the good, the bad and the ugly truth.

"Love... rejoices with the truth."
--1 Corinthians

That one line is such a profound little statement, I don't think I fully realized its brevity and beauty until this past week. I was sitting out at camp, only feet away from a gorgeous lake, and I decided to re-read 1 Corinthians 13: the love chapter. It's such a well known text, people like to stick it on the backs of postcards, coffee mugs and magnets without even giving it a second look. While the entire chapter really is incredible, it was that one verse that stuck out to me the most.

The Lord's been teaching me a lot about honesty lately. There's something so simply beautiful about telling the truth. Some times, it doesn't have to come in any cardboard, gift wrapped packages with elegant, fancy bows; just the bare truth is enough, lying out in the open where it can be stepped on.

But where it can also be seen.

I think a lot of the times, we like to tell the truth to gain something for ourselves - to get something in return from a certain person, or to get a specific response out of them. And sometimes, we very well need to receive something from the whole ordeal. But there are other times when the truth just needs to be told.

I recently was confronted with either keeping the truth inside, pressing it deep down where others can't really see it, but where it festers and cracks and rots underneath the surface, or telling the truth just to tell the truth. It wasn't a very pretty truth, and it was painful for me to say it to one of my dear friends. But there's something so incredibly freeing about getting it off your chest, even if it leaves you completely vulnerable. And even if I can't look back and pinpoint a specific advantage or goal or prize I received from it, I can at least look back and know that I told the truth.

Sometimes, that's enough.

Beyond that, as the verse above states, as Christians, we're told that love rejoices in the truth. No matter how ugly, no matter how painful, no matter how hard it is to get off your chest, a real, deep and raw love is one that sees the truth for what it really is and doesn't shy away from it. Rather, it rejoices in its very nature, knowing that God himself is Truth. It goes against our nature to celebrate something that can be so unbearable and challenging, as it's so much easier to slip inside our shells and keep our issues to ourselves. It can be a truly terrifying thing, but it's also completely humbling, as we have to stop thinking about ourselves and what we want to get out of the situation. Instead, we have to come to terms with the fact that we may not get a pat on the back or a thumbs-up for being brave and telling the truth. Our feelings might get hurt, our hearts could get trampled on, and people may judge us. But in the end, we can still always rejoice, knowing that we demonstrated a real, agape kind of love in telling the truth.

We don't often think about this kind of love while reading 1 Corinthians 13. We like to write it in the middle of a beautiful painting of a garden, surrounded by birds and quiet scenery. But love isn't always smooth, it doesn't always flow peacefully like a river. And when it does get rough, we like to pout and slam doors and clench our fists.

But if the truth is based on Christ*, then it's going to be beautiful no matter how painful it is; it will flourish like a house built on the Rock. This itself is a hard truth to accept, but it's worth it to know and accept and preach to ourselves daily.

Love rejoices with the truth. Yes, let us preach that to ourselves daily, so we always remember the healing power of not only the truth, but of the one and only Truth.

*Emphasis on the "based on Christ" part of the sentence. I'm not advocating for everyone to go around and just speak their mind. Caution, discernment and prayer must be exercised in telling the truth.

one-word-descriptions around a late night bonfire.

My cousin’s going to China.

I think it still feels slightly unreal. I’ve known Katie since diapers, back when we were stupid and naïve and played with cardboard and almost annoyed each other to death every time we got together to play. Fortunately for us, we grew out of those tendencies once we hit the teen years, and we’ve been best friends for quite some time now. 

Katie’s also worked at camp with me for the past four years – ever since I’ve been there, she’s been there too. She left this morning to go home, headed halfway across the world for a five week internship in just a few short days. Last night, the entire camp staff had the wonderful opportunity to sit around a bonfire and tell everyone what they appreciated most about her. We all came up with different words that best described her, and then expanded on why we chose those words.

Faithful. Spirited. Questions. Quiet force to be reckoned with. Uplifting. Delightful.

For this sure to be awkward blog post (Katie’s uncomfortable with so much attention focused on her), I decided to elaborate on the three words that I chose. Because at the very least, someone as beautiful and courageous as Katie deserves to have a blog post written about her.

Servant- Katie lives her life in a constant state of servitude to others. She has this constant posture of stooping below people to lift them up, not to gain anything for herself, but because the love of Christ pours out so abundantly from her heart, she can’t help but put others first. It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable, inconvenient or challenging it is for herself, she presses on anyway because she sees people for who they really are: beautiful image bearers of Christ. Because of this truth, she can’t help but serve them whenever possible.

