Donald Miller's Blog, page 54

Why You Can’t Seem to Find Your Willpower

Awhile back, I listened to a book called Willpower by Roy Baumeister and John Tierney and took great interest in their findings about how willpower actually works.

Citing study after study (perhaps too many for an otherwise enjoyable read) Baumeister and Tierney argue willpower actually comes from the muscle of the mind and that it can be strengthened. I thought I’d share some of what I learned.

How do we build up our willpower?
1. We don’t try to tackle too much too soon. If you’re trying to lose weight, get out of debt, get married, build a rocket ship and write a symphony, chances are you’re going to fail. Why? It’s too much for the willpower muscle to lift. The authors argue we’re better off choosing one, simple resolution and going easy on ourselves as we build our muscles.

2. We eat for strength. No kidding, our willpower is directly connected to nutrition. More than one study revealed that when glucose levels are low, people have much less discipline. But before going to drink that milkshake (so you can resist that milkshake) know that high glycemic foods cause a spike and then a decline in glucose levels, making willpower even more difficult.

3. Rest and sleep. Just like any muscle, the brain is strengthened with rest and sleep. After you work your brain, it needs rest in order to grow. Getting enough sleep is key, and taking breaks at regular intervals will help. Ever notice how you have more willpower in the morning than in the evenings, and after a meal as opposed to when you’re hungry?
Pay attention to your habits.

I hope thinking about willpower as being affected by the muscle of the brain rather than some kind of personality issue gives you hope for accomplishing some of those goals you’ve been thinking about. It’s certainly helped me.

Now excuse me, I’ve got to take a little nap so I can fight that Wendy’s Frosty later.

Why You Can’t Seem to Find Your Willpower is a post from: Storyline Blog

Why Being Vulnerable is Leaving You Lonely

Vulnerability is a hot topic right now, and I couldn’t be more thrilled about it. Not only have I realized I have a lot to work on, but I’ve become more aware and thankful for the people in my life who model vulnerability well.

But I’ve also learned there are people who model vulnerability poorly.

Here’s what I mean.

Have you ever been setup to meet a stranger for coffee and left two hours later knowing every brutal detail about her recent divorce but still not her last name? Or followed someone on social media who posts vivid details about her personal life but is extremely difficult to engage with in person? Or dated someone who professed deep feelings for you before he even knew anything significant about you?

These are just examples, but chances are one or two of your own experiences came to mind. We all have known moments where it would have been nice to hit a big red “TMI” (Too Much Info) button like the Easy Button in the Staples commercials and suddenly watch the person across from you snap to their senses and return to an appropriate level of emotional exposure.

I don’t say any of this to sound judgmental, I more so want to acknowledge these actions come from a place of desiring to deeply connect in a way we all desire. But in these cases, this healthy desire is being sought out in a disastrous way.

This is the other end of vulnerability.

This is the emotional purging and over sharing of information with people whom you haven’t built a relationship of trust with. And it often leaves its culprits more lonely and lost than they were before.

Here are 3 ways I try to avoid unhealthy vulnerability:

1. Build trust. Take the time to get to know people before you spill your guts.

While its true that vulnerability early on can be a good thing, it shouldn’t be forced or without respect for other people’s boundaries. Know not every person is meant to listen to and speak into your wounds. But when you do find trustworthy relationships, practice sharing things within them. I love how in Brene Brown’s book Daring Greatly, her daughter describes trustworthy friends as “the friends who ask me to sit with them, even if they’ve been asked to sit at the popular kids’ table.”

2. Put others first. Ever caught yourself spilling your guts to someone when you don’t know anything about their own story? Sometimes we get so set on unloading our own worries and struggles that we forget other people are carrying stuff, too. If you don’t take time to grow your heart for other people, how can you expect them to grow theirs for you? Ask questions and care about the answers. Few things are more exhausting or alienating than one-sided conversations.

