Allison Vesterfelt's Blog, page 12

The Little Things Make All The Difference

Sometimes the little things feel big while you’re living them.

Have you ever thought about that?

This thought was never more clear to me than it was on my run the other morning. There’s a trail in Nashville I love to hike. It’s about 4.5 miles and every time I’ve walked it, I’ve thought, “someday I’m going to try to run this trail.” And since I’ve been building up my mileage lately—not to mention my tolerance for the heat and humidity in Tennessee—I figured I’d give it a try.

So for the first time, I set out to run a trail that felt, for the most part, too big for me.

Here’s the thing: three years ago in October, I ran a full marathon and I used to run all the time when I lived in Portland. If you had asked me to run that same trail in Oregon three years ago, I would have conquered that trail like it was my job.

But running in Oregon is different than in Tennessee; and running on a trail is different than running on flat pavement; and when you don’t run much for three years, you lose the strength and endurance you once had.

So instead of conquering the trail, I floundered up it, flailing around like an idiot, huffing and puffing like someone was going to have to call an ambulance sometime soon.

So was running that trail this morning a big thing or a little thing?

I guess it depends on when you ask me. Today, it certainly felt big. And for today, I think it was big. Big for me, at least. I kept going—start to finish. I flailed around, but I made it. And next time, it will feel a little easier. And if I keep working to get stronger, maybe in a few months the trail will seem like a little thing again.

At the end of the trail, I met a group of runners my parents’ age

—and struck up a conversation with them.

I asked how long they had been running and what they did to stay hydrated in Tennessee. They made fun of me because I was from Oregon (“Oh, must be nice running in that weather!”) and then offered me watermelon they had cut up and were sharing from the back of their pickup truck.

They told me they run every Sunday morning and invited me to come with them next time.

And I know it’s just a little thing—it was just five minutes and watermelon and an invitation that’s probably extended to anyone who asks. It was just a quick laugh, a hello, a goodbye and few jokes about where I’m from. But it didn’t feel like a little thing to me.

In fact, it felt quite big. It made all the difference.

I’m more likely to try again—to feel like it’s okay to struggle, to flail a little, because I’m not alone and I’m going to be doing this for a long time and there will always (hopefully) be watermelon and laughing at the end of the line.

This just makes me think that it’s okay to feel affected by the little things—good or bad. Because sometimes little things are big things.

And hopefully even big things can become little things, with time.

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The First Step Of Becoming Fully Alive

I’ve been having a hard time lately.

I actually feel really guilty saying that, since I am not sick or dying or bankrupt or anything like that. I have so much to be thankful for. But it’s true. Lately some things have happened that have stirred up the dust of my life, so to speak, and I feel like I’m sitting in the cloud of that dust right now, waiting for it to settle.

It’s not a bad thing. In fact, if anything, it’s probably good. But it doesn’t feel good and it sure makes it hard to get any words on paper. Every time I sit down to write what comes out sounds angry and jumbled or flat and untruthful or dramatic and over-reactive or despairing and like a victim.

So for the most part I just haven’t been writing anything.

I’ve gotten lots of advice from lots of people and for the most part it always sounds really nice until I try to do it. I sit down to my computer, or with a pen and piece of paper, and I just feel all stopped up, like I can’t say the things I really want to say and like if I said the things I wanted to say you would all finally realize I’m totally crazy.

So I usually write something that’s sort of half-true—the most truth I feel comfortable sharing without feeling like a total idiot, and no surprise here, that ends up reading like crap.

So that’s where I’ve been.

Anyway, the one thing I’ve been doing is writing a short eBook I hope to launch in a week or two (if I can finish it, and if it doesn’t suck). I’ve been thinking a lot about what it takes to be a writer, and what it takes to find your voice as a person, and how many similarities there are between the two. I’m trying to get my thoughts to a place where they’re at least coherent enough to share with you.

But one of thoughts I have about writing and finding your voice is that the first step is always showing up. It’s just dragging my sometimes-lazy butt out of bed in the morning and sitting it down on a chair parked in front of my computer. It’s allowing myself to speak the truth of my heart, even when I’m not sure what will happen—even if I worry I will lose friends or followers, or that it will make me seem crazy.