Comfortable- Katie’s one of the most comfortable people to be around. It’s like she wears this big welcome mat around her heart, standing with open arms where anyone can come in for a hug, some laughter and a cup of coffee whenever they need it. My first year on camp staff, I felt pretty uncomfortable in such a new environment, surrounded by new people. It was mainly because of Katie that I came into my own skin and felt comfortable coming out of my shell. She just has this incredibly simple way of making you feel like you’re sitting at home with close family and friends and are able to relax no matter what stress the day held earlier.

Passionate- I will never forget the night that Katie left me an at least five minute long message, ranting and yelling about one of her friends that was convinced women couldn’t be pastors. While I could really only make out about half of it, I’m still always a bit taken aback by Katie’s passion. She stands firm in what she believes in, planted on Christ The Solid Rock, and it’s so encouraging to see her so unwavering in her faith. She is stable. She is steady. She truly is a quiet force to be reckoned with. I have seen the same passion come out in the way she talks about China. It’s been a desire pressing on her heart for many years now, and her commitment to spreading the Gospel there, no matter how dangerous or challenging it is for herself, has never faded. My cousin has guts.

Another purpose for this blog post is to serve as a reminder, a reminder to lift Katie up in your prayers, to call out to the Lord for her safety, but also for her mission, that the light of Christ would burst out so powerfully from her heart, it reaches people and pierces past their walls, sinking deep down into their souls.

I love you, Katie.

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified, do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."

--Joshua 1:9

my dad did teach me to ride a bicycle.

This was my present to my dad for Father's Day.

* * *

If you’ve read even just a verse of my, “I Am Not A Man” poem, you’ll catch on quick that I don’t exactly fit the ‘manly man’ ideal. Ever since my toddler years, I’ve had a flair for the dramatics, preferring acting, singing, writing, and piano playing over any kind of sport. I tried. Oh, I tried my hand at quite a few sports (volleyball, soccer, and basketball, to name a few). But I just didn’t enjoy them. So I stopped. I opted for high school choir over the football team, and I graduated without ever having been on a sports team beyond the fifth grade.

My dad, on the other hand, played sports all the way through college. So, as you can predict, upon hearing the news that it was a boy, he jumped to quite a few assumptions about me. I can just see him, looking into my eyes as he held me for the first time, imagining playing football with me in the park, teaching me how to swing a baseball bat, competing against me in one-on-one basketball games. Oh, the list goes on. Now, knowing what you already know about me, this story seems to be heading straight downhill. Sports-loving father has a boy who grows up to suck at all sports and excel at the arts.

Don’t be so sure.

It’s funny, because I actually am very similar to my father, in terms of personality and quirks and what not. I think it took a while for him to realize that the typical, pre-paved path he was planning on just wasn’t going to work out (for that, God gave him my sister). But once he grasped that, he did exactly that: he grasped it and moved on. There were no special strings to be pulled or shady tricks up his sleeve – he loved me just the same as when he first saw me.

And I think that speaks a lot to my dad’s character. Because he never did have a son he could sit back and watch football with. He never had a son to play Horse with or a son that would get excited with him when he landed free tickets to the Packers game. But never have I felt like that’s changed his constant love for me. He still read every short story I wrote, even critiquing them for me and inspiring me to better my writing. He still sat through every eternal piano recital, pinching himself as he sat quietly through song after song. He even acted in the homemade movies I’ve made, giving it his all, like he always does. I’ve never felt judged or like ‘less of a man’ for who I am (and he’s never used the wretchedly horrible ‘man up’ phrase on me).

My dad loves people, no matter how different they are from him.

This is true not only with me, but with everyone who comes into contact with him. This is true of the way he leads the Disability Ministry at church: with open eyes that see people beyond the outer layer, digging down underneath to find the heart, where it beats and bleeds and yearns for authenticity. It doesn’t matter if you can’t speak, have a cognitive disability or don’t fit into a typical cardboard-box-role. Dad has this ability to treat everyone like a human being, one that deserves to be loved and be heard and be seen.

I’ve had some people tell me that they find my dad intimidating, to which I always respond with laughter. Because that’s probably one of the most absurd statements one could make. Sure, I definitely see why people feel that way. Before you get to know him, he can seem pretty uptight, serious and monotone. But for anyone that takes the time to crack a joke with him or get on a subject he enjoys talking about (football, anyone?), he comes crackling to life with bright colors and hooting laughter. He’s probably one of the most laid back, relaxed people I know. He’s one whom I can both joke around with and have a deep, intellectual conversation about the church with. He doesn’t pretend like he knows all the answers and he’s not shy to admit when he doesn’t. He speaks the truth, whether or not that makes him look like some big, tough macho-pastor man or not.

