Donald Miller's Blog, page 31

Why It’s Important to Tell Even Your Darkest Story

My parents got divorced a few years ago, and that event sent fractures through the foundation of my life. When my parents’ marriage failed, I doubted my own capacity to be a father and a husband. 

I went on a journey through the Bible to look for answers that ended in atheism.

After a while, I came back to God, but I was different.

The faith of my childhood fit about as well as my beloved “Members Only” jacket from 1987. My new views on faith and morality caused all kinds of controversy at my church. I tried to hang on, but I was hurting a lot of people by sticking around, and some of them were hurting me too.

A lifelong Baptist doesn’t expect to find himself spiritually homeless.

But I was, and it lead me to some dark places. I’m a sanguine guy, but leaving my church left me depressed and hopeless. It was worse than my folks splitting up.

I went to a therapist.

I’m the kind of person who treats therapists like handy people treat mechanics: I only show up when there are terrible sounds coming from deep within the engine.

My engine sounded like it was about to blow apart every time I got out of bed.

My therapist asked me about the facts of the situation, which I could explain with clinical detail, along with observations about what I was feeling. Then she changed tactics, and asked me about my childhood.

I told her I had a great childhood, aside from all the bullying.

My neighborhood was full of kids my age, and three of them were closer than brothers. Mom and Dad were affectionate, attentive parents, and my sister was my advocate. I spent my time swinging across ravines on vines, building tree forts, and exploring the world.

But then I’d go to school.

School was different.

I was at the absolute bottom of the social pecking order.

My presence was treated in the same way as an unexpected piece of gum on the bottom of a shoe–I was scraped relentlessly until I let go.

But I was lonely, so I could hold on a long time.

Then she asked me how all that made me feel, and I had something like a panic attack. It surprised me, and scared me. To be honest, I am the kind of person who can control emotions well. My close friends tell me I’m like a robot. 

I get freaked out when my feelings don’t respond to the leash.

Every week, my therapist went to the same place–how I felt about being bullied so much as a kid. And every week, I’d skirt around a panic attack and calm myself down. I was pretty proud of my control.

One week, she asked why I never cried.

I told her I cried all the time–at movies, or commercials about how much parents love their kids. I cry all the time when people tell me sad stories about their lives.

But then she asked me when I cry about my own grief, and I realized that I don’t.

I don’t cry when loved ones die, or at least not more than a few seconds. And I don’t cry about events in my past.

She encouraged me to stop fighting the panic attack in her office, but I couldn’t do it. It seemed wasteful and silly, to sit in an office and just cry. My therapist insisted it was helpful, but she couldn’t cite any research telling me why it worked.

I did what I always do.

I searched through scientific research myself.

And I found something fascinating: our brains hold onto the past as if it’s happening right now.

When someone asks you about your most perfect day, your brain goes into a state that reflects that day–it shows up in a brain scan. The parts of your brain that activate when you’re happy also activate when you recall that day.

Even the part of your brain that processes what you see will light up with an afterimage of the beautiful sunset you saw on that day.

Your brain makes the past real, and this is even more true for traumatic events.

When you recall something that hurt you, your brain goes into high alert. Your limbic system responds to that memory the way it responds to a real threat in the here and now. I’m talking about full-on flight-or-fight here; elevated pulse, rapid breathing, the works.

The more that trauma was reinforced, the stronger the response from your limbic system. This is why people who had a close brush with death on a battlefield or roadway can be triggered so easily, or why people with abusive parents spend so much energy building a life that avoids brushing up to those memories.

Our brains want to protect us from those circumstances. There’s hope. You see, our brains have pretty terrible memory.

We change our memories every time we recall them.

That’s bad for our ability to recall facts over time, but good for trauma. It’s good because when you recall painful memories in a safe place, the neurological roots of that pain in your brain weaken a little bit.

This is why we’re compelled to tell our stories over and over.

Each telling of a story, when received with compassion, offers relief.

Have you ever known a person who wants to talk about that same painful story in their life over and over? Have you ever been that person? Our culture pushes back on lament like that, but brain science shows it’s healthy.

