Donald Miller's Blog, page 14

This Is Why Your Suffering Needs A Voice

When I was young, I did a rap in our Easter church service while pulling off some pretty white girl choreographed moves—thank God no one recorded it.

I think it was from DC Talk or Carmen (oh, yeah). But it was all about the death and resurrection of Jesus and I remember just selling my rap part and feeling like I was changing the world one rhyme at a time (see what I did there?).

Easter was the biggest party of the year.

It was a remembrance how love really does conquer death, a celebration of the rebirth of the soul. It was a time to remember the rhythm of death and life which is woven into the fabric of everything.

And a remembrance of how the Easter Bunny was thought up by Satan.

We were great at celebrating, dancing around like a bunch of crazy hippies for hours, waving streamers and flags (“praise flags” to be exact) and feeling the full wonder and redemption of Easter.

But there was a practice I missed when growing up, a piece of the church calendar I never knew held much importance:

The season before celebration, Lent.

In the Christian tradition, Lent is the 40 day period of time leading up to the resurrection of Jesus. During those 40 days, you can reflect, pray, or give up food, tv, negative thinking, or anything you feel you need to do without.

Photo Credit: minka6, Creative Commons

It’s a re-training of the brain and body. It is also a time of repentance—reflecting on what you have done and left undone.

My first experience with Lent was a pretty heavy one.

We were in a room with other people we knew, and we were invited to give voice to suffering; unashamedly, unreservedly, speaking it out loud. Then, we would collectively respond with “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

The idea of being vulnerable, letting people in on some of the deepest pain in your life, was… well, difficult to say the least.

And at first it was incredibly awkward…but then one person spoke.

It was something like “help my brokenness.”

Then everyone said “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

Then another “why did that happen to me?”

“Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

And then it was like something opened up—permission to be honest about the darkness.

“Why did my marriage fail?”

“Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

“I thought You said You would always be with me, where are You now?”

“Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

“He cheated on me, why did that happen?”

“Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

“My baby died, why did she die? I’m wrapped in grief and can not see any light!”

“Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

Darkness was given a voice, and through the bold act of speaking it out loud, we all felt united. There was no answer given, no three point process of what to do now.

We just sat with it, fully facing the darkness.

For some of us, facing the darkness may be easy and welcoming, but for others it is incredibly difficult because it hits at core issues like loss, racism, addiction, depression.

We want to move forward right away, be happy, positive, love the person who hurt us, be over the grief of a lost life. But Lent calls us to face the darkness head on; to not put a lid on our anger about whatever suffering we have experienced, but to look at it for what it is.

Because when we give our suffering a voice, that is when it begins to lose its power.

Let this season of lent not be skipped over.

Let us pause and face the things we have buried—hurt from racism, hurt from religion, hurt from family, from friends, from ourselves.

It may heal us, it may ground us, and connect us with our humanity in a way we haven’t experienced before.

My Podcast is Out

I’ve been working behind the scenes for a year on something so special that it drove me crazy not to talk about it.

I NOW HAVE A PODCAST!

The podcast is called Building a Story Brand and it’s all about standing out in a sea of noise.

In the first season, I talk with Dave Ramsey, Michael Hyatt, Claire Díaz-Ortiz (from Twitter) and lots of other business leaders about how they structure their lives and work so their ideas get heard and impact the world.

This week we debuted #1 on the iTunes Marketing charts.

Folks are starting to wonder whether their entire outlook on business could be changing, due to the marketing framework we discuss on the show.

Just look at what listeners are saying:

I designed the podcast so every episode teaches you something practical you can apply to your business immediately so that you feel a sense of hope in your work, increase customer engagement, and grow your company.

In the end, all we want to do is help you clarify your message so you are seen, heard and understood.

Building a Story Brand was designed for you.

This week’s episode (Episode 2) is now live.

I’ll be dissecting websites, giving people practical advice on what they can do to convert browsers into buyers.

But before then, we’ve got one of our most brilliant guests yet.

