Donald Miller's Blog, page 6

How You Can Change Your Friends with a Few Words

The older I get the more I realize there are three major things that shape us: food, water, and words.

And the one that shapes us most is words.

It was the words of my friend Bob that talked me off a ledge, many years ago. I’d failed in yet another relationship, and Bob was the one who called and told me who I was. He said, “Don, you’re good at relationships.”

He looked deep inside me.

And he saw something different than was being displayed on the surface. He saw somebody different, somebody better. It was as though he was nourishing a seed deep in my soul—a seed that, within a couple years would grow and flourish and become the person he was telling me I already was.

In stories, lead characters don’t win the day on their own. It almost never happens. Nobody reading a story about a guy who saves the day without help would believe the story. So as stories have evolved, storytellers invented a whole new character to bring into the story. I call that character the guide.

Yoda was a guide. Haymitch was a guide. Q in the James Bond movies acts as a guide.

And the guides give confidence to the heroes.

They give them a plan and a pat on the back and a call to action to go and win the day.

And there’s another thing guides do in stories. They let the hero know, at the end of the story, that he or she has changed. That he or she is in fact now brave, courageous, and accomplished. In other words, they name the hero.

At the end of the movie Moneyball, Peter Brand, played by Jonah Hill, sits Billy Beane, played by Brad Pitt, down to have an important conversation. They’d had an incredible season with the Oakland A’s but Billy still doesn’t believe in himself.

He doesn’t believe he did anything good.

So Peter sits him down and shows him a video of a heavy-set triple A baseball player who has always been afraid to round 1st. He was a pretty good hitter, but rarely hit a double because he was too slow. One day the hitter decided to go for it. He was going to try to hit a double.

He hit the ball squarely, put his head down, and plowed toward first. And then disaster happened. He tripped on the first-base bag.

Peter Brand paused the image and Billy Beane laughed. Poor guy, Billy said. Everybody’s laughing at him.

Peter hit play again.

Yes, Peter said. But they’re not laughing because he fell down. The video revealed the player crawling back toward first, trying not to get thrown out. But the first baseman helped him up and pointed toward the outfield. The player had hit a home run. He’d cleared the fence by 60 feet.

There was some silence in the room as the player went on to round the bases. It’s a metaphor, Peter said. You hit a home run and you don’t know it.

This moment reminds me of a scene in my wedding. Just before the ceremony, Bob came over and said it to me again. He said, Don, you’re good at relationships.

This time, I believed him.

I mean I had work to do still, but it was Bob’s way of saying, see, I told you so. See what you did. See who you are.

We need more friends like that. Friends who nourish the seed of goodness inside of us. It’s their words that will make the seed grow.

You’re Never Going to Be Fully Ready

On the very best summer days, the beach at our family’s cottage collects boats all day long—little ones and big ones, friends and family, friends of friends. The day starts quietly and then all of a sudden there is music and someone is grilling and boats are rafted off.

Everyone takes turns on jet skis and paddleboards, and we make sandcastles and jump off the boat a million times in a row. There’s always a fun and crazy puzzle of people.

On one of these summer days last August, a friend of a friend of someone wanted to try paddle boarding for the first time. Her name was possibly Caitlyn. Or Kate. Kathy? It’s a loose operation, clearly.

We gave her the one-minute speech.

Start on your knees, no shame in falling, don’t go out too far, avoid the jet skis. But the next thing I knew, she was really far out. My son Henry and I paddled out to her, and I asked if she needed help.

I can stand up, she said. But then I can’t get stable, and I can’t start paddling till I get stable.

I totally get it, I said. But here’s the thing: it’s the paddling that makes you stable, not the other way around. You’ll never stay up unless you start paddling.

Recently, this image came back to mind because of a conversation we had around our dinner table.

A friend of ours was talking.

She was sharing about all the things she is trying to figure out, arrange in her mind, make a plan for, make sense of. She said, “There are so many things I want to do this year, and I realize that I’ve been trying to think it all through for so long. But you know what? I’ll never have all the information. I’ll never know all there is to know about something. Sometimes you just have to act.”

Exactly that. One thousand times that.

Sometimes you just have to act.