For our darkest moments, we may have to tell that story dozens of times. Or even dozens of dozens. Each time, that shadow of the past gets a little lighter, until we actually heal. There will still be a scar, of course, but you’ll stop bleeding every time the wound is pricked.

It turns out, one of the greatest gifts we can offer others is receiving their pain with grace.

Every person must have real, intimate friendships that include mutual sharing of our dark stories to be healthy.

Of course, even good friends have limits.

A good therapist is an incredible asset because they can hear your story as many times as you need to tell it to heal.

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I’m doing a session on the science of grief and healing at Storyline this November. We’ll go a lot deeper into this idea, not to mention two full days learning how to live a better story. Storyline registration is open now. I’d love to see you there.

Why Failure Is A Necessary Part of Making Progress

Optimist: someone who figures that a step backward after a step forward is not a disaster, it’s more like a CHA-CHA. —Robert Brault

We all know how it feels to be making progress toward something that really matters to us—overcoming an addiction, improving our relationships, losing weight, etc—and then suddenly find ourselves moving backward.

You lose ten pounds only to gain five. You go two months without smoking a cigarette and then smoke three (or five or ten) in one day.

You give up coffee for a few weeks and then finally give in and drink a latte.

It can be so frustrating and demoralizing to watch all of your hard work seemingly flushed down the drain. I’ve been in this place so many times and so I know from experience it can make you feel like giving up on your goals altogether.

But I’ve also learned something about this experience of failing that has been really helpful for me.

Failing is perfectly normal.

In fact, there is virtually no way around it. If you’re not failing, you’re probably not progressing as much as you think you are.

This is something I learned a few months ago from a marriage counselor.

My husband and I started going to marriage counseling sometime early last year.

We started seeing her because we were fighting more than we wanted to, and every now and then our fights would turn south and we would say or do mean things. We always felt really bad about it after the fact but we couldn’t seem to curb the negative cycle.

So we decided to ask for help.

The first few months of counseling were so helpful. Within two months, we had learned enough about ourselves and our marriage and each other that our fights went from four or five per week to more like one per week—and even when we did argue, we were able to keep our cool and talk ourselves through to resolution.

It felt great. For me, it restored my faith in us as a couple and in our marriage. If I’d had any doubts before, they were all melting away. We could do this!

But then, something frustrating happened.

After weeks of not having even one of our old yelling arguments, we totally slid back into that pattern. An argument started over something stupid, got out of control and ended with me leaving the house and slamming the door.

The worst part of all of this, for me, was that all the hope I had felt before—the “we can do this!” feeling—suddenly seemed to be in question. Maybe we couldn’t do this. Maybe we just weren’t meant to be married. Maybe neither of us were built for it. Maybe we were both just too selfish. Maybe we never should have gotten married in the first place…

It’s so easy to get carried away with “what ifs” when you’re failing.

The next week when we went to see our marriage counselor, we sheepishly admitted to her what had happened. And I’ll never forget what she said to us. She told us, “Oh, good. You’re failing. That means you’re making progress.”

She went on to explain how failing was a perfectly normal part of the process. Failing means you’re trying to reconcile your old way of doing things with the new one. It means you’re working to internalize the new way of thinking and existing.

Failing is actually a good thing!

This was such a relief for me to hear. Failing didn’t mean my marriage was doomed or that we were destined to fight forever. It was just a natural part of the process to my husband and I learning new ways to relate to one another. Failing was just one step in a really long process to creating a enjoyable marriage.

Since then, we’ve continued to make progress toward our goals of relating to each other in healthy ways. We’re happier than we’ve ever been—and we just keep getting happier.

Whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish—whether it’s losing weight, redirecting a relationship, reading more, complaining less—failing is a totally normal part of the process. Don’t let yourself get discouraged.

Don’t get lost in the “what ifs”.

Instead, make the decision to keep making steps forward, despite your setbacks.

You won’t regret it.

Something To Remember When Social Media Makes You Feel Bad About Yourself

I’m not what you would call a social media pro. I am to all things social media what a flip phone is to an iPhone.

