Donald Miller's Blog, page 82

Sunday Morning Sermon: E.E. Cummings Punctuates His Praise

When I was just out of high school I began memorizing poems. I started doing it to impress girls but quickly found my mind full of an incredible economy of words I’ve spent the last twenty years putting to good use. I don’t have any better advice for somebody who wants to write than to carry a few poems around in their pocket, written on index cards.

One of the poems that served both my writing career and my soul is a few oddly punctuated lines from E.E. Cummings. Economical and lean, pregnant with sincere praise, I thank You God for most this amazing day will be uttered a hundred years from now and a hundred after that. I’ll print the poem for you here and then a recording of Cummings reading the poem below. A good Sunday morning, indeed.

I thank You God for most this amazing

day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes

(I who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun’s birthday;

this is the birthday of life and of love and wings; and of the gay

great happening ilimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing

breathing any – lifted from the no

of all nothing – human merely being

doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Sunday Morning Sermon: E.E. Cummings Punctuates His Praise is a post from: Storyline Blog

The Best Viral Videos We Found This Week

Last week, the mountain biker backflip video won your vote. What about this week? Vote for your favorite below in the comments.

The Best Viral Videos We Found This Week is a post from: Storyline Blog

A Sick Woman’s Thoughts on the Color Pink

Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was indifferent to the color pink. It was fine, but I didn’t wear it often because it made me feel like I was wearing a gender-specific cliche. (Think Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde.)

After I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I hated pink. Lots of people gave me gifts while I was going through chemo. Fleece blankets, mugs, soft caps to cover my bald head– but they were all nauseatingly pink.

Looking back, I think I resented the color because it assigned me to a disease I hated. The color of the gifts felt presumptuous, as if people assumed that because I had breast cancer, pink was automatically my new favorite color.

But it wasn’t.

• • •

When I was hospitalized for a massive lung infection shortly after I finished chemo, an art therapist came to my room and asked me if I’d like to paint my emotions. She offered me a pastel palette of watercolors and a blank canvas. She suggested I might like to draw something serene and calming, like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn.

I told her I didn’t want a dainty plastic pastel palette; I wanted gallons of black paint and an empty room. I wanted to hurl the slimy blackness at the unsuspecting white walls. I wanted the four corners to feel my pain.

When I was in my mid-twenties, I thought I was safe, and my future was bright and promising. But then I got cancer, and while I was fighting for my life, I lost everything and almost everyone I cared about.

During those seven months, I kept telling myself that if I could just make it through the treatment course, I’d be home free and I could get back to my life. But when I got to the end of the tunnel, there was no light. There was still oppressive darkness — getting the call from my doctor that chemo had shut down my ovaries and I’d never be able to have children. Learning that I’d have to be on anti-cancer meds for the next ten years.

I continued to hate the color pink because it was naive and childish. I was fighting for my life, fighting off the demons of cancer, as well as depression and despair that threatened to suffocate my soul.

And what fighter ever wore pink into the ring?

• • •

Last week I flew to Utah to go hiking in the wilderness with a friend. I forgot to pack shorts, so we stopped at a store to buy some. In the juniors section I found shorts that fit well — except they were pink. I realized I had also forgotten to pack a sweatshirt so I went to find one of those, too. But again, the only ones that fit were all pink.

Dammit, I thought as I looked at myself in the dressing room mirror, feeling like a pastel monolith.

I sat down on the bench in the dressing room, fighting off the negative emotions and memories I had just from looking at the color. And then I remembered all the pink I’d seen when I was going through the five surgeries that had carved out all the cancer cells from my chest. Not pink memorabilia, but the bandages that covered my scars.

When the nurses changed the bandages, they were crisp and white. But as my surgical scars oozed blood from their healing edges, the red fluid mixed with the white fabric and the bandages became pink.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, still wearing the pink sweatshirt and shorts, the color took on a whole new meaning — it no longer held a childish or feminine overtone. It was now a symbol that made hope rise in my chest. It was where the red blood from trauma and pain encountered new bandages of healing. It was where my violent disease met compassionate white flags of peace.

Pink meant that I had almost died, and then had came back to life. Pink meant that no matter how much pain I’d been in, healing had always shown up to soothe the scars.

As I write this I’m wearing that sweatshirt I bought in Utah, and as I look down at my chest that’s covered by the soft fabric, pink reminds me that in spite of all the losses I’ve endured, the bleeding is now stanched.

And hope is on its way.

A Sick Woman’s Thoughts on the Color Pink is a post from: Storyline Blog

Reflections on Brennan Manning’s Wrestling Match with God

“Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy…” is how Shel Silverstein begins his beautiful children’s book, The Giving Tree. What a terrific first line. What a terrific book.

