emotions

Why We Need Kindness Right Now

  Sometimes as I think about this strange season we're in, and how much longer it's going to be I wonder how we will get through (honestly, it's good they're doing this in stages. We need to be eased into the reality of it). What I keep coming back to is this: we need a lot more kindness. Why We Need Kindness We need to be kind to ourselves, and we need to be kind to others. In stores, online, in zoom calls and on the streets (from a safe social distance, of course). Our world needs more kindness if we're going to get through this well. We need kindness because we've never done this before. And when we do something for the first time, we don't know what we're doing. Which means we'll feel lost and uncomfortable and incompetent. And the last thing we need right then is to put unrealistic expectations on ourselves to know what to do and be able to keep going just as we did before. No, we need someone to be kind to us. We need someone to be patient while we learn this new season. We need kindness because this is scary. And when things are scary we get anxious. That's normal. Some of us are more anxious than others for a lot of really good reasons-our health is poor, or our parents are old, or we have to work in hospitals. Whatever the reason, whether it makes sense to us or not, it's understandable. When someone is scared, it doesn't help to tell them not to be scared. They need empathy. They need someone to listen to their fears and tell them we're with them. We need kindness because it's just too much sometimes. And when it's too much it's not because we're weak or we did it wrong or we stink at this. It's too much because we weren't made to live this way. Adrenaline is only supposed to last us so long-just enough to get away from the danger. We can't get away from this danger. When we hit the wall (and we will) we need to be kind to ourselves about it. We need kindness because this isn't normal. But this is the only normal that we're going to get for a long time, and that's hard. Learning to live with that is discombobulating, which is a fantastic word but something none of us like to feel. We're living with little "t" trauma all the time. A lot of us feel disregulated. Kindness helps get us back to a healthy place. We need kindness because we're sad. The big, obvious losses we're incurring are easy to note, but we tend to ignore the little ones. We did a zoom call the other night with old friends from overseas, and while it was a delight, the fact that they are here in my city and I can't see them grieved me. Those little losses are like pinhole pricks in the…

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How “At Least . . .” Keeps Us From Reality

  A few weeks ago, I lamented a reality in my life. I would tell you what this reality was, but I honestly don't remember. All I know is that my husband didn't respond the way I hoped. His response was, "Well, at least (this other thing) isn't happening to you." (Again, what was the other thing? I don't know. But it didn't help me). And we both laughed. Because we know by now that, as Brené Brown says, "At least . . . " is rarely the beginning of an empathetic response. It's a way to minimize or distract ourselves (or others) from the reality of what we're facing. Over the next few days, we both experienced more challenges that led us, either jokingly or absent-mindedly, to respond to one another with, "Well, at least . . ." Each time, we caught ourselves. We saw how easy it is to evade our own or someone else's pain by this kind of comparison. Call it "putting things in perspective" or "choosing not to complain," but really what we're doing is dismissing our hearts, refusing to acknowledge reality. In some ways, it's a decent strategy. At times, it has protected us from being engulfed by sorrow. But if we know God, then we know there's an opportunity here. The opportunity is to invite Him to meet us in what is true. A prayer I learned recently from Ruth Haley Barton's readings is, "Lord, humble me in the presence of reality." In other words, help me sit in this situation. Help me not to excuse or dismiss or pretend that things are better than they are. Because I believe that You are greater than this. You can redeem. You can heal. This is not beyond you, therefore I can face it. When we sit with God in our own reality, we increase our capacity to sit with others in theirs. And when we refrain from our "at least . . ." responses with them, we leave space for them to do this same practice with God for themselves. Otherwise, our actions not only keep us from having to feel their pain, they actually keep them from meeting God in it. So may we catch ourselves when we are tempted to compare suffering. If our sentences begin with "at least" may we pause. Instead, let's meet God in reality.   Related posts: When Weeping Is Prayer The Challenge to Rejoice and Weep with Others What Is Anger's Real Name? 

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Holding Each Other (When We Want to Fix It)

  When her teammate went down in the middle of a game, our daughter immediately ran to her side. Her first aid training kicked in, and she tried in vain to get her friend to slow her breathing. Shock and pain overwhelmed her teammate, though, and all our girl could do was sit by and cry for her. Afterward, she lamented her helplessness to me. "I couldn't help her. I couldn't do anything for her," she sighed. "You did the best thing you could. You were with her. She didn't need you to fix her. She needed you to be there." Unconvinced, she continued, "But it was so hard to see her in pain, and I couldn't help." And there is the heart of the issue. Our Desire to Fix When we see others in pain, something in us desires to help. That desire is good. It's God-given. But often our desire to help is really a desire to fix. It's a desire for the bad situation to simply not be true. It seems right, even good, to fix, doesn't it? It feels like helping. Really, though, it's usually avoiding. We struggle to sit in places of shalom shattered, both for ourselves and others. It reminds us that we are not in control. We feel our helplessness. We feel their pain. Yet there's something we can offer in these moments that is precious and valuable. We can offer our presence. And that can be enough. Offering Our Presence Recently I was in a small group for my spiritual formation program. We were asked to introduce ourselves to each other, and then sit in silence for two minutes afterward. One person shared quite vulnerably, even to the point of tears. And after sharing, we sat there without saying a word to her. It felt both awful and right. Awful, because we wanted to enter into her pain, to comfort and empathize, to say, "Yeah, I get that. Me too." But also right, because it meant no one spoke a word out of turn. No one offered platitudes or tried to rescue her from something God might be doing. It felt like enough to just be together, to be human with one another. M. Craig Barnes, in his book, Yearnings, says, "We don’t mend each other’s brokenness, we just hold it tightly." What a relief! It's not up to us to fix each other. While it's hard to see someone else in pain, wrestling, confused, unsettled, whatever it is, we aren't being asked to take it away. God has his eyes on all of us. He sees. He knows. And so our invitation is to simply hold each other tightly. Be there. Be there right away. Cry with them. That is enough. Related posts: 5 Reasons to Be a Burden The Challenge to Rejoice and Weep with Others Open the Door to Others