While I do have a Facebook account, I rarely look at it. My colleagues at my office check it and tell me if there is something I need to know. I tweet once every six weeks or so, whether I need to or not.

C.S. Lewis and several other dead writers follow me, which I don’t understand, but am nonetheless honored. I also have Instagram, but I had a lull in activity and now I can’t figure out how to get back on.

As I said, I’m not a pro.

Truth be told, one of the reasons I’m not very active is that social media makes me both insecure and envious. At age 61, those words are a little embarrassing to write, but they’re true.

After spending a few minutes looking at all of the cool things people are doing, I begin to sink. While I’m clearing the muck out of my gutters or getting my oil changed, they are a few feet from Bono at a concert. (It’s amazing how many people get a few feet from Bono!)

One Instagrammer I follow has been at a different idyllic lake in the Northwest every day for the last 6 months.

I don’t think she ever goes inside.

There are photos and movies of people jumping into the water, sharing drinks at some pub, or eating dinner around a large table. Some share an image of a latte with those designs in the top with a journal next to it.

Daily, I see the most beautiful sunsets and sunrises over the beach, and selfies in exotic places around the world.

Sometimes these beautiful scenes and moments are interrupted by some curmudgeon ranting about something, but soon they are pushed into the background by the exciting and fun people.

This is where envy comes in.

Other people live such amazing and interesting lives. I wish my life looked like theirs. And sometimes, I simply wish I would have been invited to the party.

It’s easy to feel like you’re on the outside of the good life when you’re looking at social media.

Not long ago, I read a blog by a woman who was a Mommy Blogger.

She wrote about her experience raising three children. While many such bloggers write about amazing and creative ways to raise great kids, she posted a photo of the inside of the back seat of her car.

There were banana peels, crushed Goldfish, discarded juice boxes, Starbucks cups, and McDonald’s hamburger wrappers.

It was a mess and I loved her for it.

It made me realize that maybe there were more people around like me.

It reminded me of a phrase from Eugene Peterson. He wrote an essay about the “Blue Mountain” people. When you are driving toward the mountains, from a distance they appear to be blue. But the closer you get to them, the more you realize that mountains aren’t blue at all.

People are like that, he says.

From the distance of Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, many people appear to be a certain fantastic way. But if you get close, they’re just like you and me.

Five percent of the time, they’re in the midst of nature, at a U2 concert, at Disney World or having great parties. But the other 95% of the time, they’re simply living life. And a lot of that life is mundane.

There is always someone who appears to be living the life I wish I had. But more and more, a simple reality comes into view.

All of us are the same color.

And that color is not blue.

Why You Need A Personal Code And How to Create One

Recently I heard an interview with a prominent world leader who was asked about his formative years. One of the things he did that served him, he said, was to develop a code.

And by “code” he meant a list of values by which he would live.

Normally we think of mission statements and values as reserved for institutions. But individuals can have them too. 

So what’s your code? What’s your personal mission statement? Have you figured it out yet?

Here’s an exercise to help you do so.

First, your code:

Think of three things that make you angry.

For instance, bullies. Or perhaps the defamation of something beautiful. Or wasted spending, or whatever.

The reason I ask you to do this is often the things that make us angry are the flip side of our values.

When somebody steps on our values, it ticks us off.

So the first step to figuring out your code is to figure out your values. If bullies make you angry, you have a heart for justice. If the defamation of beauty ticks you off, you value art and craftsmanship and making the world a better place.

So, once you figure out your top three values, turn them into your code. 

Here is the code I arrived at after processing my values:

I value truth. I want to find and tell the truth in every aspect of my life. I don’t like when people are deceptive or manipulative, even if their overall objective is good. I want to surround myself with people who tell the truth. I also value research and the discovery of truth. I don’t want to settle for shallow or easily-arrived at answers. And I don’t like tribal thinking.
I value freedom. I think people should be free to arrive at their own conclusions and I’m not a fan of coercion, be it physical, emotional or mental. I like sharing my opinion and letting others use the information to arrive at their own. I value independent thinkers. I’ve a strong sensitivity to people who need me to agree with them and don’t give me the freedom to disagree. I’m drawn to a limited government.
I value action. I don’t think talk gets us far. I tend to stay away from overly scholarly conversations that have no basis in action. I like thinkers who do things more than thinkers who think things. I don’t want to live in an ivory tower. I want to change the physical world around me through action.