Because it’s the paddling that keeps you on the board. It’s the forward motion that gives you the stability you need. Sometimes we just have to pick a direction and start pulling that paddle through the water, and along the way we’ll get the stability and confidence we’re looking for. But you’ll never find it at the beginning, standing there, waiting for the waves to stop shaking the board.

The waves never stop shaking the board.

Forward motion brings stability.

I’ve come back to Voltaire’s words a million times: Perfect is the enemy of the good.

You’ll never feel totally ready. The plan will never be perfectly formed. You’ll never have the money you think you need or the support you wish you had. You’ll never feel as strong and prepared as everyone else seems. (Psst: they’re not that strong and prepared, either. No one is.)

Just paddle, because that’s what gives you what you need to stay afloat. Paddle, because forward motion allows you to steer, to turn, to head into a wave, or away from one. Paddling is what puts you in charge of the situation, instead of being at the mercy of the waves, waiting for stability that will never come.

No one feels ready.

No one has every last thing they need. But the people who change their lives, the people who make beautiful things, the people who make a difference in our world—they are the people who paddle, who are willing to do it badly, who give up perfect in favor of good.

Another gem: anything worth doing is worth doing badly. That’s Chesterton, who I just adore. (I read Orthodoxy every year and find a dozen new treasures every time.)

What do you need to start doing badly, instead of pretending that there will be some magic moment when you are able to do it perfectly?

It’s time to paddle.

So what does it look like for you to just start paddling today?

What have you been over-thinking, wiggling like a loose tooth? Are you hiding, planning, and information gathering, because you’re scared to plunge into something new?

Are you letting your desire to do it flawlessly keep you from doing it at all?

Here’s to paddling imperfectly—badly, even. It’s what keeps us afloat.

Why Now Is An Incredible Time to Be You

We spend so much time in our lives waiting for the perfect set of circumstances to be happy—the perfect job or the perfect guy, or to get a check in the mail or be invited on some amazing vacation.

We time scrolling through Instagram, thinking about how, if only we had this thing, or went to that place, life would be so amazing.

All along, most of us are missing it—how great life is right this minute.

How the only moment we have is this one, right now, and we are wasting it.

A few months ago, when I was in the middle of a separation from my husband and inevitable divorce, I was spending a lot of time on the phone. This was partly, of course, because being alone in my very quiet house was not an option for my fragile heart. And partly because pretty much everyone I knew wanted to know what had happened and if I was okay.

One of the many conversations I had was with my Aunt Vicki.

Vicki lives in another state from me, and has for most of my life, so I haven’t spent as much time with her as I wish I had. But being on the phone with her, I felt and instant and special kind of understanding from her.

She had also been through a divorce in her 30’s.

She didn’t make my recount the entire story to her. She just listened and asked how I was doing and I told her about how I had taken up yoga and was trying to take good care of myself. I said I was focusing on eating three meals a day, spending time with friends, and how I was also crying myself to sleep most nights.

She hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.

Then she said something that I have not forgotten—and probably never will. She said, “what an incredible time to be Ally.”

The whole thing sounded so absurd to me, as I blubbered on my end of the line. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Actually, it was more like a laugh-cry-sob thing. I remember thinking: are you serious? You’ve got to be joking… but she persisted. She said it was going to be hard for me to see it right that minute, but that she could see it from where she stood.

There was so much light, and so much hope, and so much possibility coming toward me, and that it all originated in this moment.


This is where it begins. This is where it is happening. My life was was not on hold. This was not some kind of elaborate detour. This was my life and it was miraculous.

It is miraculous.

As I hung up the phone, I couldn’t get that phrase off of my mind.

“What an incredible time to be Ally.”

Marianne Williamson says that the difference between an ordinary moment and a miracle is a change in perspective.

Sometimes the only difference between feeling sorry for ourselves and realizing the entire universe is at our fingertips, and that life is happening for us and with us, is just changing the angle from which we view it.

It’s just changing our perspective.

Changing perspective doesn’t require that we deny how truly sad or terrified or overwhelmed we feel. It’s yes, and. Yes, I’m terrified and it’s an incredible time to be Ally. Yes, I’m heartbroken, and I’m finding myself for perhaps the first time. Amazing. Miraculous. Incredible. What an incredible time to be Ally.