The little boy and the tree play together, make crowns from leaves and play hide and go seek. The boy loved the tree and so the tree was happy.

But as time went by, the boy grew older and became interested in other things. As an older man, the boy was more interested in money and things than the tree. So the tree offers the boy his apples so he can sell them and have money. The tree loved the boy.

The boy disappeared after taking the apples but then much later came back telling the tree he wanted a house to raise a family. The tree had no house for the boy, but offered him his branches for wood to build a house. The tree loved the boy.

The boy took the branches and used them to make a house. And the boy didn’t come back for a long time. When the boy came back he explained to the tree that life was not fun. He wanted a boat to go far away. The tree then offered the boy his trunk to make a boat because the tree loved the boy.

After a long time the boy came back and was an old man. The tree was a stump now. The old man was too old to collect leaves, his teeth were gone so he couldn’t eat apples, and he was too old to swing on the branches.

The boy was so old and tired that he asked the tree if he could sit on his stump, and the tree invited the boy to rest, because the tree loved the boy.

It’s a wonderful and sad story about the nature of love, about how true love holds up even while being used. It’s also a violent and painful story depending on how you look at it.

• • •

What many people don’t know about that story is that Brennan Manning, who passed away this year, and Shel Silverstein met when they were young and, according to Manning, stayed well in touch. Later, after Shel began to write and Manning became a priest, they had a conversation about God and God’s love. Manning asked Silverstein what he thought God’s love felt like. Silverstein thought about it for a while but had no answer. Much later, Silverstein got in touch with Manning and gave him a copy of The Giving Tree saying the book was his answer to Manning’s question.

Manning told the story so many times you have to wonder if it didn’t become his answer, too. I’ve abused God and He forgives me, Manning seems to be saying.

Manning wrestled with God as much as he walked with Him. He seemed like the kind of man who would constantly tug at God’s shirt tails and ask, for the thousandth time, is it true? only to run into the village and explain to the rest of us that it was. Then to return, tug on God’s shirt tail and ask again, is it true?

• • •

Manning’s ability to stir the imagination of singers, songwriters, playwrights and poets was fierce. Many books, albums, bands and films exist because Brennan Manning convinced the artist of the safety of grace. He was a pivotal voice for me as I began to write. We got together more than a few times. He could be warm and open for one meeting, then cold and crotchety for the next. He taught me I could be the same, that I could be myself.

What gave Manning his magic was not some gift or skill, but his honest and constant wrestling with Jesus. To Manning, life was not about religion or rules or gaining fame or power; it was only about wrestling with Jesus. Is this grace of yours really true? I believe it and I don’t believe it at the same time. You’re saying it’s true, but it’s entirely unnatural and inhuman to be so loving.

He wrote much of his best work in his later years. I like to picture him with a pad and pen, sitting on a stump.

Brennan Manning, called back. Done wrestling. Knows it’s true. Can’t write about it now. May we wrestle half as well.

a repost from the archives

Reflections on Brennan Manning’s Wrestling Match with God is a post from: Storyline Blog

Why You Should Change the Story You’re Currently Living

Someone described me recently as “a confident, outgoing mom and a successful writer.” I looked around for who they could possibly be talking about. I can’t even begin to tell you how incredibly far-off that description sounds to me.

I’ve realized in the last year that no matter what happens to me and no matter how I change, in many ways I’m still telling a very old story of who I am.

And I think I might not be the only one. And I want to start telling a new story.

A friend’s mom came to town this weekend. She’s great and difficult, both, and my friend was debriefing the visit with us the next day. Someone asked, “how does your husband deal with some of your mom’s rough edges?” And she said, “Well, what’s helpful is that he doesn’t automatically turn into his twelve-year-old self when my mom’s around. But I still do.”

So true, right? There are people and situations that take us back to old, old stories, and even though we’re moms now, not children, or even though we’re business owners now, not adolescents, we find ourselves acting out stories that haven’t been true for a long time, or stories that were never true to begin with.

Two things were true about me when I was growing up: I was smart and I was overweight. Those two things defined me more than anything else. I was the unattractive person in an otherwise attractive family, but my mind was quick—it was easy for me to remember things, and it was easy for me to be funny.

And so that’s what I became—everyone’s chubby, funny friend. I was easy to be around, agreeable, capable. I knew how to make other people feel comfortable, how to draw them out, how to tell self-deprecating stories about myself. I learned to be the punchline.

*Photo by nagillum, Creative Commons

But I’m finding that story and that identity aren’t helpful for me these days. Because what that story really says is, don’t worry, just be friendly and pleasant. Make a joke. Don’t worry about really achieving anything, or doing anything hard, or being great in anyway. What you are is a sidekick, a wing-man, a support character in someone else’s story. What you are is a punchline.