So what are your values? What is your code?

What are the things you will and will not do? Have you written them down? 

Our values should cost us something.

There are plenty of projects I won’t get involved in because I’d have to compromise my values. And yet, the more I live into these values, the more clarity I have in life and the more I get done.

I hope this helps.

* If you’d like to figure out your life plan, including your values, in a conference setting, join us for the Storyline Conference in November. You’ll love it!

Five Articles I Sent My Staff This Week

As a staff, we are committed to learning and growing, both professionally and personally. One of the ways we do that is by reading. Below are some of the most current things we’re reading together.

If you’re in need of something great to read this weekend, start here.

These Four Character Flaws Can Kill Your Career

via Jon Acuff

Getting ahead in your career is not just about working hard, although hard work is important. Here are some great thoughts about how your character can impact your success.

Move Beyond Fear: Find And Keep Your Writing Voice in Ten Steps

via Darren Rowse

Although this article is about writing, it’s really about fear. These ten steps are spot on. No matter what it is you’re afraid of, I hope this article can help.

Three Things That Make CEOs Stupid

via Seth Godin

One of the most important things for me is that I surround myself with people who are honest with me. I hope I can honor my staff by avoiding these three mistakes.

6 Reasons Marketing is Moving In House

via Harvard Business Review

We’ve always done our marketing in house, so I appreciated what this article had to say about that approach. We have definitely experienced these benefits.

Successful People Focus on the Process, Not The Result

via Chuck Blakeman

Not only is this a more effective way to approach the creative process, it’s also far more fun. I’m grateful to work on a staff of people who enjoy the process.

The Real Danger of Getting Revenge

I have a friend who rides bikes. Expensive bikes. Ultra-light bikes. And you know what the rule is about bikes, right? The lighter they are, the more expensive they are.

My friend’s bikes cost many thousands of dollars.

We both live in San Diego, where there are some great bike trails.

He can go inland to the desert, up the coast along spectacular ocean views, down to the border – anywhere he wants. They all involve pretty serious hills. Most mornings he rides anywhere from 50 to 100 miles.

One of the reasons he rides is that he was an executive in a very stress-filled job.

He had a financial quota to meet, and if he hit it, the boss wondered why he didn’t exceed it by more. If he didn’t hit it… well, he was always too driven to find out what would happen if he came in below.

The CEO was a decent enough guy.

But my friend reported to the person just below the CEO.

The boss was one of the bad guys.

Unethical, verbally abusive, didn’t always tell the truth.

He was like the Kevin Spacey character in Horrible Bosses. His employees wondered if their emotional or professional lives would survive. I suspect, similar to the movie, that some pondered killing him.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, my friend thought.

So my friend quit.

Life’s too short to live under that kind of intense, unnecessary pressure.

His personal life was suffering, and so was his emotional health. He could figure out the money later.

One particular morning, about a year after he quit, he put his bike on top of his car, as was his routine, and drove to a trail.

He rode his bike hard, working out a lot of toxicity in his muscles and his head. He felt good. He was back in charge of his life.

Photo Credit: Daniel Robinson, Creative Commons

This was the way it was supposed to be.

He put the bike back on top of his car and started the drive home.

His phone rang, and it was one of his former co-workers who had stayed at the company and withstood the onslaughts of the boss all of this time.

“Our company was sold,” the co-worker told my friend. “The CEO is gone and they are interviewing candidates to replace him.”

My friend thought about this.

“How about you apply for the job?” the co-worker continued.

“You could come in as CEO, fire your former boss, and then quit the next day. Then you could go back to riding your bike.”

My friend actually considered this.

He thought about it most of the way home. He thought about how miserable this boss had made his life. He thought about revenge. And it felt pretty good.

