Controlled Maturity

                Over the course of ten years, I’ve met with a group of guys for one purpose. Married, single, college, high school, post graduate, middle-aged, the spread of ages of the different faces to come and go is wide. Meeting religiously for years, I can confidently speak about any area of my life with these men, without shame or recourse, knowing I will be accepted, corrected, praised, or made fun of without the promise of shame, all while putting my insecurities to feature. Words about feelings have become second nature with this group; in this room. Nevertheless, the realities of living vulnerable daily, that is, the willingness to release the authenticity of myself, has continued in its protection.

               
                I sat in the parking lot, the conversation began to turn to a place I was unready, unwilling to go. 16 years old, I knew of one thing, how to make myself laugh. Regardless of the circumstances, I had a selfish focus of personal entertainment, unaccounting for the persons involved. “Andrew, it’s time to grow up, it’s time to get mature”. The truth in the statement did little to help me with the process of realization. Becoming an entirely different person, admonishing the fun, giving promotion to the sober, this was my picture of maturity.

                
                Ten years later, ignoring her for months, years, a friend began to try and unlock the person that I had told sit in the corner and be quiet. A few months ago, I began to wonder. I wondered if maybe she was right. Maybe this person is there, but he wasn’t accepted 10 years ago, why would he be now? Was I living my life to the fullest, was I living my life at all? Was I living someone else’s?

I made a choice.

               

                 I made a choice be OK with me when I make a mess, an offensive joke, hurt feelings. Clean up the mess, and be OK with the trueness of you. I made a choice that is becoming a discipline. Trying to mature the 16 year old personality within without suffocating him, while still being me has been less than smooth. Letting it out, and being rejected, feeling like the little boy told to go stand in the corner. Forgetting to manipulate situations in hopes of maintaining control and minimizing pain has been hurtful. I sat this week, wondering if letting this vulnerability go in my emotions and releasing the joy inside was a mistake, with rejection arriving so often. Refusing to prove myself, but rather be, I have entertained the lies of rejection, incompetency, failure, and realized control has protected me. Releasing control meant unleashing dormant insecurities. These thoughts I tried to confront, with little success. Until I heard this notice:

 “My thoughts are not your thoughts, even about yourself”

Famous

It posters itself across our TV’s, radio’s, magazines, internet, and any other media form that exists: lives of the rich and famous. These people are coined as the most successful because their accomplishments and talents have produced the greatest recognition. These people have the greatest of lives, or so it seems, lives that even though most internally enhance, we envy nonetheless. A desire to be famous, that is, to be known among the celebrated, drives dreams, guides decisions, designs thoughts, and determines success.

What would make me great? What would make me known? Because it is in being known, that I am important. Becoming the best, in and how without significance, just achieving greatness is purposed. To be the best teacher, the best coach, the best son, friend, brother; these things plague me. Insecurity looking to become tangible confidence masks itself into arrogance and I begin to lose at the very things I set out to occupy. Never seeing victories, strengths or capabilities, it becomes tunnel-vision to the shortcomings and misgivings that make me less than, that prevent me from becoming the recognized. If am known, I am the best; if I am the best, I am the acclaimed, I am important.

           I lay flat on my floor, analyzing the weaknesses that I offer into the next phase of my life, career; wondering if I will ever sit among those who are thriving and seemingly unbeaten. Creating strategies and tactics to shift paradigms and cultures to create the success I desire, the respect I want to deserve, the importance I crave. Reminded of the fleeting substance of being known by the many, I realize my desire to be known is not a selfish desire, simply misguided.

           What then would change if the aspiration to be famed found its roots in eternal consequences? Where the footprints of my steps were marked by broken chains and freed lives. What if the popularity’s construction was replaced with importing value and life into the broken and hopeless? What if I forgot about my name, and in the minutes of everyday, resolved only to promote His? Where reputation began in heaven, while unpopulating hell.

What if famous still happened…

…in and through the ageless?