3. Check your motives. If you’re about to post anything on social media that’s out of a place of desiring people to reach out to you, tap that iPhone home button. Then bravely reach out to someone you trust and share what’s going on. A simple and helpful question I try to ask myself before I post anything is “Why?” If my convictions ever tell me it’s from a place of frustration or loneliness, I delete it. Chances are I’d want to delete in the next day anyway. I have never regretted being vulnerable with someone I trust, I have regretted things I’ve posted on the Internet.

Vulnerability thrives within trusting relationships.

Don’t get me wrong, it can be a beautiful thing to be publicly vulnerable (and I try to be, often), but only when it’s motivation is to spread hope and understanding. And usually after I’ve already confided in someone I trust.

If our public vulnerability is an attempt to gain the benefits of intimacy, we’re actually moving further away from what we really want. May we do more of the brave and patient work of building trust with one another instead, and begin to experience deep healing and hope because of it.

Why Being Vulnerable is Leaving You Lonely is a post from: Storyline Blog

The Character Trait That Pleased Jesus

In John 6, Jesus loses some of his followers after He tells them they have to eat His flesh and drink His blood. I imagine they thought He was crazy. And I would have thought He was crazy too.

But it was the twelve disciples who remained. And why? It’s not because Jesus clarified He was speaking metaphorically (it might have been nice for Him to have clarified that, though); it was because they said they had no other choice.

They believed He was the son of God.

And they really had no other options. They literally said to him “where else are we going to go?”

The striking thing about this passage, for me, was that Jesus lived out the earlier theme from John that He did not get His glory from man. He had no need for man’s approval.

Contrast this with our own desire for approval from each other. He did not care that they thought He was crazy. And it’s not because He was captain confidence; it was because man literally had no glory to offer Him at all.

His glory would come from the Father.

Ever been to a foreign country where the food was not appealing? Ever sat down in front of a bowl of bugs? Or worms? To Jesus, this was the social meal placed before Him every day: the glory of man. We are designed, like the Trinity, to have glory shine through us. But Christ, knowing the glory of the Father, was not the least bit tempted by the sort of glory we partake in every day– the fleeting, passing, tiny, conditional, false glory and praise we dole out toward each other secretly hoping we’ll get something in return.

Christ saw the passive aggressive attempts at glory, and the desire for an audience to clap or think we are fashionable or smart or religious or fast or sexy and it looked to Him like a bowl of worms.

Christ longed for the Father.

And He invited us to be one with Him so that the glory of God would someday shine through us, even as it had through Him.

The second thing that is striking about this passage is that Jesus is very comfortable with us not understanding Him. This seems like an injustice in an age where every Sunday we have things explained to us and have our control increased over whatever dynamic we face.

But “understanding” is not a character trait that Jesus seems to value.

He’s not praising the smarties.

Instead, He’s pleased with the faithful, those who will follow when there seems to be no reason to follow, and when it looks like they are going to have to do a hard thing and there’s no way out.

And from the disciples perspective, what is expressed toward Christ is not love or devotion, instead it’s incredible belief. They believed He was the son of God, even though they also probably believed He was strange. The facts, then, in their mind, were that the son of God was a strange man who talked about cannibalism and, well, that’s unfortunate, but what else are we going to do.

I like that we don’t have to be sappy about our faith.

I like that we don’t have to always understand.

And I like that it’s honorable of us to talk to God and say, Hey, man, I’m uncomfortable with this but you know, I’ve got no other options. You’re the Son of God. I’m with you whatever. It’s not like this other crap system of seeking glory is any better.

The Character Trait That Pleased Jesus is a post from: Storyline Blog

Finding Your Voice Doesn’t Happen Overnight

Telling someone how to find their voice is like telling someone the exact moment they will feel comfortable in their skin. It just doesn’t work that way.

Both journeys are piece by piece, a winding path of learning to care about yourself and what you think and say, which will in turn make you want to honor the voices and thoughts of those around you.

I started performing poetry when I was 17 years old.

It was my last year of high school, after I watched the movie Love Jones. This year means I’ve been performing for half my life. What started out as hip hop-inspired free verse, mixed with the formal poetry I studied in college, has transformed into the mix of spoken word and monologue that I perform today.