As I write this now I want to stop myself. This seems so obvious it’s almost stupid—but I’m realizing lately that while this might be simple, it is not easy.

Showing up is the most complicated, most important thing we can do.

Every time I try to do it, something gets in the way. It’s always something pressing and important, or just something with enough energy to throw me off course. Maybe it’s Facebook. Maybe it’s my own bad attitude. Maybe it’s drama—somehow drama always shows up when I’m trying to get to work. Maybe it’s a text message or a phone call. Maybe it’s bad news. Maybe it’s my own fear or anxiety.

Maybe it’s someone else’s criticism ringing in the back of my mind. Maybe it’s my own hatred of myself.

Whatever it is, it always feels incredibly powerful and it always shows up right about the time that I want to show up and do my work.

So the long and the short of it is: that’s why I haven’t been writing here much, or anywhere else for that matter. I’ve been letting all those distractions rule my world; I’ve been letting their energy throw me off course.

The hard part is, I’m not sure I know how to stop.

In fact I know I don’t know how to stop.

But I do know this: the first step is just showing up—resisting the anxiety and the drama and the insecurity and Facebook posts that make me lose my mind and my center and just getting myself to come here, to drop a note, even if it isn’t a profound one, even if it’s not all polished and put together, even if it makes me seem like a crazy person.

This is the hardest part. But this is the most important part. Showing up without all the right words to say, without a full explanation, without a “fix” for all of your problems, without a top ten list, without any tangible answers.

For now, I hope, maybe that will be enough.

To be honest, writing this whole thing makes me feel pretty confident that I’m not the only one who has ever felt this way. I guess I’ve just done this enough to know. I’m not the only one who has a hard time getting myself to show up to the gym, to put on my running shoes, to unroll my yoga mat.

I’m not the only one who has a hard time showing up to my marriage, showing up in my friendships, saying what I really need, what I really feel and I really want.

What would happen if we all did just that much? It’s not everything. But it’s a lot.

It might just be enough.

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Good Things Take Time

Not too long ago, a friend and I visited a brand breathtaking winery in Oregon’s incredible wine country. As soon as we arrived in the tasting room, a nice man at the counter poured us some wine and explained to us a little bit to us about how the winery came to into being.

I wish I remember all the details of what he told us, but the truth is that the first words out of his mouth distracted me.

photo: mikeshelby, Creative Commons

“Ten years ago…” he began. And I couldn’t help but think to myself: Ten years? As in…years? Ten of them?

That is a really really long time!

It made me think about the patience and gumption and diligence and commitment and persistence that it takes to propel us in a single direction—despite resistance, cost, investment, or setbacks. It made me think about how good things, like the really satisfying, mouth-watering, soul-warming Pinot Noir I was enjoying, take time.

It made me think about how sometimes we have to wait a really, really long time to see the “fruit” of our labor.

I don’t know what your dream is but maybe you’ve been waiting a long time for it to come true.

Maybe it feels like forever. Maybe you’re waiting for a relationship to begin or a career to begin or a relationship to change or a career to change. Maybe you’ve been waiting to adopt a child or to finish a degree. Maybe someone you love is sick, and you’ve been praying for him/her to get better.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that most things that matter take time. Most things that are good don’t happen overnight. And most of the time the things that are worth waiting for really will require you to wait, to persist.

Don’t give up. Don’t walk away. If you don’t tend to your vines who will?

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It’s Not What You Write, But How You Write It

Have you ever come across an article that made your skin crawl—with its unfair judgements, its black-and-white way of thinking, or its sweeping generalizations about a complex topic?

Have you ever realized, quite suddenly, that the author of the article was you?

I have.

Several months ago I was reading through some old articles on my site and I stumbled across something I wrote several years ago. I was only about three sentences in when I got that sinking feeling you get when you suddenly realize your dress is tucked into your tights, or your fly is open.

I was exposed.

The article was irritating, arrogant, unfair, and just plain lazily written.

Here’s the thing. What I was saying wasn’t necessarily wrong. I was engaged at the time and talking about how the transition from being single to being married can be really hard. I was listing all the ways it was hard: I was transitioning friendships, moving to a new place, combining finances with my husband, etc.

But rather than leading with vulnerability and telling my story, I did what many people do when they’re feeling afraid and want to gain a sense of safety:

I categorized, sorted, judged and made things black-and-white that are, for the most part, grey.

