the grace of fragility

Cozied up in my comfy chair—still in pajamas, coffee in hand, snuggled under a blanket—I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And I can't help but smile. I have a home, a job, an income. I have friends and family who love me. I have health insurance, a car, a closet full of clothes. I have all I need, really. I shake my head in wonder. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

I open my eyes and breathe in deeply again. This nagging thought—the same one that's been hovering just beneath the surface for weeks now—scratches again and reminds me it's still there. It lingers close, threatening to steal my exhale and my smile. Like a funhouse mirror, it plays tricks on my mind, distorting hope into a frightening creature and making fears appear larger than they really are.

The thought I can't seem to shake is how fragile everything in my life feels, in a way it never used to. I'm painfully aware of how quickly it all can vanish. How in an instant, everything can be taken away.

Realizing life's fragility is ultimately a good thing. It keeps me mindful that nothing and no one ever belongs to me. It forces me to hold things (and people) more loosely. No matter how strong my death-grip, the concept of "mine" remains a mirage. Nothing is mine. And I'm not in control.

The constant reminder of fragility also leaves me feeling unsettled... insecure... unstable. It makes it difficult to invest in relationships, trust wholeheartedly, and put down roots. It feels harder to dream, to laugh, to enjoy the good that's present right now. Joy takes more effort than it used to and anxiety comes more easily. Hope often seems like a cruel joke. Remember Lucy and the football?

Sometimes that's what hope feels like, and I'm left feeling stupid that I fell for it yet again.

Even as I say all this out loud, I know how ridiculous it sounds even in my own head. I hear the nudging reminders not to worry about tomorrow as today has enough worry of its own. I see the "choose joy" on my arm and feel the heart hug of my ever-present friend who showed me what it means to live that out. I hear God calling me to hope. Again. No matter what.

I want to believe that eventually dreaming will feel easier again, that life—though fragile—will feel more secure, and that thoughts of the future will breed more hope than fear. I want to.

So I close my teary eyes again, and take a deep breath. I hold it as long as I can, and as I let the air out I shake my head. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

pleading not guilty

I was worried I'd grown numb to it. Maybe I'd become calloused. Hardened. Immune. Because poverty wasn't affecting me like it used to.

When I faced it as a teenager—on mission trips to places like Nicaragua and Botswana—my eyes and my heart were opened to things I never knew existed in the world. I was wrecked to discover such unimaginable and inescapable poverty, and it messed with me at a deep level.

I'd return home and make all kinds of extreme commitments. I vowed to be less materialistic. I took radical stances with my "self-absorbed" Christian friends. I soapboxed about America's obsession with excess. I volunteered more, and served wherever and whenever I could.

But as the aftershocks of my experiences with poverty wore off, so did my radical life changes. Until my next mission trip.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It was a vicious cycle of the best intentions that did nothing more than fuel my need to continually strive to be better, do more, and—somehow, hopefully—be enough.

I'm not saying I didn't genuinely have compassion and conviction and passion to live a life that makes a difference. I did. But it translated into a guilt-driven reaction to the extremes I saw and experienced.

It was a nauseating roller coaster ride as I tried—and failed—to reconcile the poverty I witnessed with the life I lived everyday and to bridge the disparity between my abundance and their lack.

It was years after I moved to South Africa to serve in the poorest region of the country that I finally realized that those things can't be reconciled or bridged. The contrasts will never make sense.

And I mustn't allow my guilt to force-feed my insatiable striving complex. Nor must I allow it to paralyze me into inactivity or apathy.

I had finally learned to step off the roller coaster and actually engage in doing something that would truly make a difference. Not fueled by guilt, but by hope.

I realized that it isn't about being apologetic for what I have, giving everything away, or looking down on how much people spend at Starbucks. It is about stewarding what I have well, using it to serve, strengthen, and love others.

People often ask me how I could live and work for so long in a community of such dire poverty. "Do you just get used to it?" What they are really asking is the same thing I've asked myself: "Did you grow numb?"

And I see now that I didn't. But somewhere in my 13 years of living in Africa, something did change in me.

I stopped feeling guilty about what I had and the "luck" of being born an American, and I started to feel grateful to be part of the solution.

The problems and challenges are enormous, but we can all do something that makes a difference. In our own unique ways, with our own individual passions and talents, we can bring hope into places and hearts that gave up a long time ago.

Not because we feel guilty, but because we are compelled by the hope we ourselves have been given.

What's been your experience with responding to poverty? How can we move past guilt into being part of the solution?

{photos by Daniel White}

{Guest Post} When Your World Comes Crashing Down

Jeff Goins and I connected a few years ago via Twitter. We both have a heart for missions and started brainstorming ways to partner our organizations together. He quickly became a friend, and it's been a joy watching his journey unfold the past few years. He is a solid guy—wicked smart, gifted writer, and passionate about not only telling great stories, but living them as well. His new book Wrecked is poignant and inspiring. You definitely need to read it! I've asked Jeff to share one of his experiences of learning to embrace the messy grit of life.

It was senior year in college, and I thought I knew a thing or two about life. I thought I had it all figured out, that I knew the direction of my destiny. Everything, I thought, was going according to plan.

I was wrong.

My plan was this: study Spanish, learn the language, graduate college, and move abroad. My best friend had moved to Guatemala, so I thought I'd follow him. What could be better?

But then one Saturday afternoon, I attended a church service where a gentleman was sharing about the 10/40 window and the needs of people all over the world — not just in Latina America.

He messed me and my little plan up.

The more the man talked, the more uneasy I felt. And the more I realized this was my bright idea and maybe not God's. Finally at the end of the day, I approached him, asking the question that was burning in my heart.