Mike McHargue spent years as an advertising executive but walked away when he was asked to compromise his values. In the interview, we ask Mike for the secrets on how the brain works, why people make consumer decisions, and how we can keep from being sleazy as we build our companies.

The Building a Story Brand podcast is revolutionizing the way people think of marketing and business.

Don’t miss the train.

Subscribe to the podcast HERE.

Here’s to growing your businesses and changing the world!

What You Miss When You’re Afraid Of Messing Up

Recently, I was watching my youngest son, Brewer, fly his kite. He has always had a thing for kites.

Photo Credit: Brett Davies, Creative Commons

It reminded me of a time over a year ago when he had received a kite as a gift. It hung there in our laundry room for months, and almost daily he would beg me to fly it in the backyard. Every time he asked I would remind him that our backyard was full of trees and it would inevitably get stuck in a tree.

Well, he eventually wore me down.

And in a weak moment, I think on the 138th ask, I finally gave in.

I was getting ready to go out of town and I thought to myself, “if the kid wants to fly the kite in the backyard, we’ll fly it in the backyard.”

As you might imagine, about 10 minutes into our little kite adventure, just as I had predicted, the kite got caught in the tree. I thought for sure he was going to be crushed, but instead he just laughed.

As we headed inside, he grabbed my hand and gave me one of those smiles letting me know he had a blast.

It was a great lesson for me that I still haven’t forgotten.

It’s better to fly a kite and it get stuck in a tree, than to not fly the kite at all.

A friend of mine once said: Every opportunity has an expiration date and the cost of missing out can be greater than the cost of messing up.

You do realize there are some things worse than failure, right? So what’s your kite?

Time to face your fears and fly it anyway.

Keep The Friends Who Are Willing To Wound You

“Honestly? It reads like an IKEA instruction manual.”

My wife Kari said this right after I forced her to listen to 20 minutes of my new “book idea.” I read emphatically, stressing the key words, whispering for dramatic effect—the works.

But it wasn’t working. She shifted around, clearly unimpressed. I thought it was brilliant. She thought otherwise. When I asked what she thought, she shrugged. So I pushed hard to get an answer and was rude in my pushing.

That’s when she dropped the IKEA bomb.

Ouch.

For the record, IKEA is a fine place. But it’s like a labyrinth – once I go in, I feel trapped. To get out, I have to walk fourteen miles through a maze of cheap swag, art-deco furniture and modern rugs with neon colors. After twenty minutes, I panic and run through the employee exits to get out.

Now my writing had been compared to IKEA, the Labyrinth of Doom.

Kari wasn’t being mean, just honest. It wasn’t connecting with her. So instead of forcing her approval, I put it down and went to find my journal. I sat down and read her an entry I wrote about the birth of our twin daughters, communicating a great deal of honesty and fear.

After I read this, Kari didn’t say anything.

But she was moved.

She told me to email it to my agent. Months later, the words became the book, Heroic Path: In Search of the Masculine Heart. The book never would have happened if Kari flattered me or kept quiet.

Photo Credit: Joe St.Pierre, Creative Commons

Proverbs 27:6 says, “Wounds from a friend are better than kisses from an enemy.”

To hear my writing was like an IKEA product stung a little. But Kari was right.

It hurt, but it helped move me in the right direction.

These wounds – honest, true wounds – are helpful if we let them be. But if we get defensive or don’t listen, we miss the moment.

None of us like to be rejected or compared to the Labyrinth of Doom. But that’s often exactly what we need, lest we carry a sense of entitlement and live under an illusion of grandeur.

Wounds from a friend are valuable gems.

They are more loving than flattery or feigned affirmation. These wounds deserve our full attention. And respect.

I’m grateful for these wounds.

What Is An Enough List And How it Helped Me Enjoy Everyday

I used to think there was never enough time.

At the end of every day, no matter how busy I’d been, there were always projects unfinished, emails unanswered, and household chores left undone. I hadn’t done it all, so I felt like I hadn’t done enough.

And it’s only a short leap in your heart from “I never do enough” to “I’m not enough.”