Clearly, it was payback time.

As my friend pulled into his driveway, still thinking, still plotting, he pushed his garage door opener and pulled in.

But he forgot that his bike—his very expensive bike—was still on the roof of his car.

The bike was destroyed. The frame of the garage door needed replacing.

All my friend could do was laugh.

“I get it—I get it!” he said.

His desire to get even, his desire to satisfy his own ego, his brief consideration to plot someone else’s downfall, resulted in the destruction of something he loved very much, something that was going to be hard to replace.

Sounds like something out of Shakespeare. Or Scripture. Or a friend’s garage.

Have you ever let your ego, your sense of payback, ever get the best of you? It costs a lot, doesn’t it?

One Thing We Often Forget About Creating A Masterpiece

For the past few years I’ve been planting vegetable gardens in our yard each spring.

I’m far from an expert, but I’m learning more every year.

Any practical lesson I learn about how to best take care of my plants is almost always a figurative lesson for how to take care of the rest of life.

Those raised beds are teeming with metaphor.

For example, plants thrive with a little direction of where to go, good soil counts for everything, weeds grow more easily than (and not to mention from the same soil that) the good stuff does, and so forth.

One of the best things gardening has taught me is that growing things that are beautiful and healthy is long work.

I don’t mean the days are long, although if this was my full-time job they certainly would be.

I mean that the pace at which it is possible to make changes and see results is slow.

Gardening is something I’ve learned by experiment.

But the interval for my many trials and many errors is longer than I’m used to. As in, you messed this up, and you can try again…next year.

There aren’t tricks I can do to make the peppers get red in 2 hours instead of 76 days.

Scotch tape does not repair a little blooming tomato branch that I broke off trying to get it in the tomato cage.

Participating in a process that I can’t rush is really good for me.

Most things I can speed up at the last minute if I have to.

I can perform some little sleight of hand with the clock or the calendar and still get everything in place on time, or at least have it appear that way.

On the contrary, to plant seeds is to sign up for gratification that’s the opposite of instant.

The end result is months away, and the time it takes to get better and better is measurable in years.

We live in a world where shortcuts aren’t just an option, they’re standard fare.

I am accustomed to immediate analysis of whether or not something was a success, quick and virtual substitutes for connection to others, and easy alternatives for everything from thinking for myself to feeding myself.

And let me tell you.

I Instagram and drive through McDonald’s at breakfast with the best of them and am not arguing that there’s no good place for these things (especially since McDonald’s now serves breakfast all day.)

What I’m getting at is that because the noise of what’s fast and easy and immediate is so prevalent, so ubiquitous, I’m afraid we’ll lose our appetites for things that can only be made by perseverance and hope and imagination applied over a long period.

Again, growing things that are beautiful and healthy is long work.

My garden is a tangible reminder of this.

Often the best work I can do is the work that invests, in some tiny way, in the long view.

I want to be willing to learn a lesson about tomatillo plants that I can’t implement until the next year. To put down good material in my garden beds that won’t really be able to do its job until next season, and the next, and the next.

I want to be willing to remember that because this is the same kind of work that is required by all the important parts of our lives: craft and calling, home and family, relationship and community.

Not quick, not efficient. Slow and steady, and then eventually, I hope, beautiful and good.

How A “Step of Faith” Might Look Different Than You Imagined

We often talk about “taking a step of faith.” The context seems to refer to a moment of strength where, after a long time of processing, praying, and sweating through the options, we muster up the fortitude to confidently step out and trust we won’t slip.

Sure, there is trepidation and fear.

But we usually don’t take the next step if we don’t at least have some idea that our footing will be on solid ground and the distance we strode will move us significantly forward in our journey to becoming more of who (or where) we think we are supposed to be.

I see stories of people in scripture who took figurative steps of faith.

Sometimes it was a move to a new place, standing on conviction, or putting a life on the line, but there are other times I see a step of faith as a literal step.

Some of these steps were out on to water, quite possibly the least secure place of footing possible.

Peter’s step required leaving the solid boat for a raging sea.