Sometimes I have begrudged my voice. I have wished it were more edgy, wished my rhyme scheme was as tightly written as hip hop taught me it should be, wished I had something more shocking or controversial to say.

But the words that come to me are about soul, soil and goofy things I’ve realized over the years.

They are my small attempt to describe a big God.

They are stories told by generations before me, snippets of eavesdropped conversations, and the sounds I hear when I write poetry.

I want to speak with confidence that the only reason I stand here is because of the God who called me.

He gave me this gift and sent me here. I want to stand strongly and speak boldly, as so many women and men before me have done. I want to feel no need to apologize for who I am, what my story is, or where I come from because all those things have created this loved, insecure, woman I am today.

At this point in my life there is a settling in me. I hate the word settle as in settling for second best or settling for less. But this is a different kind of settling. It’s a settling that brings rest. It’s not the kind of comfort that keeps us resistant to change; it’s the kind of comfort we find in someone’s eyes when we know we are loved.

Finding your voice takes time.

It takes realizing that everything: history, your own past, your family, the sound of the drive to your grandma’s house, the smell of your dad’s cologne, your college roommate’s favorite song, your first heartbreak, your dreams, hopes, future, all of this is a constant, churning stew that is at all times creating your voice.

And even the voice I’ve found so far could be so different ten years from now. Wherever I am in life, I want to accept where my voice is and know that we are on a journey together with words written to remind us where we’ve been and where we’re headed.

Finding Your Voice Doesn’t Happen Overnight is a post from: Storyline Blog

What I Learned From a Funeral I Haven’t Attended Yet

Funerals inspire me. They always have. There is something in the reminder of my mortality that compels me to make the most of each day.

And there have been a number of funerals particularly meaningful to me. I can remember the details well. They each surrounded lives well lived. No doubt, you can remember some yourself.

But perhaps the most inspirational funeral in my life is one I did not attend.

It hasn’t even happened yet.

Years ago, my grandfather, a pastor of 70 years, called me into his office. I knew his office well. He pastored the same church in South Dakota for 53 years. And the items in his office always stayed the same: the large wooden desk, the typewriter, the bookshelves, even the drawer where he hid his candy. I came to visit him often whenever I was in town.

But being specifically requested to meet on a designated day at a designated time was a rarity. Little did I know why he invited me. He wouldn’t tell me until I sat down across from him at his large wooden desk.

My grandfather started like this, “Joshua, I would like you to read Scripture at my funeral. Here is where it will take place in the service,” as he slid a piece of paper across his desk with the detailed order of service. Over the course of our time together, he laid out specifically his hopes and desires for his funeral.

This God-fearing man who had planned and performed so many memorials during his life had just planned his own.

Planning one’s own funeral is not necessarily that rare.

People do it all the time. That fact was not what surprised me so much about our conversation. What struck me most about our conversation that day was the confident nature by which he spoke. Death did not scare him. There was no fear in his demeanor. He did not regret the coming end to his days.

And there are few things in life more inspirational than peering into the eyes of a man who does not fear his own death.

My grandfather has lived a remarkable life. He still does, and thankfully so. He sits in a new office these days where he continues to reach hundreds of thousands of people with his messages of hope and life.

Even years later, I think often about our conversation that afternoon. Often times we hear about the regrets of the dying—and we are warned to avoid making their mistakes.

But rarely are we offered the alternative.

Rarely are we given an example of how to face death with few regrets. And rarely are we presented with the intentional decisions we can make today that will prepare us to face our own mortality with courage and confidence.

As I look back at some of the themes from my grandfather’s life, I begin to find my answers.

1. Make peace. My grandfather has made peace with death and peace with God. He did so 83 years ago at the age of 10. Even to this day, he will credit it as the single most important decision he ever made. And he continues to point others to his decision as the only foundation for lasting peace and hope. It is indeed a living hope inside him.

2. Love well. My grandfather loves people with a rich love. He loves his kids, his extended family, friends and enemies. His love for my grandmother is so great he speaks freely of his desire to join her in death. This is not a surface love just for show, but one that includes his heart, his mind, and his soul. This is the type of love that allows us to reach the end of our lives with confidence and few regrets.