What an incredible time to be you.

What are you waiting for to decide that your life is worth living? What would have to happen of you to decide that your life is miraculously unfolding, right this minute? Are you waiting for something to happen to make your life feel worth living? Are you waiting for a marriage? A baby? A relationship to come together?

A job? A paycheck? A car? A house?

What if you could stop waiting? 

What if now is the most amazing time in all of human history to be you?

What if, in waiting for these things to change—in wishing for them to be different than they already are—you are wasting the only real gift you have been given: the gift of being alive and breathing and creating the life you desire to live right this minute. What if right now is an incredible time to be alive and to be you?

How would that perspective take this oh-so-ordinary moment and make it truly miraculous?

Why You Should Stop Learning From Your Peers

Here’s a secret I learned long ago. It’s a big one and it’ll propel you into a future of greatness…

STOP TAKING SOCIAL CUES FROM YOUR PEERS.

Instead of taking social cues from people your age, take cues from people ten and twenty years older than you.

Are you looking for a church that has a lot of people who are your age so you can hang out? That’s fine, but try looking for one where most of the people have families and perhaps a little grey hair.

Why?

Because the sooner you can relate to their priorities, the sooner you’ll be ready for the next stage of your life. I’m in my late thirties but I’m more interested in hanging out with people who are retired.

What’s it teaching me?

It’s teaching me that what ultimately matters later in life are friendships, family and love.

The Most Dangerous Form of Racism

I remember seeing an Instagram post a couple of weeks after the announcement that a grand jury had decided to not bring criminal charges against Darren Wilson, the police officer who shot and killed Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014.

The post was written by Andy Merrick—a white Instagram user. It said:

“There are racist tones

Hidden away in these bones

Depart from me, sin.”

I have not forgotten it since.

Racism comes in many forms and perhaps one of the most dangerous is the subtle kind—the racist tones.

They’re not hostile. They’re not angry. They’re just…present.

A hint of condescension.

A wariness of someone else.

A general classification I’ve come to believe.

Thoughts that are so second nature I don’t see them coming.

And then, I don’t even notice they’re there.

There is a reason that the second feeling I felt when I heard about the murders of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile was shame.

First, I felt sadness. Then, I felt shame.

Because deep down somewhere in my bones, something wondered if I was any better than those police officers, that if the horror and disgust I felt toward them could be redirected and pointed at my own self.

For there are indeed racist tones in these bones.

Only, I can get away with them. Because for me, the reaction isn’t something that will sweep up the nation in a call for justice. My racism is not something I’ll be arrested for or lose my job for. My racism is almost worse, in that I could live my entire life without being called out for it.

The knee-jerk reactions I have toward someone because of what he or she looks like. The assumptions I make. The phrases that enter my mind, like “They always do that.”

They—as if an entire people group can be some certain way.

I dehumanize souls with these thoughts. I take away their individual minds, hearts and character and clump them together into one. The desperate scramble to define something or someone I don’t understand for fear of my own misunderstanding.

Those are the racist tones in my bones. And I feel sickness in my stomach even now as I write about them. I’ll lose bits and pieces of my soul and my heart and my ability to empathize—racism chips away at those things—but I am free to roam the streets. And yet, am I any less dangerous?

So, we can call for peace.

We can call for reconciliation. We can stand aghast in horror. But I wonder how much good we are doing—as a white and privileged people—if we don’t first stand aghast at the reflection in the mirror.

Maybe we’re not getting any better because we’re not being honest about our personal, deeply ingrained, shamefully racist tones.

For how does anyone heal if she does not first admit that she is sick?

3 Reasons My Children Are Happier Than Me

Recently, we were in San Diego, my wife Kari thought we should go to the Aquarium of the Pacific. My daughters love fish. Sahara likes watching seals jump. Dassi is a massive penguin fan. When you ask her what sound a penguin makes, she says, “Waddle, waddle, waddle,” then rocks side to side like a red-headed Weeble Wobble.

I’d been to aquariums before and had moderate expectations. I knew it would be okay: glass and coral and fish and stuff. But through their two-year-old eyes, stepping into the Aquarium was like landing on Venus, surrounded by a flood of angelic voices, serenading us under ribbons of falling stars.