Rather than talking about my fear, I told people what they “should” do and what they “shouldn’t do”. I wrote about what the transition “should” look like. I made it sound like I had it all figured out. Meanwhile, I wasn’t even married yet.

Who did I think I was? Who made me the expert on the subject?

I can see now my feigned certainty was a coping mechanism, so I can have grace for myself in that.

But I can also learn from my immaturity and choose to write in a different way next time—not from a place of fear (which leads to control and manipulation) but from a place of love.

I can choose to write in a way that honors my own experience but that also honors experiences of others—some experiences I know or understand and others I’ve not been able to conceptualize yet.

I can be careful with generalizations, gentle with suggestions and gracious with grey-areas.

My words do a beautiful job of reflecting the uniqueness of my particular space in time, and at times they transcend, but never because I force them. Only when they are received as such.

Writing is, in many ways, like a relationship.

Speaking of which, one of the best pieces of advice I received when I was getting ready to get married came from one of my favorite people in the world—who rarely, if ever, uses the word “should”.

His advice was this: It’s not what you say, but how you say it.

Familiar, right?

As a writer, moving forward, I’m trying to think less about what I’m saying and more about how I’m saying it. In the end, honestly, it’s better for me, better for my readers, and cultivates a healthier relationship.

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Ignoring Your Feelings Might Lead to Your Greatest Mistake

When it comes to feelings, I’m not sure how you feel. (See what I did there?)

Maybe feelings seem wishy-washy and unpredictable to you. Maybe you don’t often recognize or understand how you feel. Maybe your feelings seem out of control most of the time, or perhaps, like my husband, you’d much prefer to talk about what you think than what you feel.

No matter what you think about feelings, it’s difficult to dismiss them completely. Whether we recognize it or not, our feelings are a major driving force behind the things we say, the decisions we make and the way we act.

Not only that, but our feelings have important information to offer us, if we can learn to listen to them.

They have to be meaningful, don’t you think?

Here’s the thing. I tend to be really in tune with my feelings. Part of it is I grew up with a psychologist for a dad—a fact which generally elicits the same list of questions:

“What was that like?”
“Does he try to psychoanalyze you?”
“Do you ever ask him to interpret your dreams?”

The truth is, it was really great. He was understanding about all kinds of things other dads weren’t, he interpreted my dreams every now and then (when I was brave enough to share them) and although he tried to psychoanalyze me at times, I picked up on his tricks pretty quick, and just psychoanalyzed him right back.

Two can play at that game.

Anyway, the biggest thing about having psychologist for a dad is I was always given permission to feel what I felt.

Whether I was angry, jealous, scared or sad, I was never required to pretend I felt anything else. In fact, we talked a lot about feelings in my family. Anytime there was an argument, a disagreement, or a disappointment, you can probably guess the question that was  asked:

“How does that make you feel?”

The good news about this was I learned, at a really young age, to be in tune with my feelings. To this day, if you ask me how something makes me feel, I don’t have a hard time telling you.

The bad news is, I’m learning lately, that knowing what you feel isn’t enough.

I keep thinking about this lately—about how important feelings are, but how confusing they can be too because they don’t always point me in the right direction. Sometimes, if I’m honest, I feel like drinking a whole bottle of wine in my room by myself at night. Most days, I feel like trading two of my meals for frozen yogurt.

Those feelings are all real. I feel them. But that doesn’t mean that I should act on them.

It doesn’t mean that they’re pointing me toward healing and health.

What does it mean? Well, I’m still trying to figure that out.

I was asking myself these questions recently when a friend confided in me that she feels like getting a divorce. “I’m not going to,” she reassured me, “but I today I really feel like it.” Then she added, “it sure feels good to say that out loud.”

Stories like hers make me think about how important and complicated feelings are and about how trapping it can be be to hide our feelings because we’re worried people won’t accept us if we admit them—

Or because we’re already having a hard time accepting ourselves.

But here’s the crazy thing: have you ever changed a feeling by keeping it to yourself?

I haven’t. In fact, some of the most extravagant mistakes I’ve made have been because I wasn’t admitting my own feelings to anyone else, or to myself.

I feel scared… so I push the people who care for me out of my life.

I feel sad… so I eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting.