I tried making really thorough to-do lists, but that just gave me a super detailed record of all the things I wasn’t getting to. I would not call that helpful.

The real problem was, I could think of way more things to do than there were minutes in a day. (Oops.)

That’s when I decided to create an Enough List.

See, an Enough List isn’t a list of everything you could possibly do in a day.

Photo Credit: Flavio~, Creative Commons

It’s a list of what will be enough for today.

Every morning, I make a list of the three things that are enough for the day, and that is my Enough List. They don’t have to be life-changing things, they just have to be the things that are most important to me today.

When I’ve done those three things, I’ve done enough.

Anything else is a bonus.

My list might say, “write that article,” or “have that conversation with my husband,” or “make that phone call I’ve been avoiding.” It might be “clear the kitchen counter (finally).” It might be “read to the kids.”

It might be “send that email!” It might be “work until five, then shut the computer.”

Any three things at all, but only three.

When I’m not sure what to do next, I can turn to my list and choose one of the three things to work on. If they all get crossed off before noon: great! If it takes all day: okay!

But I don’t flit from task to task, doing a little of this and a little of that, without ever getting to the things that matter most to me. And I don’t get overwhelmed by the sheer number of things to do. Three is doable. Three works.

I’ve learned so much from my little list.

Now instead of ending each day feeling like I’ve fallen behind, I have a built-in sense of accomplishment in the evenings. I finished my three things! I did what mattered most!

There was enough time, and I did enough.

And if I don’t finish all three, I get to practice giving myself grace. Some days are messy. Some days nothing goes according to plan. That’s just life. It doesn’t mean I’m disorganized or lazy or behind, it means I’m living.

On those days I get to practice letting go and being okay.

I can begin again in the morning.

Most importantly the list has taught me to name the truth: I am enough, even if I can’t do it all.

Today is enough, whatever it holds. That I can choose what is enough for today, even if some things are left for tomorrow.

That’s enough for me.

The Most Underrated Sound in Our Society

A few months ago, my wife and I took our kids on a short weekend trip to the mountains. As we pulled out of our neighborhood and merged onto the four lane highway, we suddenly realized an important detail for the trip had not been accomplished.

Kim and I both assumed the other person was going to make the necessary arrangements. As a result, neither of us had accomplished the task.

And now, the trip had already begun.

The problem would ultimately be fixed with a little extra time and money. But in the moment, our conversation abruptly ended. Tenseness ensued. And both of us stared silently out the windshield in disgust.

Photo Credit: Joe St.Pierre, Creative Commons

After a few short minutes, one little voice called out from the backseat, “Umm, are you guys ever going to talk again?” Clearly, the silence had become unbearable.

I was reminded again how silence has become a difficult atmosphere in our society.

In our homes, we turn on our televisions. In our cars, we turn on the radio. When we exercise, we put on our headphones. Even when waiting in elevators or on hold with customer service, sound fills the void.

We have become uncomfortable with the presence of silence. We speak of “awkward silences” in a room full of people. We fear that brief moment when we meet someone new and aren’t quite sure what to say. And I remember being on countless dates growing up where any lapse in the conversation meant the entire relationship was doomed forever.

My family even pokes fun at me when I mute the television during commercials—as if the idea of sitting in quiet for 2 minutes is too long.

But in a world that becomes increasingly filled with noise, silence is even more important.

It is no secret we are bombarded everyday with countless messages.

Advertisements from every flat surface and frequency tell us what to watch, where to go, and what to purchase. Countless artists fill canvases, screens, and printed paper hoping to convince us of their worldview and beliefs.

Political pundits from every aisle and experts from every imagineable field speak boldly about how we should think about the most important issues of our time.

Meanwhile, silence quietly calls for our attention.

And only in extended periods of solitude, can we rediscover our hearts and the voice of God in our lives.

The benefits of silence and solitude in a noisy world are significant and life-giving. In quiet moments of reflection:

We remove the expectation and influence of others.
We hear our heart speak clearly.
We become more attune to the sound of God’s voice.
We find rest and refreshment.
We reflect on our past and chart our future.
We break the cycle of busyness in our lives.
We become better equipped to show patience and love to others.