The Israelites step required leaving the wandering behind and putting their feet into a flooded, dirty, river and trusting God would part the waters.

We know the end of these stories so I often imagine these steps done with head held high, chest puffed out, and the confidence of one who knows what they’re doing.

Thinking of steps of faith like this is a little misleading.

We think we have to take the step with confidence, because God might be disappointed in us if we have doubt in our step.

After all, we are taught that faith and doubt cannot coexist.

I disagree.

I think faith and doubt are two sides of the very same coin.

Not that wisdom is bad, in fact it is needed in taking steps, but sometimes faith comes in when wisdom has reached it’s limits and one foot needs to be lifted to be placed in front on the other.

Take watching a toddler take his first steps, for example.

This is one of the most fun things you can experience.

Their steps are rarely large and they are never leaps. The hands generally wave wildly while bowed legs and pigeon turned feet try to hold up the massive weight of a body too large for the chubby untrained thighs to carry.

By any reasonable measure of success, the first step is usually a failure.

It doesn’t go very far, it ends in falling on their padded bottom, and many times is followed by tears.

A toddler’s first step is off balance, looks ridiculous, and ends in a flop almost every time.

But, the fun of watching a toddler take his first steps is nothing like the fun of watching his parents watch him take his first step.

There is cheering and laughter, encouragement and joy. And clapping, oh the clapping.

The moment is probably capture on film, and if not, there is disappointment. The tears of the parent are so different than the tears of the child, but the tears are often there.

Calls are made to relatives, posts go on social media, and there is always an attempt to try for a repeat.

There is no punishment for the fall, there is no disappointment in the awkwardness of the posture, there is no hope for leaps or running.

There is only joy in the tiny, little, uncomfortable, weak, trembling, pathetic, dangerous, amazing, life changing, party prompting step. Why? Because it was a step.

In moments of steps of faith, I’d like to imagine God like the parent of this wobbly toddler.

I more often think of God watching with disappointment, ready to correct, and throwing His hands up in the air because despite all His best efforts, I continue to take really poor steps of faith.

I am wobbly, unsure, look incredibly awkward and foolish, and it usually ends in a giant fall with giant size tears.

I’ve walked before, I should know how to do this.

But, somehow I’m learning to walk all over again, and God must be shaking his head in disappointment.

What if instead, God was holding His arms up high?

What if He was celebrating with every sloppy step, cheering me on because even though it was ugly and scary, it was a step? A step that will require many more steps, possibly many more falls and many more tears, but it was a step.

What if he was taking out his smart phone and taking pictures while tears were running down his face?

What if he called over Moses or one of the James’ by yelling, “Come here! Look! My boy is taking a step!” And even if that step didn’t look perfect, he was still beaming with his goofy proud dad grin that’s makes you drop your head and blush a little and saying:

“Don’t worry if you missed it. He’ll take another one soon, I just know it. He’s good at it.”

Do You Apologize Too Much?

It was my first job.

Looking back, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I was greeting people at the door of a chain restaurant, asking a simple question, ushering them to their seats with the appropriate number of menus. But for me, at seventeen years old, this was me, becoming an adult.

This was the big bad world.

Actually, this was my neighborhood Applebees. But that’s beside the point.

I worked hard to be good at my job.

I learned quickly to seat the big parties in Tony’s section, because he loved to entertain, and to keep the two-tops for Michelle, because she liked to keep things low key. I learned never to seat Nicolas after 8:30pm, when the crowd started to die down, because he liked to go home early.

I learned Stephen was moody, and never to bother him when he was busy.

One day, I was cleaning tables in Brittany’s section.

This was beyond the scope of my responsibility but it was something I did for servers I liked. The faster her tables were clean, the more customers I could seat, and the more money that server would make.

Photo Credit: McTobi, Creative Commons

As soon as I was done cleaning, Brittany walked up the stairs I was trying to go down, to the point where we nearly bumped into each other.

With my hands full of dishes, I backed away so she could come through.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

And that’s when something happened that I’ll never forget.