I’m expected to give him a Father’s Day card today with a little boy in a blue baseball cap, sitting next to his father, fishing on the lake or running to catch a football. It’d say some kind words about how well he raised me, and how he taught me to ride a bicycle (all in bold, black, masculine font), and then I’d sign my name and maybe say ‘I love you’ (depending on how feminine I’m feeling).

But that’s not my dad and that’s not me and that’s not how I feel.

Dad, I love you. I love you for your incredibly humble strength, the way you lift others up to go before you, unafraid of how that will affect your reputation or image, but dedicated to serving people and letting them know that they in fact are people and that they are beautiful. I love you for encouraging me in my dreams and pushing me to go the distance, even when it was in the exact opposite direction you initially wanted. I love you for how comfortable you are to be around, for the jokes you tell and the laugh you laugh and the wisdom you speak and the love of Christ that you reflect.

You have raised me well and you did teach me to ride a bicycle. But that’s really just the beginning.

---

Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!

my mom's human too.

This was the present I gave my mom for Mother's Day this year (and yes, I asked for her permission before posting it).

* * *

I had a rather shocking epiphany this morning, pondering about the sparse hours ticking away before Mother’s Day, the day society demands we call our moms up (no matter how long it’s been since we’ve last talked), tell them ‘I love you’ (no matter if we really mean it or not), and maybe buy them some flowers or a pretty card with a mother’s hand holding a baby’s hand on the front (but only if we’re feeling like extra nice children). And here’s what I realized: we love to glamorize our mothers. Like that air-brushed model that looks just a tad too skinny to be human, we stick our moms up on plastic billboards and surround them with words such as, ‘perfect,’ ‘angel,’ or ‘superhero.’ We elevate them to this alien pedestal on Mother’s Day, praising the fact that they raised us without resorting to suicide, and then often times go on to forget about them the rest of the year.  

So, here’s my thought: my mother’s not perfect. She’s not an angel, not a fashion model, not some inhuman Super Mom. And no, she doesn’t save the world (trust me, I’ve looked into it). She’s my mom.

Most cards like to highlight a mother’s instruction, the numerous things she teaches her children with her words. And yet, I feel like I’ve learned so much from what my mom hasn’t said.

I’ll never forget the time I caustically said to her face that I wished she had never married Dad. I spit those words out like venom, my mind warped into believing that it would actually bring about my victory. But my mom? At the least, a spanking with the wooden spoon and a firm yelling were warranted. But she just looked at me. She looked at me with sadness in her eyes, seeing right through my brave mask that tried to conceal the fact that I didn’t actually mean it. She sat me in my room and left me to stare out the window, all without saying a single word. We eventually talked about it later on that night, and I’m sure I sobbed and sobbed, assuring her that I didn’t mean it (one of my incredibly dramatic attempts to avoid a spanking or no Disney movies for a week), but I will never forget the way she looked at me. At a time when she could’ve so easily raised her voice and let her emotions drive her discipline, she was silent. She didn’t need words, her eyes had the depth of a star field, seeping underneath the outer skin with its white light and saturating my little-kid-angry-heart.

Moms aren’t supposed to sweat either. No, they’re mostly advertised as ones to stay inside, teach kids how to read, and maybe get a little warm making dinner that night. But my mom sweat. I remember one weekend where Dad was out of town, and both our lawn and my grandparents’ lawn needed mowing. Seeing that my mom suffers from pretty aggressive back pain, my Dad’s usually the one to do the outside work. But that didn’t stop her. She cranked that mower up and got to work, finishing all four yards that day. I’m sure her back killed for weeks after that, but she did what she needed to do, even when she sweat like crazy and her hair got messy and her makeup rubbed off.

My mom uses the word ‘honey’ like normal people use the word ‘the’ or ‘and.’ It doesn’t matter if you’re a three-year-old girl or a forty-year-old grown man, if my mom talks to you for more than five minutes, she’s bound to call you ‘honey’ at some point in the conversation. We love to poke fun at her, she gets teased so many times, and yet she just keeps going. It’s super annoying and really embarrassing at times, but for every ‘honey’ she throws out, it’s just one more reminder that she views you as an actual person. I get tired of people who like to treat other people like robots, like their own personal machines to get them food or give them money or help them buy a house. We are not scrap iron parts that can be rearranged to fit other people’s standards. We are human beings that live and breathe, molded in the image of God for his glory. My mom gets that. She sees that as she talks with someone, hears their point of view, looks them in the eyes and compares them to the sweet nectar that bees throw up.