While anyone can experience silence at any time by finding a quiet place to sit for an extended period of time, I have found solitude does not occur naturally in our noise-centered world. It must be intentionally pursued by each of us.

But for it to be pursued, it must first be valued and desired.

Be reminded of the importance of silence and solitude. Make its presence a habit in your life. You’ve got nothing to lose. And your whole life to gain back.

Getting Famous Is Not How You Will Change The World

Since I was a kid I knew what I wanted to do: I wanted to change the world. I didn’t know how, and honestly I didn’t know why, but I wanted to have an impact.

Or did I?

Photo Credit: Amanda Tipton, Creative Commons

When I look back I wonder if what I really wanted wasn’t to be famous, to be known and important. Once I got a small degree of that, though, I realized it was fairly empty. The year after I wrote a national bestseller, I became confused and depressed.

These days I’d say my motives are mixed.

I’ve a sincere desire to change people’s lives along with a seemingly Darwinian desire to stand out and socially survive. It can all be quite complicated and I’m grateful I don’t overthink it. The truth is our motives are mixed all the time and we can lose our sanity trying to “think ourselves” into a purity of intentions.

Still, the evolution from wanting to be famous to wanting to sincerely help people has created positive benefits in my life.

I’d say I’m still experiencing that evolution.

Here’s what I know: Being known by strangers isn’t going to make anybody fulfilled. In fact, it can make life much more confusing and complicated. But finding a role in life that helps others is actually healing.

Every time I speak, somebody comes up to me and asks a question about writing a book. Often they just want some advice, but every few times the conversation is different. There’s a desperation in their eyes, a deep desire to be a bestselling author. I recognize this now and it often makes my heart sink.

They talk about being a bestselling author the way drug addicts talk about finding their next high.

It’s not that they “want” to be known, it’s that they “have” to be known. They believe something magical will happen in their lives if they can only get published and become famous and until they experience it they believe they are living a less-than-fulfilling life.

But this is a sad deception.

The truth is, my life got a lot better when I learned to play small ball. I still write books, but not as often. I like the slow, one-on-one work I get to do helping people live a better story much better. It’s more fulfilling.

Having somebody come up to me and say they loved my book is nice, don’t get me wrong, but having somebody come up and say they sold their house, quit their job or adopted a child because of Creating Your Life Plan is fulfilling to me on a much deeper level.

I wish I would have known that when I was younger.

Here’s a thought: What if our desire to be known and validated and even famous isn’t a misappropriated desire to actually be people of significant impact, which doesn’t require fame at all?

What Does It Really Take to Heal?

Like most modern tragedies, this story starts with a mitten.

My four-year-old daughter was playing with a random mitten in her bedroom when the mitten got stuck on a ceiling fan blade. That’s well out of the reach of a four-year-old, but my Maggie wasn’t going to let that stop her.

She climbed up on her bed, eyed the stranded mitten, crouched like a jungle cat, and leaped toward the fan. Maggie intended, of course, to snatch the mitten and float gracefully back to the floor. That was the plan.

However, the unfortunate reality is that she’s not a jungle cat and she has yet to study physics at any meaningful level.

Photo Credit: krispycrunch6, Creative Commons

So she launched herself more horizontally than vertically, the result of which was a violent collision between a wooden headboard and her formerly pristine eyebrow.

Cue screaming. Zoom in on the tears.

Enter the steady procession of bright red blood. Cut to the mitten, perched motionless on the blade of a Hampton Bay brushed nickel ceiling fan.

The collision opened a big enough gash on Maggie’s forehead that we decided to take her to the emergency room, but the gash was also small enough that we chose one of those newfangled emergency rooms that doesn’t have an actual hospital attached to it.

There the staff applied some glue and tape to the problem, gave her some pain reliever, and told us to leave everything in place for a week or so. When the glue and tape finally came off, we saw an injury that was both ugly and on the mend.

Day by day, the wound seemed to heal.