I feel jealous… so I act passive-aggressive toward someone I love.

Can we all agree it’s necessary and important to be honest about what we’re feeling—first with ourselves, and then with someone else? There’s a certain release that comes, in my experience, with finally admitting how you feel about something.

But that doesn’t mean we should always act on our feelings. Am I right?

Just talk to me the morning after I’ve eaten a pint of ice cream or drank a whole bottle of wine. Sometimes my feelings steer me away from the solution to a problem.

Sometimes acting on my feelings makes everything worse.

And yet, our feelings are pointing to something. They might not point to what we wish they would, or what we think they do. They might not take us to an easy answer or a three-step solution to our problem.  ut they always point to something that is going on inside of us, they’re always sending us a very important message.

So the answer, if you ask me, isn’t to ignore our feelings or to act on them, necessarily.

But somewhere in the middle, we’ll find the peace we’re looking for, I think.

If we have the presence of mind to notice what we’re feeling, the courage to share it, the tenacity to dig a little deeper and ask ourselves where that feeling came from and how it got there—if we have the patience and grace for ourselves to wait for a solution…

I believe we will find it there.

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How I’m Learning to Trust Myself

We were crammed into a hospital room when I finally spilled my guts to my dad.

I’d been wanting to talk to him for a long time now—my husband and I were in the process of making a big decision and it didn’t feel right to do it without asking his opinion first. But he’d just had open heart surgery and I had barely come up for air, after sinking to the deep end of my fear of losing him.

This felt right. This felt good. I needed his advice and I was so thankful I could ask for it.

So I told him the story. Beginning to end. My husband sat next to me, filling in any details I left out. I felt so safe, even crammed into that stuffy white-washed room; even with the faint smell of chicken and fluorescent lights burning overhead.

My dad listened. He’s a psychologist. That’s what he does.

photo: Lei ♥ [foto SOOC], Creative Commons

When we both finished, we paused and took a breath, and looked at him. This was the good part. He was going to tell us exactly what to do. I just knew it.
“What should we do?” I asked.

“It sounds like you’re in a really tough situation,” my dad said. “But I’m sorry, I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

Wait. What?

“I know you want my advice,” he told us. “But you don’t need it.”

My heart sank. I wanted so desperately for someone to tell me the “right” thing to do so that I could be sure I was doing it. I wanted him to point out something we had missed, whatever it was that made this whole thing seem so murky and confusing. I wanted him to take what was gray to me and make it black and white.

Instead he told us that, sometimes, with difficult circumstances, there are only difficult answers. And that no matter what he supported us. He believed in us.

“I think you already know what to do,” He said. “Trust yourself.”

And yet, at the same time I felt sad my dad wasn’t giving me the answers I was looking for, I also felt empowered and  honored. It was like he was saying, “Sure, I’ve lived more years than you, and if I saw any major red flags, I’d tell you.

But the truth is—your wisdom comes from the same place as my wisdom. You need to learn to trust yourself.”

Here’s the crazy part: When I took his advice—when I did what I felt in my gut was right—things didn’t fall apart like I was worried they would. In fact, they turned out pretty good. They weren’t perfect, by any means, but they’re still unfolding and I’m still learning and growing and I’ll know even better next time.

The best part is: I’m slowly beginning to trust myself.

Ever since, I can’t help but wonder if this advice—the non-advice—is the best advice my dad ever gave me. It makes me want to give the same gift when others come to me asking for direction or input; and it makes me want to think twice before I ask someone to make a decision for me I should be making for myself.

“Should I quit my job?”

“Am I ready to get married?”

“Should I get a masters degree?”

“Where should I go to college?”

Because there is no better gift than learning to trust yourself, and that gift can only come with time and practice; and because I wouldn’t have gotten that practice without that little push from my dad. I just want to keep reminding myself: “Difficult circumstances only have difficult answers, but…”

“You have to learn to listen to yourself.”

So if you’re facing a difficult decision right now and you aren’t sure what to do, let me give you some advice:

What I think isn’t nearly as important as what you think. The “right” answer isn’t nearly as important as learning to trust yourself. Listen to yourself. Make the best decision you know how. Get feedback, definitely, but also lean into your choices and to your consequences, trusting that the outcome is not a fixed point in history. It’s slowly unfolding over time.