The girls ran inside as if chased by unseen creatures of joy.

As if they were heeding some invisible call I could no longer hear. Every tank – every fish, turtle, seahorse – was not just visited, it was devoured. To them, it was not another selfie photo op, a shallow chance to show off to invisible friends. It was a discovery of life – exploding into a million different colors.

My experience was far less dramatic. I did stop and enjoy some, but found myself impatiently moving our party on to the next exhibit. I missed the opportunity to sit down, forget time and drink deeply of wonder.

My daughters missed nothing. Nor did they rush to the next thing. One moment, both of them were bent over backwards, hypnotized, staring at a wall of fish. They were frozen in place, transfixed by wonder. They were, in the words of Einstein, ‘dancing to the mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by the Invisible Piper.’

I was not hearing the same frequencies. Watching them was beautiful and tragic, as I realized somewhere along the way, I went tone deaf, unable to hear the Great Music.

When did I stop hearing?

What closed me off? What jaded me, made me cynical, doubtful and afraid? Was it broken relationships? Or the frantic pace I live, reacting, moving from crisis to crisis? Was over-familiarity breeding contempt in my heart? Once someone stops hearing the music, can they ever hear it again?

Awe and wonder have been pushed to the far corners of our soul. We live in this tension, and I think it’s really a longing for eternity, ‘the eternity set in the heart of everyman.’ (Ecclesiastes 3.11) We, as mortal creatures, remember it from a distance, when we see ocean waves, kiss our lover, or hear the philharmonic symphony.

Watching my girls interact with beauty made me want to open my soul and be free again. They, with un-jaded perspective, are fully open to all life offers. They simply receive it with joy.

What if I lived like that? What if we all did?

To be honest, I’m not sure how to get back there. I’m not sure how to stop long enough to hear the Music. But when we live open and free, like little children, we are characterized by a few things:

1. We lose the compulsion to criticize others. We no longer live in fear or control or cynicism. We see people for who they really are, immortal and fragile creatures, created in the image of God. We can stop being blog trolls, writing angry ‘open letters,’ and tweeting emotional responses to the manufactured drama du jour. We can embrace gratitude, letting go of hate and cynicism altogether.

2. We resist over-familiarity. We discipline ourselves to see everything for the first time – again. I think sometimes we lose our eyes of wonder when we become too familiar. As the scientist misses the wonder of God in nature; the theologian misses it in the Bible. All the while, God is right in front of us.

3. We live slow. We may work fast and fly a million miles a year, but inside, we’re at peace. Interruptions become less annoying and more about opportunity. We let go of the guilt of our past and the anxiety of our future, choosing to live fully now. We understand our calling is no bigger than the person right in front of us.

I want to live like this again. To open myself for today. To see with eternal eyes of wonder, like a child, fascinated with each new discovery. I hope we all live this way. Life will crush us, be hateful to us, and present us opportunities to close and protect our souls. May we stay open and free. Then perhaps, we may understand Jesus words, “Let the little ones come to me and do not hinder them, for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.” (Matthew 19.14)

What Kind of People Follow Manipulators?

In Harriet Braiker’s book Who’s Pulling Your Strings? she teaches readers how to smell out manipulative people. That book, along with a few years studying the Enneagram have completely changed how I view the world. The leaders I choose to follow are much less dynamic and charismatic than they used to be.

In light of the mega-church scandals happening in which a couple dynamic pastors have been revealed as shady and deceptive, I’ve wondered how in the world people didn’t see it from the beginning? But of course I already know the answer to that question: It’s because the people who follow those pastors are so sweet and kind.

I mean that.

It takes a very nice person to follow a manipulator.

Strong people smell out manipulation fast.

But recently I had a conversation with somebody who’d been seriously burned by a dynamic personality and they helped me see the whole situation in a different light. This person gave their lives to a dynamic leader but once they started asking questions, were chastised, slandered and threatened until they literally had to move to a different state.

Because they’d signed a confidentiality agreement, they couldn’t tell their story.

It was all pretty sad.