The swelling receded, the discoloration faded, and the wound gave way to fresh pink skin—except for a thin, dark stroke determined to serve as a souvenir of the time Maggie tried to jump five feet up in the air to retrieve a wayward mitten.

For the wound, we followed a predictable pattern: rush to triage and treatment, ease the pain however we could, and then wait a week for the healing process to do its work.

But the prescribed plan for a scar is different.

Multiple times a day, for the next several months, we have to apply a tiny bit of special gel to that thin, dark stroke in hopes that over time it lightens and narrows until it disappears altogether.

Ever since all this happened, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to heal.

As a parent, I often find myself bumping up against the limitations of my ability to make my kids better. You know kids — they’re always picking up injuries in the form of scraped knees and nightmares and being called a doodyhead by some punk on the playground.

They collect physical, emotional, relational, and psychological wounds—just like their parents do. And we want to heal those wounds so badly, to wave a hand or utter some secret words and set everything right again, but we can’t.

We’re not healers in that magical sense, but we do have a role to play in healing.

I can’t control the healing process, but I can participate in it.

I can’t fix myself, or anyone else for that matter, but I can follow the protocol. I can’t wipe away scars, but I can put on the medicine every day.

This is, in so many ways, God’s invitation to us as individuals and as a church:

Bind up the wounds, provide comfort in pain, make space for healing, and put on the medicine every day.

To the extent that I know myself at all, I know I bear the scars of sin and self, of family and failure, of culture and conflict. The question is whether I’ll put on the medicine every day. The question is whether I’ll smear my scars with prayer, Scripture, silence, public worship, deep community, faithful generosity, and humble service.

In the past I’ve botched the season of Lent by engaging it as a six-week self-improvement project, but I think I’m done with that. These days I’d rather just show up to the places where Jesus says he’ll meet me so that he can do the work he says he’ll do.

You Don’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Good

“I like Atticus the way he is,” my daughter told me.

You see, Atticus Finch, the fictional hero of To Kill A Mockingbird holds special status in our house.

I read the book to our kids when they were young and we were all inspired by Atticus’ consistent pursuit of justice in the segregated south.

Our kids even named our beagle, “Scout” after Atticus’ precocious daughter.

When my middle school daughter heard that a second book by Harper Lee revealed some of Atticus’ personal flaws and failures she told me she didn’t want to read it. She didn’t want her pristine impression of Atticus’ nobility to be soiled by more information.

Photo Credit: Barry Lenard, Creative Commons

I felt the same way a few weeks ago when I read about John Newton in a powerful new book, The Justice Calling. I knew that Newton wrote the famous hymn, “Amazing Grace” and that he was a repentant slave trader in the late 1700s.

Yet, I was surprised to read that it took Newton over 20 years after he found faith to reject slavery.

The folklore version of history, that Newton instantly rejected slavery after his conversion experience, just isn’t true. He continued to buy slaves, torture them, and transport them across the Atlantic while he was learning about the sweet sound that saved a wretch like him.

For this human trafficker, even after he was found he was still lost in some ways.

“Amazing Grace” was written over a decade before Newton publicly spoke out against the slave trade. Instead of a “carefully scrubbed redemption” narrative, the truth is messy and muddled. The good news is that Newton got to the right place in the end.

His journey took time.

I think it is easier to admire accomplishments or respect people when we don’t know the whole story.

We like placing people on pedestals more than understanding their complexity.

We say we want transparency in others, but I wonder if that is really true. The idea of authenticity may be attractive but its reality might disappoint us.

Is it possible that we prefer incomplete caricatures of people?

Many in our culture seem to take great joy in exposing others flaws and subjecting them to public humiliation with a #EpicFail trailing behind. It makes headlines when someone’s affair, addiction, or other little secret is revealed.

Tearing down people and their ideas feels like sport these days, especially if they play for a different team or opposing party.

Here is something to consider:

Do failures negate accomplishments or can they co-exist?
Can a noble character have flaws?
Can a writer’s work remain brilliant after his/her personal failings are revealed?
Can someone enjoy new love after an old relationship ended poorly?