3. Work hard. My grandfather is 93 years and still works 55+ hours/week leading one of the most important ministries in our world today. Nobody has shaped my view of work and fulfillment more than him. In a world that can’t wait for Friday and plans exhaustively for early retirement, my grandfather has stood steadfast in his appreciation for work and the fulfillment we receive from it. When we reach the end of our lives, we ought to be able to look back knowing we offered all our talents and energy to the world around us.

4. Give freely. My grandfather is one of the most generous men I have ever met. Even while raising a family with four kids and struggling to make ends meet, my grandfather never turned his back on a legitimate request for assistance (and didn’t turn his back on some illegitimate requests as well). From cash to food to housing, my grandfather gave and gives freely. He has given to me and he has given to strangers he will never meet again—all with joy and gratitude. Generosity in life provides opportunity to look back on our days with few regrets.

5. Hold lightly. My grandfather has always dreamed bigger dreams for his life than the offerings of this world. He has held everything this world offers with an open palm: money, possessions, fame, and prestige. He never viewed them as his own and rarely pursued them out of selfish gain. They are given to him at times, but the praises are always redirected and the material possessions are always reinvested for spiritual pursuits. Death always involves letting go of the world. And the sooner we learn how to do it, the sooner we prepare ourselves for that day.

Seneca once wrote, “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it. When it is wasted in heedless luxury and spent on no good activity, we are forced at last by death’s final constraint to realize that it has passed away before we knew it was passing. Life is long if you know how to use it.”

May each of us be inspired today to make the most of it. And cross the finish line with little regret.

What I Learned From a Funeral I Haven’t Attended Yet is a post from: Storyline Blog

Grappling with Control and the Fear of Dying

Every so often I get a healthy perspective about the temporal nature of life. I was reading a book awhile back about a man in his 80s who states in his introduction the first 80 years pass like a flash. His exact words are, “80 years sounds like a long time until they are behind you.”

I have a love/hate relationship with death. I like life. I enjoy getting up every morning. I like my job and my friends and the city where I live. I have bad days but not many. And I like building things in this life. I like building books and launching others into their careers. And yet, every once in a while, I realize this whole thing is going to be taken away.

It’s enough to make me quit, honestly.

What’s the point of building something when you just have to let it go?

I was with my friend Jim Chaffee a few years back for a rare speaking gig in a warm climate during winter, (the previous month I had been in Edmonton, where it was ten below) and we took a day to just play in the sun. We rented jet skis and rode around the bay in St. Marten. Towering between the bay and the ocean stood the largest privately owned yacht in the world, owned by a Russian businessman whose name I forget. It was pretty fun to ride my rented water scooter around the thing. It was as large as a cruise ship.

Later I found myself wondering how hard it would be if you were that guy, knowing all you’ve built and accumulated would have to be left behind. I wondered whether, even if he believed he was going to heaven, he would wish he could stay since in heaven he’d likely just have to start all over. It’s a silly thought but I was trying to put myself in his shoes, you know.

I wondered whether he hated death.

I wondered if he hated thinking about it, and not unlike the Egyptian rulers of old, had elaborate plans to keep his memory and power alive. I wondered whether he thought he could beat death.

The part of me that is uncomfortable with death is the same part of me that likes control.

And none of us have control over death. I mean if we wanted, we could decide when we’d like to die, but we have no control over what happens after that. And not having control can be terrifying.

This whole following Jesus business is largely about giving Him control, or more, realizing we don’t have control to begin with. And a great way to measure whether or not we’ve given Him our lives is to ask ourselves if we’ve given Him our death. By that I mean are we are okay with the fact that some day soon we are going to part with all that we’ve made, all that we’ve done, and no longer have an ounce of control over what happens on the earth?

I’ll be very candid with you here.

If it weren’t for the reality of death, I’d have much more trouble following Christ. Death means some day I have to trust Him, and life is something like a preparatory academy for that moment. If I can trust Him with my death, I can trust Him with my life, and that means my next book and my relationships and my desire to get even and my money and all the rest.