She stopped, looked at me, and said, very seriously: “Don’t say you’re sorry. Say, ‘Excuse me, Brittany! I’m coming through!’”

At the time, I laughed nervously, but I’ve never forgotten that moment. I find myself saying “I’m sorry” often in my life. All the time, in fact. Not necessarily when I have something to be sorry for, but whenever I feel like I’m in the way.

Which I guess is a lot.

It makes me wonder: do I say I’m sorry too often?

Obviously, being able to say “I’m sorry” is really important, especially when you really have something to be sorry for. It can be one of the most diffusing things in a conflict; and also the mark of a great leader.

It takes a strong person to be able to take responsibility.

But there’s a difference between a genuine apology and simply saying “I’m sorry” because we feel like we’re in the way. And what I noticed, after that day with Brittany, was that most of the time I said “I’m sorry,” I was doing it the second way.

I’ve always been afraid to take up too much space.

Scared to step in front of someone, to cut someone off, to raise my voice, to speak up at all, even when I have something to say. I’m scared to have an opinion (heaven forbid it be the wrong one) to start a conflict, to hurt feelings, to take up resources, to get in the way.

I’m scared to want things, to ask for things, to admit my hurting, to need help, to accept gifts, to make a path for myself.

I want to be the girl who says, “excuse me, coming through!”

But instead I’m the one who says, “I’m sorry,” and backs away.

It’s been more than ten years since I got that advice from Brittany, and I would love to say I’ve mastered it. I wish I never said “I’m sorry” when I didn’t mean it, or that I didn’t still worry I was stepping on toes or getting in the way.

But of course, none of that would be true.

What is true is that I think about Brittany’s advice all the time and I’m still working to be the kind of person who doesn’t feel the need to apologize for her existence.

And more than ever, lately, I find myself making room for myself, speaking my mind, asking for what I need and ultimately, like Brittany suggested, avoiding saying “I’m sorry” and instead insisting, “excuse me, I’m coming through!”

A New Way to Think About Not Getting What You Want

I was in college and thought I wanted to be a forest ranger and later, a surfer.

Then I got my first “dear Bob” letter from someone I really cared for who didn’t want to date a forest ranger or a surfer any more.

I’ve learned that God sometimes allows us to find ourselves in a place where we want something so bad that we can’t see past it.

Sometimes we can’t even see God because of it.

When we want something that bad, it’s easy to mistake what we truly need for the thing we really want. When this sort of thing happens, and it seems to happen to everyone, I’ve found it’s because what God has for us is obscured from view, just around another bend in the road.

In the Bible, the people following God had the same problem I did.

They swapped the real thing for an image of the real thing. We target the wrong thing and our misdirected life’s goal ends up looking like a girl or a wide-brimmed hat or a golden calf.

All along, what God really wants for us is something much different, something more tailored to us.

So I skew the answers to get what I thought I wanted. But when I do that, I also get what I don’t want, too, like a cot and a room full of guys.

The first time I wanted someone to care for me as much as I cared for her, she picked someone else and I tried to talk her out of it. If I had been successful, I wouldn’t have experienced love in the unique way that I have.

I wouldn’t have found who and what God tailor-made for me.

I’m kind of glad I didn’t end up being a forest ranger or a surfer.

I’m even glad things turned out the way they did after I drove away from UCLA.

While painful at the time, I can see now, many years later when I look in the rearview mirror of my life, evidence of God’s tremendous love and unfolding adventure for me.

I’ve received many letters since then in my life that started out “Dear Bob.” Some were letters so thick they had to be folded several times to fit in the envelope.

They left me feeling as folded when I read their words with shattering disappointment.

Still, whatever follows our “Dear Bobs” is often another reminder.

God’s grace comes in all shapes, sizes, and circumstances as God continues to unfold something magnificent in me.

And when each of us looks back at all the turns and folds God has allowed in our lives, I don’t think it looks like a series of folded-over mistakes and do-overs that have shaped our lives.

Instead, I think we’ll conclude in the end that maybe we’re all a little like human origami and the more creases we have, the better.

A New Way to Think About Not Getting What You Want is a post from: Storyline Blog