And because I’ve believed those things about myself for so long, I sometimes don’t expect myself to be anything other than a punchline. I don’t push myself the way I could. I don’t ask for opportunities or promote my work. Essentially, I don’t take myself and my life as seriously as I could.

This old story isn’t helping me anymore, so I’m writing a new story. This new story says I can and do work hard, and that I’ve developed my skills as a writer and speaker over the last several years. It says I might have more to contribute than I thought, and that being funny and pleasant might not be the highest things to aspire to any longer.

Even as I write these words, I can feel myself sitting taller, squaring my shoulders, growing up.

I’m changing the story.

• • •

Is it time for you to let go of a story you’ve been telling about yourself for a long time?

What’s that old story?

What will you write as your new story?

Why You Should Change the Story You’re Currently Living is a post from: Storyline Blog

What’s So Wrong With Being High Maintenance?

For most of my life, I prided myself on being relatively low maintenance. I was always more likely to go camping than shopping, hated the idea of asking for help (especially if it meant playing the “damsel in distress”), and tried to be the kind of person who never needed too much of anything from anyone.

I thought this made me the best kind of friend, sister, daughter and even girlfriend anyone could ever ask for. I was so easy to be around, I thought. I never took more than I gave. I never took much of anything.

Who wouldn’t want to be friends with me?

• • •

Then, one day during my first year of marriage I got into an argument with my husband.

It was the same argument we’d rehearsed a hundred times before (isn’t this how it happens? We could almost read from a script). I admitted I’d been feeling a little bit neglected and invisible. He asked me why I hadn’t said something earlier, and I blubbered something like, “I just don’t want to be a burden to you!”

This time, when I said that, something clicked for him, and he told me something different than he’d ever told me before.

“Go ahead,” he insisted. “Be a burden to me. I dare you.”

Suddenly, in that moment, I realized my tendency to pretend like I didn’t need anything from him, or from anyone else, wasn’t healthy. It didn’t make me low-maintenance. It made me a liar. Because I did need something from him.

I needed him to love him and care for me as much as I loved and cared for him.

And in order for him to do that, I had to admit I needed something.

That morning, for the first time in our marriage, my husband made me pancakes. And you know what I learned? I learned my husband knows how to make really good pancakes. Pancakes with lots of chocolate chips, just the way I like them. And also, perhaps more importantly, I learned that he really liked making them for me.

I’m not a burden just because I need something. That’s what I’m learning.

• • •

We all need things, want things, and are hungry for things (like pancakes). Relationships take maintenance. People take maintenance. And when we try to act like we don’t, one of two things happens to our relationships: The first option is that we grow resentful. The second is that we become invisible.

In both of these scenarios, our relationships wither and die.

A relationship requires two people to function — two people who want things, need things, feel things and think things. If one disappears, the relationship ends.

So go ahead, be high maintenance. Hopefully while eating pancakes.

What’s So Wrong With Being High Maintenance? is a post from: Storyline Blog

10 Reasons Pastors are Important

Yesterday afternoon, I talked with a friend on the phone who has been a pastor for more than twenty-five years. He’s an upbeat, optimistic guy who has brilliant ideas and loves shepherding the people who come to his church. I have always thought being a pastor is one of the hardest things a person could do, but my friend makes it look easy. It never occurred to me how hard his job was until I asked him how I could pray for him. He told me that the coming week was going to be difficult, that he had to officiate two funerals, one of them a suicide. He said he’d done many funerals, but these two were very close to his heart.

Can you imagine having to speak at a funeral? Moreover, can you imagine having to speak for God at a funeral? Can you imagine having to speak for God at a wedding, even? And not only that, can you imagine having to preach a sermon every week, lead a staff, counsel broken marriages, provide vision for a community, and all under the microscope of a small percentage of people that would judge you if you drove a nicer car than they?

In my speaking career, I’ve spoken in hundreds of churches, and you know, I’ve never met an arrogant pastor. Not once. I’m not saying they aren’t out there, because they are, but I think an arrogant pastor is an exception to the rule. Some pastors have failed their congregations, but there are many more who haven’t. Most pastors got into their jobs because they loved people and they loved God and they wanted the two to meet. I actually think pastors are some of the most important people in our communities.

Here are ten reasons pastors are important:

1. They lead social movements that change the world.

2. They speak truths that create guardrails to keep us out of danger and stop us from hurting each other.

3.They introduce us and remind us about God, who redeems us and guides us in love.

4. They model good marriages and families (Your mind may have gone to an exception, but quickly list five who do. It’s an easy list to create.)