If you’ll stop for just a minute, you probably know the right thing to do, don’t you?

Now you just have to do it.

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Time to Slow Down, Rest, Take A Break

I need to be honest for a second: I’m really burned out.

Packing Light released in September and since then, I’ve been going full steam ahead. I’ve been traveling, speaking and writing full time. My husband and I moved from Minneapolis to Nashville during that time, and we’ve been settling in. It’s been quite an adventure and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

Photo Credit: Oleh Slobodeniuk, Creative Commons

But lately—just in the past few weeks—I’ve been getting that feeling. I’m guessing you know the one.

It goes like this: If I don’t slow down, I’m not going to make it…

I want to write books forever. I really do. I couldn’t ask for a better job. A friend of mine once loved his job so much he would say, “I feel like I’m stealing money!” That’s exactly how I feel. But I also know myself well enough to know: when I get this tired, I run the risk of starting to hate something I’m supposed to love.

So, I’m taking a break.

I’m going to take the whole month of May off from writing.

I have a few projects I’m working on that I need to finish up, so I’ll be working on those. I won’t be totally disconnected from email or social media for the whole month. But I am going to take one week (May 2-9) to get away from the city—no media, no internet, no phone.

I have family coming to visit the following week and, for the rest of the month, I’m just going to be laying low.

I won’t be posting here, and I’ll probably be really slow at responding to email (although, that’s not too different from normal).

I just need to slow down, I need to rest. I need a break.

As the weather gets warmer, I hope you’ll take time to rest, too—whatever that looks like for you. I hope you’ll linger a little longer in your backyard with friends, staying up past your bedtime and sleeping in late. I hope you roast s’mores and eat hotdogs and play games.

I hope you’ll go camping or go for walks or go to ice cream.

I pray you’ll watch the sunset or go for a drive, just because. I pray you get to slow down, some rest, take a break.

I’ll see you back here June 1st.

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10 Things That Change About Life From 21 to 31

I’m about to turn 31 in a few weeks, and birthdays always get me thinking. This time around, I couldn’t help but think about how much has changed in the last decade. If the soon-to-be 31-year-old version of myself were to meet the 21-year-old version of myself in person, I hardly think they would recognize each other.

Okay, so maybe that’s an exaggeration, but seriously—a lot has changed.

Photo Credit: A♥, Creative Commons

There are the obvious things, of course. I live in Nashville now (I was remembering the other day how a friend moved to Nashville when I was 20 and I thought to myself: “Who would move to Tennessee? What’s in Tennessee?”), I’m married, I have a graduate degree under my belt, and I’m writing full-time.

But I guess I’m thinking more about the less obvious things, the things you wouldn’t probably notice unless I told you. Twenty-one was great. I have no complaints. But life is better now, hands down. I wouldn’t go back to being Twenty-one if you paid me.

Here are some things that have changed.

I don’t count calories anymore.

I used to count calories before I ate them and add them up in my head. I got so good at doing this, I could guess—within about 25 calories—the calorie count of what I was eating, without even seeing a label.

These days, I do my best to eat real foods, when I’m hungry, until I’m satisfied. I eat junk food in small quantities, especially if it means being a part of a group (pizza or cake at a birthday party, s’mores when we’re camping). I try to drink lots of water. I’m so much happier; and I’m the exact same weight.

I’ve stopped drinking Diet Coke.

When I was 21, I was really addicted to Diet Coke. I would start drinking it in the morning, and have at least three every day.

Since then, I’ve quit. And then I’ve started, and then quit again, and then started again, and then quit finally. I’ve officially not had a Diet Coke since January of this year, and I feel great. The fake sugar was a habit I started during my dieting phase, and I just hated what it did to my body.

I have close friends who are women.

When I was younger, I used to think I had nothing in common with other women. “We just don’t get along,” I’d say, “I’d much rather spend time with guys.” Since then I’ve realized much of the reason I felt this way was because I was insecure around other women. I felt competitive and jealous around them.

As I’ve grown out of my insecurity, I’ve grown into some of the most satisfying, fun, transforming, lovely relationships with women—relationships I wouldn’t trade for the world.

When we get together, we talk about more than just guys.