In light of that, she understands that humans are imperfect beings who slip up. Despite phrases like ‘the golden child,’ reaffirming this delusional idea of a perfect child, my mom is always the first to say that she gets I’m not perfect, and that that’s normal. She pushes me to do my very best, but if that ends up falling short of perfection, that’s okay. I don’t ever have to feel like I’m striving to reach some impossible standard, dancing around the edges of who I really am, because my mom sees that I’m not just her son. I’m human.

I love the rare occasions when my mom says words like ‘shit’ or ‘damn,’ because it’s always followed by this never-ending remorse that is absolutely restless until one of her kids calms her down and assure her that they’ve forgiven her and they still love her. I lose track of how many times she apologizes, as if her Mom-Badge has just been tainted and she’ll never be able to shine it up again. So, after I’m done laughing, I’ll nod my head and inform her that she’s still my mom and I’m still her son. But it humanizes her, and I think that’s scary. Because it means that she’s sorta messy, which isn’t a word you normally throw about with the woman who spends years and years cleaning up other people’s messes.          

Speaking of messes, I really, really hate it when my parents cry. I’m sort of a hypocrite in that respect, seeing that I just talked about humanizing my mother in the paragraph above. Because that’s what crying does. For most of my childhood, I did view my mom as this inhuman parental being whose sole purpose was to serve me. Someone who would hold me when I cried and kiss me when I fell down, but never actually cry or fall down herself. So, when my mom and I were talking a few years ago, and she started tearing up for one reason or the other, I didn’t quite know how to react. All I knew was that I didn’t like it and I needed to get out of the room as soon as possible. But I think something beautiful happens when your parents feel comfortable enough to cry in front of you. As much as I tried (and probably still try) to push away any instance that may or may not result in tears, there’s no denying the fact that it brings parents and children a little closer together, connecting them on an emotional level that’s deeper and not as much of a one-way street. Yes, my mom is my mother and she raised me and she’s very wise and stronger than me in a lot of ways. But she’s also human, and she cries sometimes, and it’s awkward and painful and gorgeous all at the same time.

On the other side of the spectrum, Mom’s not afraid to laugh. Anyone who’s been around her for a few minutes will know that she has one of the most distinct laughs on the face of the planet, one that will find you when you’re lost or searching, one that will lead you from one end of Wal-Mart to the other. I’ve seen many families that love each other deeply, they care for one another and are always very kind, but they just don’t laugh enough. And sometimes, that’s really all you need. My mom laughs until she farts, cries or sometimes (on rare, horribly hilarious occasions) pees her pants. Because for all of the messes that we make and all of the messes that we are, there’s something incredibly healing about laughter. Just the sound of it alone is like an internal hug to the heart. Every time she laughs, it’s just one more of the unrealized ways she says, ‘I love you.’

I know Mom worries that she raised us wrong, that she didn’t teach us enough or tell us enough bumper sticker mottos to follow when we’re struggling. But I’ve learned more from her than she’ll ever know, partially from the many ways she doesn’t even realize, the ways that are too human to stick on the front of a greeting card.

From all of those indelible moments when she held her tongue and didn’t say a word, I saw a love so deep and a grace so extensive, I had to come to grips with the fact that she would always care for me, and that her eyes would always reflect forgiveness.

I saw her sweat and strain her back over and over again, teaching me to give my all, even through the pain and ugliness that would sometimes unfold.

For the simple, often annoying names she calls people, I saw them as exactly that. People.

And for reaffirming the beauty in those people, despite their imperfections, helping me to find gold not in crazy-golden-child standards, but in the intricate, often bloody complexities of the heart.

From the cuss words that accidentally slip out, to the tears that are shed, my mother has shown me that people don’t come in stark black and white, but that we’re poignant watercolors that bleed various hues of yellow, green and blue.

And from her rambunctious laugh, the North Star that always reminds me I’m home, alive with the presence of joy and life and my mom’s constant shout: I love you.

I love you too, Mom. And I mean it.

“There’s no way to be a perfect parent, but a million ways to be a really good one.” –Cheaper by the Dozen 2