiny (or not so tiny) voice inside of me cries out that I’m a fraud.

“Watch out!” it warns. “If you do that, they’ll know you’re a fraud. If you write something crappy, they’ll know you aren’t a real writer. If you say something you regret in a conversation, they’ll know you aren’t a true friend. You’ll be exposed!”

It’s very hard to ignore. If I keep listening, the voice continues: “Better not hit ‘publish.’ Better file the document away and eliminate the risk of being found out. Better not call that friend back. Better avoid having to tell him you don’t know the answers to any of his questions.”

Other times when I write, I feel like my most authentic self. I don’t feel like a fraud at all. It’s just me, typing words from the bottom of my heart, to you. 

I’m guessing the same back-and-forth switch happens to you sometimes, too. Sometimes feeling like a fraud, sometimes feeling authentic, even if it’s the very same action in both scenarios. When we know where that persistent voice telling us we’re frauds comes from, it’s much easier to combat it. So what makes the difference?

When we dissect the voice telling us we are frauds, most likely we will find out the root of it has to do with shame. In one of her TED talks, Brené Brown explains how shame plays two tapes: ‘not good enough’ and ‘who do you think you are?’ Both try to convince us we are frauds.

Most of the time, buying into the lie that we are frauds only makes sense if we are, in fact, trying to put up a false front for other people.

I only believe I am a fraud as a writer if I am trying to come across as the best blogger ever to my audience. I only believe I am a fraud as a nurse if I believe I am supposed to be a super-nurse. It has a lot to do with what we think we should be or what we want others to think.

A while back, I met a woman who served overseas with the International Mission Board for a couple years. I had recently returned from spending the summer in Cambodia and was struggling with some hard things I had seen in Cambodia. She shared some of her struggles overseas and how she too had worked with a counselor when she re-entered the States. She shared how on one occasion her counselor said, “You feel weak? Good! You are weak!” This woman said she sat in shock at the blunt blow of the statement before dialogue began again, but the point was this:

We are weak. It’s good to realize that.

Because we really like to put up a front that we’re strong.

If we are brave, we will admit this truth to ourselves. If we are wise, we will admit it to others as well. We can choose not to admit it to others, but often outside forces unexpectedly reveal that we are not who we say (or want others to believe) we are, generally ending in embarrassment and a deeper shame spiral. Embracing truth, however, leads to freedom—and also just to feeling better in general because it means we can be our authentic selves.

I am a writer. I am not the best. Now that we have that out of the way, we can get down to what’s really on my heart that I want to communicate to you.

I am a nurse. I am not the smartest, most experienced healthcare provider there is. Now that we have that out of the way, we can connect and address what you need most right now.

I am a friend. I am not perfect, and I often forget birthdays. Now that we have that out of the way, we can move on to deeper things—the imperfections that make us need friends and community in the first place.

That is the inner fraud exposed. And when the fraud is exposed…suddenly we are not frauds any longer. We are back to our authentic selves, speaking from the bottom of our hearts, one to another.

And that's a much better place to be.

Hope, Gratitude & Goodbyes

I don’t like goodbyes. I don’t like change. I told myself I'd wait til the last couple weeks at work start facing the transition. 

So here I am. Today is my last day at work.

I’ve been freaking out on the inside and occasionally freaking out on the outside. There’s been this big ol’ bundle of sadness that wells up from the pit of my stomach when I've thought about moving. When I let it, it rose up in my body until it caught in my throat and caused my eyes to leak and my nose to run.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to transitions. I don’t think I’ll ever like change. I don’t know that goodbyes will ever get easier.

What I do know is that change is inevitable. I know that transitions are part of life, whether I like it or not. I know that there are things we can do to make transitions easier…and apparently ignoring the entire situation isn’t one of those things. So even though it’s tempting to binge watch Netflix and continue denying that change is occurring (I may have had a Netflix tab open at this very moment for that very purpose), I am taking a moment to focus on the things I’m learning about transition.

The “goodbye” matters. 

Transitioning doesn’t just involve adjusting to something new; it also involves adjusting from the old. 

A few weeks ago a friend was helping me process the move to Cambodia when I realized I really liked Waco. That’s when it hit me: I am going to grieve leaving Waco. It’s not just the transition to Cambodia that will be hard; it’s also the transition from Waco.

I’ve been watching the TV show “White Collar,” and at one point, two of the main characters are moving to another city. Elizabeth and Peter are packing up their house when Elizabeth pauses and comments (I’m paraphrasing), “We have a lot of memories here.” Peter immediately jumps in, “But we’ll make new memories.” The rest of the episode continues like that. Every time one of them mentions how sad it is that they’re leaving, the other pipes up about all the new things they can look forward to. When I watched that, it didn’t seem natural or healthy. Sometimes we need to be intentional about giving myself permission to grieve leaving the life we've built in a place.

Adjusting to Waco involved countless steps outside my comfort zone (new job, new home, new roommates, new church, new friends, etc.). It took a lot of work to build a life here, and it’s sad to leave just as I’m getting established. There’s much to look forward to, yes, but there’s also value in acknowledging that there’s a lot to leave behind.

Happiness isn’t a place.

I have been happier this past year in Waco than I have been in a long time. Not because it’s a magical place (I know that’s your first thought when you hear “Waco”…) and not because it was the easiest place to settle, but because of what I have learned here. I have wrestled through fears and shed many tears, and I have come to have a clearer view of who God is. And the more I know the Lord, the more content I become. 

Contentment, I believe, breeds happiness. I have learned to be happy here in Waco, and it was a process; it didn’t instantly appear. I will learn to be happy in Cambodia too, even if it is another long process, and then I will learn to be happy the next place I move, and the next place, and the next place.

I’m not leaving everything.

I happened upon Hebrews 13:5 recently, which reads, “Keep your life free from love of money, and be content with what you have, for He has said, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you.’” This reminded me: God’s presence is a big deal.

Out of all the things I value most—my church, friends, family, community—there is not one thing I can take with me. I have nothing…except Jesus. But, Be content!, the author of Hebrews urges, because you have God’s presence. 

I’m leaving a lot. But I’m not leaving everything. He promises He will be with me. I will have Jesus, and His presence is enough.

Hope and gratitude change the game.

I can—and will—be sad about all that I am leaving. I will let myself grieve. Yet grief and gratitude are not mutually exclusive. I can be sad to leave new friendships and be grateful for them, too.

Grief with gratitude cultivates hope. (I’m still not really sure how, but if you’ve figured out how this works, let me know.) There is a next step.

All I know is gratitude focuses on the good, and grief acknowledges the sad, and somehow in the end, hope is born.

And hope makes any transition a little bit easier.
 

Whatever transition you’re facing in life—and we’re all about to be in some transition because we’re about to enter a new year—I pray it’s softened by hope and marked by His presence.