Death doesn’t give me a choice. And so I’m thankful.

Grappling with Control and the Fear of Dying is a post from: Storyline Blog

Getting Over My Guilt About Not Doing Christian Ministry

I’ve grown up in church my whole life, but if I’m being totally honest, I never really felt like I fit there. Don’t get me wrong. I’m good at making myself fit. I could show up every Sunday morning, help with setup and tear-down, come again on Wednesday night, sign up to volunteer for the different programs, etc.

But at the end of the day, I never really felt like myself when I was doing those things.

I could make myself go through the motions—and even look really happy and enthusiastic while I was doing them. But when I got quiet with myself, when I settled down to fall asleep at the end of the day, I knew something was off. I wished I wanted to do the things I was doing. But the God-honest truth was:

I was forcing it.

For a long time, I felt really guilty about this. I mean, profoundly guilty.

I would fluctuate back and forth between rebelling against the “system” of church (“Who needs these people? They don’t understand me. I’m out of here.”) and acquiescing to what I felt like church needed me to be (“Okay, I suppose I should really help out with the kids ministry… that’s the mature thing to do.”).

I would go back and forth between idolizing the people in the church who served in a way I felt like I could never match and also feeling furious with them—because they were a constant reminder to me of what I could never be.

This whole back-and-forth, flip-flop thing tortured me.

Until a few years ago, when I was having a conversation with a friend of mine who pastors a thriving church. We’ve known each other since we were kids, so despite the fact that he is a pastor, I felt comfortable enough with him to tell him what I had been thinking. I explained how I always felt like a failure for not giving enough, not being enough, and not serving enough at church.

I never felt like I was participating in enough of the programs, like my attendance was enough, like my tithe was enough. I told him I always felt a little bit like I was forcing it.

His response really surprised me.

He said: “I don’t think you’re lacking in service or participation. You’re serving people–and participating in the Kingdom—every day. Programs are just programs. They’re a way to organize people and help them go where God has already called them to go and what God has already called them to do. You’re in a season of your life where you know what God has called you to do. And you’re doing it.”

“Let yourself off the hook,” he said. “That guilt you feel is not from God.”

I couldn’t believe the relief I felt when he said that. First of all, what had once felt so daunting now felt painfully obvious. I didn’t have to work in a church or be a pastor or spend my whole life in a church building in order to make a difference in the world.

I was making a difference by showing up in my marriage.

I was making a difference by using my gifts and skills as a writer, being kind to my neighbors and friends, sharing and opening my home, investing in my friendships, and even being kind to the cashier at the grocery store.

Second, I realized the guilt I had been feeling was driving me to act in really crazy ways.

It was causing a huge amount of anxiety, which was driving me to live outside of my gifts, to try and one-up people who were my friends, to hide and pretend, and to feel animosity toward people who were different from me, rather than celebrating their strengths.

When my friend let me off the hook—when he reminded me my life was my ministry, whether it happened inside a church building or not—suddenly the pressure lifted.

Suddenly, I felt like I could be myself again.

I know this sounds crazy, but the result has been really profound. When I’m not trying to give out of guilt or anxiety, I realize I actually have way more to give.

And I don’t have to feel angry or jealous about people who give in different ways than I do or who have different strengths.

I don’t have to worship them or reject them.

I can actually celebrate all of us—the way each of us are participating, uniquely and individually in the body of Christ.

And when I can see the work I do outside of a church building as just as important as the work I might do inside, I give myself to it more completely, more sacrificially, more joyfully than I ever have before.

Getting Over My Guilt About Not Doing Christian Ministry is a post from: Storyline Blog

You Don’t Have to Make Your Bed to Write a Book

When it’s time to write, my mind quickly finds a reason not to sit down and face the terror of the blank page.

Normally, these distractions come in the form of odds and ends I convince myself must be taken care of before I sit down to do my work. These odds and ends are usually mundane and hardly more important than the work.

I chose the distraction of an unmade bed because it symbolizes something; it symbolizes that we may feel the need to have all our affairs in order before we can concentrate. But only recently, and after six books, I’m just going to call it what it is…

It’s an excuse.