I think this was a famous line from Sex and the City—right? The women are all sitting around the table and suddenly they realize: every time they’re together, all they do is talk about men.

Maybe it’s because I’m married, but these days, when I get together with my friends, we hardly ever talk about who’s dating who, who kissed who, who said what to whom. In fact, I find that we are almost always doing something (serving, playing, etc), rather than just talking. I wish I would have learned this sooner. It’s so much more fun.

I don’t worry nearly as much about theology or politics.

My friends and I used to have heated debates around theology and politics. At the time, it felt so right and fun. I congratulated us for being so smart and informed but, looking back, I realize we weren’t nearly as smart or informed as we thought we were.

Not that there’s anything wrong with theology or politics, but these days, I have more questions than I do answers. When I’m with my friends, we talk about what we love, what we care about, what matters to us. Sometimes it’s politics, and sometimes it’s theology, but either way there’s more listening and less arguing.

I’m pretty (sort of) okay with not knowing.

I guess part of the reason I’ve stopped arguing theology or politics is because I’m becoming more and more comfortable with not knowing.

I used to think life was about figuring out the answers to all the Big Questions but now I just feel like most of the questions don’t have any sort of concrete answers. Even if we discover what we think are the answers, we have to give those answers permission to change. We might as well just enjoy the journey.

I’ve quit drinking for sport.

I drink.

Alcohol.

I know, crazy. But—I don’t drink for sport, anymore, the way I used to in college. It’s been a decade since I’ve gone to the store, bought the cheapest thing I could find, loaded it into a backpack, and drank until I couldn’t drink anymore.

Does it go without saying: I don’t miss it in the slightest?

I’m the tiniest bit more assertive.

I’m learning, slowly, that it’s okay to stand up for myself, to assert my opinion into the world, to admit I don’t know, to show my weakness, to ask for help, to want something and ask for it, to make space for myself in a conversation, to put my foot down, to draw a boundary, or to make a decision (even if it’s a wrong one).

I’m the tiniest bit more assertive (less passive, less aggressive) than I used to be. Still working on this one.

I’m not waiting around for something to happen to me.

For years, I was waiting for something awesome to happen in my life. These days, I realize awesome things rarely happen to people. People who want awesome things to occur in their life have to be willing to create awesome circumstances.

So these days, I’m getting my hands dirty to create the life I want.

I see faith as fluid.

I used to think the “moment” I came to faith (a conversion moment) was this defined time in history—when I crossed some invisible line, from one side to the other.

These days, I can see at least two flaws in that thinking: First, there are no sides. Second, there is not one defining moment. Faith is constantly growing or shrinking as we cultivate it. It’s a living, breathing thing that needs nurture and care. At times, it takes more care than we ever thought practical.

At times, it flourishes into something we never dreamed possible.

My 30s are the best decade yet, and I’m just getting started. Here’s to the next ten years.

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The Myth That Service Has to Be Difficult and Miserable

Every Tuesday, I would dread going.

It sounds horrible, but it’s true. I was just out of college, living in downtown Portland and had all this time on my hands, so I figured I should probably make myself useful. I volunteered for an organization whose mission was to help English Language Learners achieve their GEDs.

I could speak Spanish with many of them (or at least attempt), help them with their homework, and teach them mini grammar lessons to help them pass their tests.

Photo Credit: Jakub Kadlec, Creative Commons

I promised to come once a week, and for nearly 12 months, I did. But every Tuesday, as I would walk from my full time, 9-5 job across town—heels and business casual in the backpack strapped firmly to my back and Nikes on my feet—I would talk myself through it: you can do this. It’s just three hours. You like these kids. You do.

I would stay from 5-8pm or so, and then walk home, the whole time wondering why I was such a horrible person.

I didn’t like serving. I wasn’t any good at it.

This went on for a whole year. I wondered why I hated serving so much, but I kept going. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I was defective. Maybe I needed an attitude check. Maybe if I just kept serving, for a little bit longer—if I just kept showing up—I could change myself for the better.

Then, one day, long after I had quit my volunteer position at this organization and started at another one, I realized:

Service isn’t supposed to be miserable. It’s supposed to be fun.

I was at a summer camp when the thought popped into my mind. It was a camp I had attended as a high school student and had completely altered my life. The story is too long to share here, but something a counselor said to me was so simple and so profound for me, I believe it altered my trajectory forever.