5. They bring people together to live and work in community.

6. They counsel hurting and broken people.

7. They bring the presence of God into the most dark and painful circumstances.

8. Most of them could be making lots more money doing something else, but they sacrifice to build God’s kingdom.

9. They put up with our crap.

10. Because without them the world would be unimaginably dark.

I put together this list so that I could understand exactly why I was so grateful for pastors, because I wanted to know why I liked them when I shook their hands. I didn’t want vague notions, I wanted hard reasons. I suspect this list will grow. I spent a bit of the day praying for my friend, and I’m going to remember to pray for my pastor friends more often. I think they’re an under-appreciated bunch. I hesitate to imagine a world without them.

Tell us why your pastor is important to you, would you? Lots of pastors read this blog, and your comments will be encouraging!

P.S. That picture is of a friend of mine named Luis Palau. He’s a worldwide evangelist from Portland who I love. I figured he wouldn’t mind me using a picture of him posing as a church pastor when he’s really only a pastor to a few small continents. Thanks Luis!

(*this is a repost from the archives)

10 Reasons Pastors are Important is a post from: Storyline Blog

Sunday Morning Sermon – A Muslim Child Teaches Us to Turn the Other Cheek

Malala Yousafzai is not your average 16-year old. At 14, she was the victim of an attempted assassination by the Taliban in her native Pakistan. They attempted to kill her for her outspoken, popular support for the rights of women and children.

She survived the attack and has gone on to enjoy a well-deserved global platform through which she is making the world aware of the plight of women in the Middle East.

In this interview with Jon Stewart, though, she speaks about the importance of not returning violence with violence. Straight from the teachings of Christ and the many successful movements of martyrs laying down their lives to and sometimes even for their oppressors, Malala speaks a universal spiritual truth. Hatred will not stop hatred.

Her response to the question of how she sees those trying to kill her leaves Jon Stewart speechless.

Sunday Morning Sermon – A Muslim Child Teaches Us to Turn the Other Cheek is a post from: Storyline Blog

The Best Viral Videos We Found This Week

The slow-mo paint video won the majority vote last week. What about this week? Vote for your favorite below in the comments.

The Best Viral Videos We Found This Week is a post from: Storyline Blog

The Key to Making Memorable Moments with Your Kids

Listen. I know this isn’t some life hacking blog, but as I approach that beautiful number… 40… I have seen major changes in my life because of a few small decisions… I thought what better time than now to share with you what this old man has learned: 


1. I’m an artist

2. I do my best work late at night,

3. I like to be awake when the world is asleep.


4. FALLON!

These used to be some of the reasons I would spit out when people would ask why I stay up so late.
 Literally as of 3 months ago I used to stay up till 2am or later every night. 
It was habit.
 What started off as simply playing Madden in college till 2am simply became who I was— A guy who stayed up late and hated waking up.


Little did I know the value of what I was missing.

Here are some reasons that have helped me decide to become a morning person:

1. Most of your lazy butts aren’t awake yet. 
Which means most of you aren’t filing up my twitter feed with cat videos and royal baby jokes [Which I Love] yet. This way I’m not distracted and can focus on getting my junk done.

2. Working out on an empty stomach first thing in the morning has a fantastic effect on my metabolism.
 I know that people argue this but I’ve found it true.
 I’m not hungry at all at 4:45am so it’s not really an option to eat. 
And in 2 short months of working out early, I’ve dropped almost 16lbs. 
When UK researchers questioned adults about their sleep habits, they found that people who stay under the covers on the weekdays until 9am are more likely to be stressed, overweight, and depressed than those who get up at 7am. My wife likes my new pecs.

3. I’m in charge of my day and you are not. 
When I used to wake up at 9:30am, I already had 5 text messages and 20 emails. I was catching up ALL day long and it felt like a race. So now that I’m up and at ‘em early, I’m texting you first and that small change has changed everything…

4. My kids get more of me.
 I know this may not be an option for some of you but there are ways to work the system.
 Now that I’m up so early, I’m literally done with most of my “work” by 1 or 2 in the afternoon.
 This means I get home while my kids are still doing school. They get way more of me than when I used to get home at dinner. I used to feel like getting home late was some sort of badge of honor from working so hard.
 That’s Stupid.


My kids won’t remember that badge. They will simply remember me not being at dinner. 
 Now I know that some of you don’t have this option… So wake up early and take your kids on morning dates. They will remember time with you in the mornings just as well as time in the evenings.

These are just some of the reasons I’ve made the change to wake up early. It’s not necessarily the right thing for everyone, but I lean towards the camp that says waking up early will make your life better.

• • •

20 year olds, don’t let me lap you.
 Come, join me and get yo butt to bed.

The Key to Making Memorable Moments with Your Kids is a post from: Storyline Blog