A good book can be written in the same house as an unmade bed. Or a checkbook out of order, or even a relationship that needs tending to.

*Photo by E. Orpin, Creative Commons

It’s not that those things can go without being dealt with forever, it’s just that if we are writers, preachers, teachers, doctors or even fathers and mothers, what matters most is the job set before us. Perhaps it’s time to call an excuse an excuse.

Here are some basic truths to remember when we’re tempted to put off our work:

1. The writing is more important than the unmade bed. But this doesn’t mean our beds will never be made. It just means they will be made after we complete our writing.

2. An unmade bed has no negative measurable impact in eternity. An unfinished book probably does.

3. We will feel much better, and be much less distracted dealing with mundane tasks, important as they may be for the quality of our lives, if our calling is tended to first.

It’s important then that we wake up and tackle our calling while the sun is still coming up.

Anything else is a trick.

You’ve only so much mental energy, and if you use the best of your capacities to tackle the tasks of your calling, your work will be better. And not only this, but by doing the mundane tasks while constantly worrying about the more important job left undone, we’re spending twice the mental energy than we would were we to tackle the more important priorities first.

So, let’s wake up, make a mental list of what’s most important, tackle it at the first available opportunity and spend the rest of our days tending to the maintenance tasks without the burden of the more important stuff weighing on our shoulders.

What’s the calling you’re neglecting? Can we promise, together, to learn to tackle them first?

You Don’t Have to Make Your Bed to Write a Book is a post from: Storyline Blog

What We Can Learn From Celebrities’ Failures

On the way to work this morning, I drove by them—twenty turkey vultures, sitting by the side of the road. Five of them were huddled over a dead fawn in the ditch, digging at it furiously, picking the carcass clean. The rest were gathered nearby, impatiently waiting their turn.

It’s a gruesome scene, but all too familiar on the country road I travel each day. Sadly, many animals fall victim to the growing car population. But they aren’t the only ones who end up in ditches.

People fall into ditches too.

And we’ve all witnessed it. In the recent past, Anthony Weiner fell in. So did Paula Deen. And of course, Donald Sterling.

It didn’t take long for each of them to be spotted by the circling vultures. Tweets started immediately. Blogs were written. Late night comics chimed in. The “news” shows had their panels, talking heads, and experts. Viewers expressed shock and dismay and sometimes revulsion.

More and more people circled to watch or to wait their turns. For weeks, night after night they flew down for a nibble. And it didn’t take long before their victims, shamed and stripped bare, were just a pile of bones.

There is something about people who fall in the ditch that catches our eye, drawing us to the scene. We’re seduced to turn on the TV or the computer to see what’s happening, to be a part of the frenzy.

I’m not sure why this is.

Maybe it’s because it is easier to spot the log in someone else’s eye. Or maybe it allows us to focus on another’s darkness rather than our own. Perhaps we’re simply relieved that TMZ hasn’t secretly taped or filmed us in a less than flattering light.

A long time ago, a group of Pharisees caught a woman in the act of adultery. They brought her to Jesus (who was teaching in the temple), put her in front of him and, trying to trick him said, “The law says we should stone her. What do you say?”

And Jesus started writing with his finger in the dirt.

They kept pressing him, demanding an answer. Finally he said, “All right! Let him who has not sinned, throw the first stone.”

And then he started writing in the dirt again.

One by one they quietly walked away, until only Jesus and the woman remained. Soon, he urged her to “Go and sin no more!” having told her that he would not condemn her.

I’ve fallen in the ditch more than once. I imagine you have too. We’ve said and done awful things that got us into serious trouble. We’ve wounded others and ourselves. And at some point, we landed face first in the ditch. Dirty. Bruised. Ashamed.

Some of us have been circled by vultures (or Pharisees with rocks), while others bear the shame alone. But we all share something in common:

We’ve been there.

And if you’ve been in the ditch, there are two things you desperately want – someone with kind eyes and a hand reaching for yours.