So, I volunteered to come back as a counselor.

Counselors gave up one week of the summer for a “paycheck” that basically covered the gas to drive out to the camp, so it was essentially a volunteer position. We would go days with 2-3 hours of sleep each night, wrangling wily high school students into bed past 11pm and trying to get to bed before midnight ourselves (always failing).

We made make crafts and ate camp food and ran around like crazy people playing games and having water balloon fights and chaperoning dances each night.

By the end of the week, I would be so tired, if I started laughing (or crying) there would be no possible way I could stop. I would just get tickled about something and, within minutes, I (along with two other counselors) would be rolling around on the ground like teenagers, laughing so hard our stomachs would turn hard as rocks.

I loved going to camp. I looked forward to it every year.

It wasn’t less work than the other organization. It wasn’t less of a time commitment (it was just concentrated into one week, instead of spread out over months). The work wasn’t any more glamorous than the work I had been doing with the other students (probably less). The only difference was this:

I liked it.

And if you ask me, this is the counter-intuitive thing about service—that it’s supposed to be this big, horrible sacrifice you make; that you’re supposed to do it even when you hate doing it, because that’s what it means to be selfless.

To me, making a sacrifice like that doesn’t do anyone any good. It might appease your guilt or make you feel important for a minute, but it doesn’t really help anyone.

It’s not really service.

To me, service is about finding where your gifts are, your passions are, where your time is already being dedicated, and learning to give those gifts, give those passions, give that time with abandon.

When you find that sweet spot, you don’t want to hold back. You don’t want to stop giving. You can’t stop giving.

It feels so good.

For this reason, the way I serve has changed over the years, as I change.

When I was younger, I used to babysit (sometimes for pay, often for free). When I was a school teacher, I would stay after school and help my students who didn’t have anyone at home to help them with homework. When I was working in a restaurant, I would often invite my co-workers out to coffee or dinner to ask them about their lives.

These days, my husband and I open our home all the time to guests who are traveling through, or who simply a place to rest. We are constantly serving people.

It just doesn’t look like service. It looks like friendship.

Of course, there is sacrifice in service. It’s not always easy. In the beginning, I always feel a little bit of resistance and service, in any capacity, seems to have this way of pushing me to my limits.

But I always gain more from service than I lose. I never regret it, never wish I could take it back. I don’t have to talk myself into it again and again.

If you feel like you haven’t found your sweet spot for service yet, don’t panic, and don’t worry there is something wrong with you. There’s not. Keep trying things. Keep experimenting, keep exploring your passions and desires. Eventually, you’ll find a way to serve that doesn’t feel quite like you’re serving.

You’ll find a way to give that makes you feel like you’re actually receiving more in return.

The post The Myth That Service Has to Be Difficult and Miserable appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

Weekend Reading

photo: Vinoth Chandar, Creative Commons

Each weekend I love to leave you with a list of the best things I have read on the Internet because, well, sometimes, you just need something great to read. I’m so excited to share these articles with you, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

If you read something great this week, leave me a note in the comments. And mostly, enjoy your weekend. Do something awesome!

The Strange Tension Between Theology and Science by Michael Gerson

I really appreciated this discussion about the tension between theology and science. As Christians especially, we are quick to assume these two things oppose each other, but what if they aren’t mutually exclusive?

8 Ways to Get Unstuck by Brad Lomenick

If you’re feeling stuck in your career, your marriage, your friendships, or any other area of your life, this post is a super practical, super helpful approach to getting unstuck.

How to Handle A Bad Mood at Home by Donald Miller

Have you ever thought about how your bad mood might be affecting more than just you? This was helpful and convicting read that gave me even more incentive than I already feel to keep my moods from getting out of control.

The Best Question to Ask Your Spouse by Sarah Markley (via The Art of Simple)

This is a beautifully written post and incredibly wise advice from someone who has been married for much longer than I have. If I asked and answered this question in my marriage everyday, I can’t imagine the growth we would find.

Blowing Up The Myth of Busy-ness by Ian Andrew Nelson

The most popular answer to the question “how are you” is “good, but busy!” But what message are we sending to those around us when our default posture is “busy”? I appreciated this perspective.

 

The post Weekend Reading appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.