What was interesting to me, though, is my friend began reflecting on why in the world he’d fallen for the leader in the first place.

His answer, amazingly, was that he realized he was codependent. He said he liked the affirmation he received from the leader and that this very powerful person had taken him under his wing. What he never realized is that the leader hadn’t done that for free. Manipulative, dynamic leaders make an unspoken agreement with their followers.

The agreement looks like this: If you submit to me, unquestioningly, I will give you security.

Manipulative leaders paint a scary picture of the outside world to keep their flock close, then they use shame and guilt to keep them even closer. If you question them, you’re the enemy and they turn their followers on you.

This personality type isn’t exclusive to the church.

There are manipulative leaders in politics, in business and in all other aspects of life.

We will never get rid of manipulative leaders. But we can change ourselves.(tweet this)

Have we made an unspoken deal with a leader?

Isn’t it true that those who love us the most are the ones who give us the most freedom to figure out if we want to love them back?

Is the fear of leaving a leader the same as loyalty.

To somebody caught up in the unspoken deal they made with a manipulative leader, this blog will set off a firestorm of emotions. By suggesting a person can be free, I’m also stepping on their sense of security. These people have been trained to defend the manipulator at all cost. Likely, it won’t be till they see the other side of the manipulator, or are hurt by them personally that they will see the light. Hopefully, then, they’ll begin to ask themselves whether it’s something in them that needs to change.

Why People Are Drawn to Simplicity Over Truth

The truth is people aren’t drawn to truth, they’re drawn to simplicity. Recent research from Harvard suggests that customers don’t necessarily buy the best products, they buy the products that are the easiest to understand and the easiest to purchase.

This isn’t only true in consumer habits, though, it’s true in subscribing to ideas as well. Whether we’re talking about politics, religion or philosophy, a leader who can simplify ideas for the masses will likely rise.

But there’s a problem.

And the problem is this: The truth isn’t simple. In the world God made, no area of life is easy to understand. Scientists have yet to figure out the complicated nature of the universe. Doctors are still in the infant stages of understanding the brain. And God knows we’ve no proof or our own origins.

So why is it that we can turn on a 24 hour news station, or walk into church one Sunday morning and think we can get the whole of truth into our heads?

The reality is, of course, we can’t. But it’s comforting to think we can, and so we buy in. Is the Tea Party right? Who knows, it’s complicated. Can the whole of scripture be broken down into 5 bullet points? No thinker in their right mind would believe that, except for the millions who do.

So why is it we are so afraid of mystery?

Why can’t we admit we know some things but not everything?

In my opinion, it’s because humans fear a life in which they aren’t in control.

And knowledge over an issue gives us the false sense we can predict it and understand it and in some ways control it. (Tweet This)

Doesn’t our broken down systematic theology also offer us the illusion we can predict God? And isn’t that enticing?

Certainly there is truth.

And certainly there is absolute truth, but, as G.K. Chesterton said, only a fool would think they could cram all of heaven into their heads.

Here’s how to know if a leader or teacher is trustworthy: They consistently say “we don’t have that information” and no longer pretend we do. Some things are for God to know and for us to trust. The rest of life is about making wise decisions based on the information we’ve been given. Which is less than we’re comfortable believing.

Why You Have So Many Acquaintances But Not Many Friends

Recently I had to have a hard conversation with a friend.

It was one of those conversations you put off for a long time, thinking you can just ride it out, hoping things will correct on their own. The tension had been building for awhile. Small things, really, but neither of us wanted to bring it up. 

Photo Credit: Vanessa P., Creative Commons

I had my list of excuses for not saying anything: There was no point, I told myself. She wasn’t going to be able to hear me. I didn’t really know what I wanted to say.

Not to mention, I was afraid that if I said what I was thinking, I was going to ruin the friendship.

I realized now how unfounded this was.

After all, what kind of friendship is it if we can’t really be honest with each other? On top of that, I wasn’t really giving my friend much credit. Did I really think that, if I was honest about how I felt, the friendship would end?

I knew the truth was it probably wouldn’t.

So I met with my friend that next week and talked about how I was feeling.