One Decision

I sat alone in a room soon to be filled with a few hundred screaming, giggling, and overjoyed high school students. Coming with a friend up into the mountains during vacation, memories flood of the past years of directing similar events, hoping the quiet empty room I now sit in, I will drown out the noise shattering inside of me.

Perfection.

It’s required. Without it, you’re not first; and if you’re not first you’re last.  I’ve relived, remembered, redone, tried to remove, and with every repeating memory, replenished the judgment and shame on myself. A single mistake, regardless of its significance, can cause a train wreck of internal disorder.

Growing up, trouble seemed to always be at my door. Fun was the driving force behind every action, thought, hour, or day without concern for rules or discipline.  Nevertheless, if punishment were to come, it couldn’t come quick enough. Once discipline made its mark, I could move to once again look to become the best, to achieve perfection, hoping next time, I wouldn’t spoil His plan for my life again.  His plan is perfect, and to stay on His plan, I must remain perfect as if my life is a board-game, only the perfect role will land me on the intended space.

Easy to read, hear, think, ever difficult to truly know; that regardless of my mistakes, I am deeply loved. Regardless of my continual failed pursuit of perfection. I am deeply loved. Regardless of the consequences, the brokenness I create, I am deeply loved.  Regardless of how I view me, I am forever deeply loved.

Regardless, I still don’t believe it.

I always come back to a time, sitting on bench with a close friend. Explaining to him my impending life decision, he stopped my rambling and gave am unforgettable slap on the wrist:

“Who do you think you are? Why do you think you are so big? Do you really think that you are powerful enough to mess up God’s plan for your life in one decision? Mistake or correct, pursue Him, His plan is bigger than you.”

I want to believe it.

 I will.

Hopeful(less)

I hope.

What is it that I hope? I hope to make more money. I hope to get the job. I hope my finances come through. I hope to be noticed. I hope to do well in school. I hope to get what I ask for. I hope to stay healthy. I hope to be loved. I hope to be needed. I hope. I hope.

I want.

These words have become interchangeable in my expressions. Hope equates desire; but it doesn't. Hope must be put in something, someone. Can I hope in something I cannot see? It is in where my hope lies, this place that feeds me life, hoping for something greater, when satisfied, I become the person I was authored to be.

Hope fails.

Most often, I have my hope stationed in relationships; in the end wanting to be counted among the number of whom this piece of my hope is controlled.  When I am unrecognized, ignored, I become unvalued. This habit requires overindulging by asserting to maintain peaceful connections. Hope still serves the same purpose, nevertheless, putting my hope in anything that can ultimately fail, will. Broken relationships, author hopelessness, and lies are fashioned to the fiction of Hope's existence. My hope is in being wanted. When I am unwanted in an instance, I become unwanted unanimously. It is when my hope is placed in something definable, the definition will at last become identity. Being wanted is part of the design, but allowing it to become the substitute when I don't feel like a son, my internal infrastructure begins to crumble. Hope fails when grounded in something or someone that was never designed provide satisfaction, life.

Hope influences.

A friend of mine once told me, the one who possesses the greatest hope, possesses the greatest influence. Hope is the confidence in something great, for something better. Hope is knowing. Hope doesn't disappoint. I live by who I put my hope in, I die by its absence. But hope can always win, hope can always satisfy, hope can always influence. It is when my hope is placed in what cannot be defined, the one who calls me son, the one who always welcomes, always wins, always satisfies; then definitions and identities are insignificant, because they are unchanging. I am thus always wanted, because of who I am, never the converse.

Where is my hope? 

Today...

...my hope is in Jesus.

A son. 

Wanted.

93 Words

Crowds gathered, sometimes small, other sometimes too large. Pushing forward to get to the front to hear words that both cut and healed in the same moment. Few things were certain, nevertheless, amid confusion, frustration, you left more alive than you came. Unsure of what would change, they pushed forward. To be touched. If even for a second, it could mean a lifetime of profit. Bringing the marginalized, the undervalued, the forgotten, and meeting rejection; highlighting the prevailed identity of worthlessness. But walls broke, and the insignificant owned the spotlight. He said "Be like them", the world turned upside down again.

no, you're not good enough.