A thorough investigation of anyone would probably reveal some level of hypocrisy or internal inconsistency.

None of our stories are stain-free.

Parents know their children aren’t perfect. Kids negligently make mistakes and sometimes are willfully disobedient. Even so, we love and train them through their failures and do not allow their worst moments to define them.

The same should be true in healthy marriages. We should honestly deal with conflicts and lovingly resolve them.

Why can’t the same texture exist for our leaders, role models, the lady down the street, and the annoying guy at work?

People don’t have to be perfect to be good.

Their imperfections don’t have to be denied or whitewashed . . . but they also shouldn’t negate their other ideas or contributions.

I don’t want to let the scandalous truth about John Newton taint the beauty of his song “Amazing Grace.” After talking about these ideas with my daughter, we agreed to read Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee’s second book about Atticus Finch. If it is okay for Atticus not to be perfect, perhaps we don’t have to be perfect, either.

Holding Onto Hope When It Feels Dangerous

Near the end of Romans, Paul writes:

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” —Romans 15:13

This passage recently caught my attention, and started me thinking about what exactly hope is, and what it means that he asks us to “abound” in it.

We hope in small, casual ways all the time.

“I hope the Razorbacks win [the National Championship, the SEC West,…ok, this game], “I hope dinner turns out,” or “I hope you have a nice weekend!” And we hope in really big, ultimate ways, too—the hope of Heaven, the hope of restoration and reunion, and the hope of a world finally set right.

Photo Credit: Amanda Tipton, Creative Commons,

It’s the whole spectrum of situations that exist between these two poles that makes me ponder what it means to hope for everyday stuff that really matters: “I hope this job works out for her,” “I hope their baby gets well,” or “I hope he finds some peace.”

These are things that hurt when they don’t go how we want or expect, their outcomes affect people we love in life-altering ways, and sometimes the ways they play out are unfair and difficult and sad.

It’s here that I find myself resisting Paul’s encouragement to “abound in hope.”

I usually hope with my fingers crossed.

I hope in a hushed tone and with a knowing head shake that is more gearing up for something to go wrong than it is looking for something to go well. I’m saying, “Oh, I really hope this goes smoothly” but I’m meaning, “I’m really worried it won’t.”

My expressing a hope for something occurs simultaneously with the sinking awareness that it could very well not go how I’d choose.

Hope feels dangerous, almost unwise.

Like I’ve sent a gold-leaf, letterpress invitation for disappointment and defeat.

Yet, there is the text, telling us we can abound in hope.

Another translation reads “overflow with hope.” I’m sure in one way Romans is talking about the big, ultimate, hope of as-it-should-be. But “abound with hope” doesn’t sound like something that’s only the overarching backdrop for our faiths, or like something we resort to when all the more practical options are off the table.

It also doesn’t sound like the power of positive thinking, or a spiritual-sounding way to stick our heads in the sand about real difficulty.

As I was mentally scrolling through all the things this passage might mean, and wondering how I am supposed to be able to “overflow with hope” when I live in the real world, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I could think of hope more like many of us think of prayer:

As a deliberate and intentional act.

Maybe hope is not just the acknowledgement of a desire, but an action we set our minds to.

It’s like loving, or having faith even (especially?) when we stand in hard or uncertain times. Maybe I could get more on board with hope as a determined decision to remember that the people and situations I’m concerned for are and have always already been in God’s care.

Hope is not a passive, static emotion that is supposed to trump all the sad news and scary circumstances. Hope can be a proactive position of my heart, mind, and actions—a stance from which I’m motivated not just to believe in good but to seek out how to contribute to it.

This, of course, isn’t a comprehensive definition.

But it’s a new [to me] way of thinking about hope that’s adding to my understanding of it.

I can better understand how hope fits into this world if I don’t think of it as a happy feeling I’ll need to figure out how to sustain even when something devastating happens.

I can see a smidge more how it might be possible to abound in hope when I think of it as a commitment to keep scanning the horizon for good, even when that good doesn’t looked the first thousand ways I thought it would.