I went into the conversation nervous, but as soon as I started to share, my nerves calmed. She listened to me so graciously as I shared what I was feeling. I made sure to talk about myself (“When this happens, it makes me feel…), rather than blaming. She apologized for her part in it and then told me how she was feeling, too.

We both took turns listening and apologizing. Whatever tension had been between us melted.

After we talked, I felt so much closer to her.

To be honest, I know it could have easily gone the other way. Sometimes we share our thoughts or feelings with someone and they listen graciously, like my friend did. Other times, we’re met with resistance—defensiveness, anger, blame.

But at least we can see, then, that this is not a right friendship for us.

You can’t really be friends with a person who can’t be honest and listen.

I’ve spent so much of my life settling for acquaintances and calling them friends.

I would avoid being really honest about what I was feeling—either pretending I wasn’t feeling it, or talking myself out of it for some reason, or just stewing about it, without talking.  

One thing would usually pile on top of another until I couldn’t take it. 

I would explode about it. Or stay quiet. The friendship would inevitably end. 

And just like that, my fear that friendships would end would become its own self-fulfilling prophecy.

As I acted out my fear of losing friends, I would lose them anyway. And usually, I would lose them over something that could be easily avoided—if I had just been willing to be honest much sooner.  

There’s an epidemic of loneliness in our culture and I think our unwillingness to be honest is causing it.

Why You Should Stop Waiting for Life to Be Perfect

What we have is time. And what we do is waste it, waiting for those big spectacular moments.

We think that something’s about to happen — something enormous and news-worthy — but for most of us, it isn’t. This is what I know: the big moments are the tiny moments.

The breakthroughs are often silent, and they happen in the most unassuming of spaces.

Weddings are momentous, as are births, especially for moms. Beyond those two, though, most of the really significant and shaping moments of my life would be unrecognizable to anyone but me.

That’s how it is.

What I’m tempted to do right now is run you through story after story of how life can change in an instant — an accident, a disease undetected, violence. We know these stories. We hear them all the time. But if you’re like me, sometimes you intentionally don’t hear them. You absently stroke your kids’ heads, you murmur a prayer, less a devout show of faith and more a whimper — not us. Not us.

And then you shake it off, square your shoulders, fasten your mind firmly elsewhere — details of the day: library books to return, oil to change and diapers, too.

You comfort yourself with the mindlessness of it, protecting yourself from the reality that your life is actually happening and you might not be there. It’s scary to be there — present, invested, right there on the front line of your life. It’s easier to numb yourself with details and daily doings, waiting around for things to feel spectacular.

But this is it: this is as spectacular as it gets, and you have a choice, to be there or not.

I sat with an old friend today.

She and her husband have endured unimaginable loss throughout the course of their lives, and another very fresh loss in these last months.

We sat in the golden fading light of a Chicago spring. Our kids ran around and around the screen porch, and the grass was impossibly green, almost glowing. And in the midst of all that wild and lush beauty, we sat facing one another, and she told me the particulars of that most recent loss.

What I heard in her voice stunned me, moved me, instructed me.

She was present to it, unafraid. She told me about it unflinchingly, and what I realized is that she decided a long time ago that she wasn’t waiting for perfect and she wasn’t numbing herself against the worst case scenario.

She had seen the worst case scenario, more times over than any of us should have to.

What I saw in her was a vision for how I want to live:

In the midst of one her darkest seasons, twisted with uncertainty, bruised by the words of former friends, she sat with me, present and unarmed by busy-ness. She looked in my eyes and told me they’d be fine. She told me funny and sweet things about her kids, asked me about myself.

She wasn’t waiting for the good part. She knows that these are the good parts, even while they’re the bad parts. She wasn’t shut down, going through the motions. She wasn’t holding tight till this season passed. She was right there with me, right there with her kids, right in all the glory and pain and mess and beauty of a spring night in between everything.

That’s how I want to be.

That’s who I want to be: deeply present in the present, in the mess, in the waiting, in the entirely imperfect right now.

But what my friend knows is that there are no throwaway moments — not when it’s easy, not when it’s hard, not when it’s boring, not when you’re waiting for something to happen.

Throw those moments away at your own peril.

Throw those moments away and you will look back someday, bereft at what you missed, because it’s the good stuff, the best stuff. It’s all there is.