I lay in my bed night after night, reading the same 93 words. Who am I? Am I the follower who refuses access because someone does not qualify to be touched by the same man who forever changed me? When did I become the gatekeeper to His presence? When did His love for me become greater than His love for them? When did I stop loving like He loves? I don't need to protect Him.

I don't care what anyone does, I'll push until He touches you.

The alternative found in the same motion. Parents bringing their children to sit at the feet of wonder. Unsure of why they are possessed by this man's words, actions, just knowing that if touched, a life would forever be changed, a destiny forever shaped. Who am I? Am I one who pushes through adversity, rejection, false identities, reasoned only for others to encounter their maker. Is everything I do: influencing, hoping, positioning others to be seen, to be touched? Do I remember His firsts are my forgottens, my refuse is His reception? Look to Him, He's looking at you.

You were them, now be me.

I begin to remember His words, you were lost and I found you,. You were forgotten and I remembered you. you were insignificant; I gave you value. You were dead; I made you alive. Be like them, come to me until you are touched, then come again. I make you who you are, rejection is an obstacle, not an identity.

Be like them, keep pushing, keep coming.

Mark 10

Do you see me?

...are they watching...
...do they see me...
...am I noticed...
...are they impressed...
...am I doing enough...
...am I important....

...AM I GOOD ENOUGH...

30 Fifth grade students stand together prepared to sing for their video-camera wielding parents. A few select are chosen to sing prepared solo's; though there's one student, unconcerned with the music, words, the former practice, tunnel-visioned to the affirmation of their parent. And at the most inopportune time shouting: "Dad, am I doing good?"

The definition of the person has begun to be written. It is by what I do that I am valued. The perceived thoughts and reactions of who I label as important, give my life meaning, daily looking for someone to put a price to who I am. The greater the price, the greater the significance. When I have little to offer, at least in their mind, and now my own, I have little value. "Dad, am I doing good?" - Do you think I'm important - your thoughts define me.

I sat frustrated, thoughts of inadequacy overwhelming truth: yes you may be good, but you will never be great, average among elite, forgotten amid the renown. Performance paradigm now deeply rooted as it was modeled at an early age. I have little worth when I am only able to offer what is modest. When I have little to profit from others' lives, I create minimal time for a person I view as having minimal importance. Selfishness in cycles: my own insecurity compounds theirs and back again. "Dad, am I doing good?" - Am I valuable? -

Selfishness, fear, insecurity disconnect reality. Truth remains, I am valuable enough that someone who had nothing to gain, gave himself up. Truth remains, my author went bankrupt to unchain me from selfishness, fear, insecurity. Truth remains, He did it all to look me in the eye:

"Andrew, you are worth it"

Who Changed?

I've heard it said. I've seen it happen, both progressively and in mere moments. A change in someone's life, amendments to their thoughts, actions, motivations, goals, values, ideas, identities. I've had moments in my life where instantaneous change has occurred, and times where conversion was processed and implemented over time. All of these episodes rooted in the unwavering, the unchanging presence.

I've heard it from many men, women, from different pulpits and various books, it is impossible to enter into the presence and leave unchanged. Everything within me agrees, except my experience. Recognizing the error in creating standards simply out of experience, questions rise in why change does not always occur, at least perceivably. That is, why do the same actions, lifestyles persist when the intimate moment is lost? Is the presence absent? Did rejection prevent its power? Is the change to subtle to notice? Did I leave too early? Did I... and I've already begun to be defeated, unrealized to the fact that a loyal love to Him forgets to worship myself.

Nevertheless, ignoring the self-absorbed questions leads to the answered truth, it is impossible to enter into the presence and leave unchanged. Internal renovation has occurred, but in the moments as I walked away from that time with Him, I again took control of my heart, reshaping what He restructured to what is comfortable to me, from what is new to what is old. My temporary surrender and unwillingness to give Him permanent control, in intimacy and out, refuses to allow life to exist in the vulnerability of His transformation. And I closed my eyes to trust.


Revolution happened.

And I lose control.