"I speak Spanish. Shouldn't I go to some place where I already know the language and culture?"

He smiled and shook his head, full of grace. I prodded and asked and wanted to know why, why he was ruining all my wonderful plans.

Then he said something I won't soon forget: "The gifts never precede the call."

But that wasn't enough for me. I wanted specifics: charts and graphs and whatnot. He told me it was good that I knew Spanish, but that I couldn't go to God with my abilities, asking him to merely bless them.

Instead, I needed to follow him, to go where I felt called, and trust that what I needed to serve would follow. He explained that one approach (mine, I gathered) was prideful, asking God to baptize my preexisting plans; and the other was the way of faith, of trusting without seeing.

Days after that meeting, I started watching videos about China and got excited. A year later, I spent a month in Taiwan.

I'm still figuring it out, but this is the tough part of pursuing our life's work. Things don't always go according to plan; sometimes, we don't get what we want. And maybe that's what a calling is all about.

... ... ...

Jeff Goins is a writer who lives in Nashville. You can find him on his blog at goinswriter.com and follow him on Twitter at @jeffgoins. His book, Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life, just came out. Find out more at wreckedthebook.com.

How have you seen God show up in your own life when things didn't go according to plan?

remember that time i almost got published?

I was this close to being a published author. Last December I was invited to co-author a book with some incredible writers. Since I've shared about the project previously here on The Grit and many of you have expressed interest in its release, I've decided to try to update everyone rather than have a lot of individually awkward conversations as questions come streaming in down the road.

It was such an honor to be asked to be a part of this amazing collaboration, and the initial phone conversation moved quickly into signed contracts and scheduled deadlines. Each of us contributing authors were invited because of our unique story and journey. We were tasked with writing memoir-style about a moment that changed the course of our lives and the ways our stories have unfolded since then.

The publisher asked us to write from our hearts. To be candid. Honest. Real. I wrote and re-wrote for weeks. Months, even. My story is public, and I've shared about it countless times in writing and in person, but I was being called upon to dig deeper. To divulge more—of my heart, not details. The editing process was grueling and insightful, with countless revisions until the end result was a piece I was honestly in awe of.

The editorial team had drawn out of me what I didn't think was possible.

As always, I felt the risk in such bare-naked vulnerability, but I also felt strangely proud of and excited about my contribution. It truly was the product of an incredible group of people—publishers and editors alike—who believed in me and in my story.

A few weeks ago, I got to see my chapter transform from typed pages in a Word document into its actual layout in the book. Complete with artwork and page numbers, it seemed to come alive in a whole new way. We were getting close, making final tweaks days before going to print. It was exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at the same time.

And then the carpet got pulled out from underneath it all.

While I was in Ethiopia, I got an email that the publisher's legal department suddenly had concerns.

Although my story had already been shared publicly, although I never mentioned my ex-husband or the other woman by name, although I've resumed my maiden name... they worried about liability. Emails flew back and forth in an attempt to find a workable solution to this crazy last-minute "problem".

Eventually the publisher sent me a revised version of my chapter that no longer included specific reference to an affair.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

This was no longer my story.

As I have since the beginning, I'd worked hard to share the painful parts of my journey in a way that still honored my ex-husband. I know my story isn't pretty, and the facts themselves are shockingly and devastatingly ugly. But I've always sought to tell my story in the most tactful and respectful way possible, explaining the facts but focusing more on my personal response and journey through them. This watered-down rendition seemed intent to protect my ex even from the truth itself.

With this now-required omission, I felt my chapter would need to be rewritten entirely. But I was told there wasn't time for that.

This was now the only version that was approved to go to print, and they needed me to sign off on it by the end of the day so it could be sent to the printer.

What was left was no longer a piece I was proud of or confident in. It felt untrue to myself, to my journey, to my voice...

Heartbroken, I bowed out of the project. And I felt the dream of being a published author run like water through my grasping fingers...

I don't understand how it came to this. I don't really get the liability concern when countless books get published all the time by those who've endured much worse at the hands of others. I can't fathom why concern was raised only days before the book went to print. I can't comprehend being invited to be a part of this project because of my story and then basically excluded from it because of it. It doesn't make sense to me, and it probably never will.

A few days out from it, I can honestly say I'm not bitter. Just disappointed.

I feel crazy-grateful for those who believed so strongly in me and in my story. They advocated loudly on my behalf from start to finish, and worked tirelessly to find a way for me to remain a part of the project.

I'm still thankful for the hard work of writing my chapter—the digging deep, the editing journey, the excruciating but extraordinary process of putting my heart on paper. That I don't regret at all. And I'll be better prepared for the next opportunity, whenever that may be.

I'm left with a stark reminder that more important than being a storyteller, I am a story-liver.

And I want to continue to live a story that honors God, that trusts Him no matter what, and that shouts how good He is.

Even in the wake of disappointment.

in recovery

My gall bladder came out on Thursday. I'll spare you the picture my surgeon took for me (he's awesome like that!), but take my word for it—I'm glad to have that thing gone. The pile of stones it held was near record-breaking, that's for sure.

I've done basically nothing for the past few days. Tracee, my roommate, has taken good care of me: keeping me fed, hydrated, and medicated. Oh, and keeping something good in the DVD player at all times. Booyah.

Today I'm feeling more discomfort than pain, which is certainly a welcomed improvement. Laughing still hurts like crazy, and don't even get me started on sneezing. Ouch.

Boredom has started to set in. Maybe you can help stir up my stir-crazy a bit.

Tell me what's going on in your world. Or tell me a funny story (the laughter pain will be worth it). Or link me to something you loved reading or seeing or hearing. Anything at all.

Mmmkaythanks.