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When Weeping Is Prayer

  I read about a family whose 6-year-old twin boys and 9-year-old daughter died while waiting for a bus. I started to pray for the family in their loss, but all I could do was cry. No words. It's not the first time. So often, the weight of the needs around me feels too much to put into prayer. Tragedy in our country. A tough diagnosis. A friend's child's struggles. My child's struggles. Recently, my own work felt overwhelming, and Jesus whispered to me to stop and pray. When I did, tears came instead. But maybe that is prayer. Because isn't prayer about honesty? Isn't it touching the heart of God? And doesn't God weep with us? Prayer is a conversation. He invites, we respond. We come, He listens. And in it, we bring our hearts. Sometimes maybe the way we love best is not with words, but with emotion. We step into others' reality. Allow their pain to become ours. Or we step into our own reality. We allow our pain to show. We let ourselves feel. Our hearts come to the surface, and we let Jesus touch them. We let them be caught and held by the Savior. After all, that's what Jesus did. He stepped into our reality. He embraced our humanity. Allowed our pain to become His, to the point of death. God Weeps with Us And He does it day after day. He is not the God who stands at a distance., but the One who watches for the prodigal. When He sees him He scoops up His robes and goes running. He is the God who bears witness to all the pain of the world, even that which others do not know. Closer than a heartbeat, He is El Roi, the God who sees. He is the God who collects our tears in a bottle, who hears every sigh and sees every longing. What He hopes for from us, more than our words, is our hearts. There is an aversion in our culture to enter pain. We stand at a distance and pray, but our prayer is more, "God may that never happen to me," than, "God this is ours to bear together." Or, when the hurt is ours, the prayer is, "God make this go away so I don't have to feel it" rather than "God here is my heart, please hold me in the midst of the battle." What Our Weeping Says There is a difference between weeping from despair, and tears of honesty. The latter is brave-letting ourselves feel our humanity while we face reality before the One who alone can bring redemption of all that is broken. So I'm learning to let tears be part of my prayer. When they are for others, they are tears that say, "I do not want to stand at a distance from this." I want to stand alongside them, where Jesus is. Most likely, someday I will need someone else to cry prayers for me.…

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What Is Anger’s Real Name?

Sometimes on New Year's Eve, when I'm feeling ambitious and intentional about our family relationships, we review the year together. One question we ask our kids is, "what's one thing you learned this year?" Our last year overseas, our then 10-year-old said, "I've learned that anger is a secondary emotion," and I high fived myself. Partly because it felt like I nailed something good in parenting, but mostly because I was glad our kids learned it so much sooner than I did. It was something I learned that year too, mostly because I experienced a lot of it (we got a dog. It was hard. I got angry. Really angry). Anger is a secondary emotion, meaning that it's not all we're feeling. When we're angry, it's usually because we're feeling something else, something that feels vulnerable. So anger, which makes us feel big, covers the emotion that makes us feel small. Anger was a theme that year for our whole family. It rose in me when we got our dog and everything in my life fell apart. Our daughter lived in it the summer before we moved back to the U.S. For me, the anger covered shame, the shame of failure, of not living up to my image of a successful homeschooling, dog training missionary. Our daughter's anger masked the fear she felt in being so completely out of control and sad in the process of leaving home. What Anger Tells Us Anger is a good barometer. We get angry when something we love feels threatened. Often it's our image. Or it's a way of life we're trying to hold onto. Maybe our deepest desires feel threatened-our desire to be wanted, important, safe, right. Anger doesn't always show up as rage. In fact, often it doesn't. It disguises itself as sarcasm, criticism, stubbornness, contempt. It slips out in clipped words and impatience. Most of us don't linger in anger for long. It feels wrong. We dismiss it, stifle it, or blow it off quickly, rather than allowing it to be a doorway into something deeper. When we don't linger, we never get to the bottom of what we're really feeling. And we need to. Because if we sit with our anger long enough, it will tell us its real name. The Names of Anger It might tell us its name is grief. Maybe shame. Fear. Fear of losing control, fear of not being enough. Weakness. Confusion. Despair. Beneath our anger is our true emotions that need to see the light of day so we can deal with them. One fall, I was, in my husband's words, "kind of mean." That's fair. (He was being gracious-there are stronger words he could use). He said maybe I didn't have much emotional margin after sending our son off to school, the prayer rollercoaster God took us on that summer, and the business of gearing up for a conference that fall that I was leading. Regardless, I'm glad he said something. It gave me an opportunity to…

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