So the next time you see someone crumpled in a ditch, whether they are famous or whether they’re your neighbor, view them with eyes of compassion and if they’re nearby, reach out your hand. Remember, no matter what they’ve done, between you and them is Jesus, kneeling down in the dirt, writing.

The scriptures never tell us what he was writing. But I think it was one word, “mercy.”

What We Can Learn From Celebrities’ Failures is a post from: Storyline Blog

3 Risks That Will Always Be Worth Taking

By the time you’re reading this, my family and I are probably somewhere in Asia. Yesterday, we strapped on our backpacks, boarded a plane, and started our year-long adventure of traveling around the world. This has been years in the making for us, so it’s a bit of a dream come true that we’re finally doing it and not just talking about it. We honestly weren’t sure this would ever happen.

But even though this is a dream come true, we’re still nervous.

There are tons of unknowns on the horizon, and we’d be naive to think there wouldn’t be otherwise. I’ve come to learn that the best dreams come with risks, because that’s what brings forth change—allowing something new and different in our lives will always involve risk.

Here are just a few of the risks I’m nervous about:

1. I’m nervous about trying new things.

It’s a bit of a risk, putting three kids under age 10 on a plane and asking them to try new things–and then trying my darndest to do the same. I actually thrive on change, but typically when it’s on my watch, under my control. If you’ve spent any time traveling overseas, you know how seldom you’re actually in control.

I admit I’m a bit hesitant to try unidentifiable fried stuff-on-a-stick in Asia. There’s a risk to walking through Australian rainforests (have you seen the size of their spiders?). And I don’t doubt for a second it’ll be a challenge to take a 4-year-old to Machu Picchu.

And I’m sure we’ll encounter the unexpected in Ethiopia, in Lebanon, in Denmark, and beyond.

But know what makes me more nervous?

The thought of going there and not risking new things at all. Of preaching the benefits of risk to my kids but not modeling it personally. Sure, we’ll be safe and responsible. But it’s dangerous to live a life that’s too safe, I think. It doesn’t allow me to open myself to potential betterment.

2. I’m nervous about living with less.

I really am a big believer in minimalism; I write a blog about simple living, after all. But that doesn’t mean living out of a backpack for a year—with three kids—isn’t going to stretch me.

A friend of mine took her family around the world in 2013, and she told me how sick she was of her three t-shirts by month nine. I can’t even imagine. But I will soon.

I’m equally excited about the freedom living out of a backpack will bring, but there’s still a nervousness about the unknown, for sure.

3. I’m nervous about believing everything has to be exciting.

This trip isn’t technically a vacation for us. In the purest sense, my husband and I can both work from anywhere, so we’re taking our jobs with us. We’re also worldschooling our kids from the road, and we’re purposely traveling slow so that we have time to breathe, unpack a bit, and dive in the cultural deep end when it’s possible.

*Photo Credit: Lacey Raper, Creative Commons

But, c’mon… Night markets in Thailand? Safaris? The Dalmatian Coast? The Great Wall? It’s pretty amazing to experience this in one trip, and it humbles us to no end that this adventure is even possible. Yet I know me, and I know I’m easily tempted to swat away the mundane as though it’s in the way of a more exciting life.

But the majority of life is mundane.

And that’s ok. That’s more than okay.

Our stories are chock-full of laundry folding and meeting with friends over dinner in backyards and helping with homework. This is where the refining happens, most of the time. And it’s all too easy for me to wish that away, to wait for the next Big Thing instead of relishing the here and now.

In fact, as I’m writing this post in a coffee shop, a friend came over to say hi. He asked how trip prep is going, so I filled him in on some of our plans for the first few months. His response?

“You know, it’s gonna be really hard to come back. It’ll feel so ordinary.”

He’s not wrong. I need a solid dose of remembering that God is both in the waterfalls and the kitchen sink.

Our plan is to jump into the unknown this next year, and find a new way to climb on to more predictable, solid ground when we return. There’s no doubt we’re swimming in the deep end right now, somewhere in China.

3 Risks That Will Always Be Worth Taking is a post from: Storyline Blog