Humanity First. (Part 2)

I spent the vast majority of my adolescence and young adulthood in a band. Overall, I look back with fondness over those years -- I met plenty of wonderful people (including my marvelous wife, Hannah) and crafted a heart full of fond memories. However, I reflect on all of this with some remorse as the season progresses.

This autumn marks a bittersweet anniversary.  You see, I was in a Christian band called The Avenger. We broke up about ten years ago in the fall. We eventually re-formed off and on, but it was never the same. Through our history, our group's interactions and motivations were colored with religious pretenses, and this particular dynamic played a role in our demise. In hindsight, I feel a sense of regret for losing sight of the humanity of my bandmates in the pursuit of holiness, or zeal, or passion. I should have been a better friend, embracing the humanity of my colleagues. (I discussed this Humanity First perspective in my last post... read it!)

There's a saying about losing sight of the forest for the trees. Sometimes, I think believers lose sight of the human for the Christian. Looking back, I realize that the people in my world needed an advocate, a person ardently championing their strengths and celebrating their virtues. A person cheering them on and deeply hoping for their betterment. They didn't need another pastor.

This frustration is a theme that has carved its path through virtually all of my musical experiences. I've been in many bands, and each one was unduly burdened with the expectation of faith adherence. We spent so many nights in The Avenger, arguing about smoking cigarettes or making out with girlfriends. We debated the rights and wrongs. We ostracized otherwise-valued friends. We detonated our connections with one another in pursuit of righteousness. Tragically, This pattern didn't end with The Avenger -- it followed me for years.

The drummer for The Avenger was my grade-school best friend, Ben Evans. I lost actual years of our friendship to a pathetic, legalistic line in the sand. That's not okay. It'll never be okay. I never want to do that to someone again.

I realize it's not fashionable to regret things... but I regret that. I feel sincerely disappointed about how religious obligation has skewed and strained my friendships with musicians for the past decade. It may seem petty to ponder such things, but the facts are simple... real people got mistreated; real relationships were fractured. All of these wounds were accumulated in the pursuit of God's hypothetical favor.

So, on the tenth anniversary of The Avenger's dissolution, I'm letting go. I'm letting go of the mindset that burns down friendships for the sake of the intangible. I'm letting go of my right to scrutinize and embracing the human in front of me instead.

BONUS -- Look up the album "To Cast Ourselves Aside" on Spotify. That's us. 

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. If you're looking for a little background on what inspired this blog, check out the introduction.  Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one. 

Humanity First. (Part 1)

Throughout history, people have tried their best to organize themselves in tidy little categories. I used to see the boundary lines -- I used to heed the demarcations. Now, I long to see the human that's buried beneath a multitude of nametags.

Every person on Earth is a human before they are a _______. I left that blank so you could insert whatever you hold sacred there -- "Christian", "heterosexual", "Caucasian".  Whatever, pick one. Beyond these identities, people are generally compelled by the same biological drives. They are more like you than they are different from you.

Psychology resonates with this same idea.  One look at Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs reminds us that people need to survive and feel a sense of basic safety before we can ponder much else.  We can furiously demand "holiness" (whatever that means to you) from society, but the simple fact is that unmet needs beat nebulous moral constructs, every time. We have to serve the human in others before we can expect to speak in lofty terms of theology or divinity.

Everyone you encounter is a human, first and foremost. I'm going to keep returning to this refrain because I think it bears repeating. We have to do more than acknowledge this as a fact; we must synthesize  it as a framework of our worldview. If you can connect with the inner humanity of others, you can learn to understand faiths, practices, and cultures that are different from yours.  Look past the veneer to the vulnerable person within.

Seek first to understand the humanity in others.  The woman wearing a hijab at the grocery store, or the man speaking Spanish at the bank may seem so utterly other to you.  They're not.  Their lives are governed by the same instincts and impulses as your own.  They grow hungry, tired, and lonely.  They want to survive and thrive.

Perhaps this concept of humanity first has become so prominent in my mind because I have seen it mishandled so profoundly, both in my life and in the lives of others. I used to be so judgmental, so certain of my place in this great cacophony. I used to be so preoccupied with the partitions between people. Now, I simply want to see past them.

I want to understand the humanity in those around me, regardless of the labels they've chosen or the ones that have been thrust upon them.  I have a lot to say on this topic because it is so near to my heart, and I have some stories to tell. I'll tell them soon. For now, I simply ask for you to reflect on the common personhood that transcends every boundary in your world.

PS -- I think "humanity first" sounds kind of like a populist presidential candidate's slogan, in some far flung year like 2092 when the robots have taken over. Humanity First!

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. If you're looking for a little background on what inspired this blog, check out the introduction.  Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one. 

Joy as a Discipline

Stop me if you've heard this one. 

It's been a tough year/decade/life. It's been a busy holiday season. You're sleeping less and working more. Whatever the reason, you've started to notice that your clothes fit a little tighter and you're moving a bit slower than you used to. The burden of a hectic schedule and a heavy workload is taking a toll, and it shows in your waistline.

We've all been there. What I find fascinating, however, is that our society is permeated with a distinct knowledge of how to overcome this plight. Virtually every person of sound mind knows the steps to improve their physical health -- move more and eat less. Make wise dietary choices. Sleep more. We have the answers to this state of physical disrepair, even if we choose not to follow them.

The same cannot be said for mental health. What do you do when you are depressed, or anxious, or overcome by irrational thoughts? What if you find your mind embroiled in something even more tragic, like suicidal ideology? Can you simply will yourself into wellness? We struggle to identify the problem, let alone the solution. Despite our society's progress, mental health is still highly stigmatized and misunderstood. We are not ingrained with a sense of caring for ourselves emotionally, spiritually, and mentally.

I have reflected upon this lack of emotional preparedness quite a bit lately. As I audit my own mental well-being, I have recognized the patterns of my daily and weekly behaviors and how they influence my mental state and my overall wellness. This means that, in some respects, mental and emotional wellness is a matter of daily practice.

So much of life is dictated by what you regularly do. Whether it's weight loss, or learning an instrument, or earning a college degree, self-discipline is the deciding variable in it all. As the saying goes, "we are what we repeatedly do." After what I've been through in the past few years, I want to pursue joy as a deliberate discipline in my daily life.

With all of that being said, here are a few ways that I have tried to interweave emotional wellness into my daily life. They are admittedly small changes, but that's the point -- they're reasonable in their ambitions. I'd love to hear about what works for you. Also, please bear in mind that these suggestions are minor behavioral tweaks that are meant to supplement a generally healthy mind. If you are wrestling with more profound mental issues, it may be imperative to seek professional help.  Anyway, here are my suggestions...

1.) Exercise

The science speaks for itself -- regular exercise releases endorphins in your brain that literally make you feel better and more at peace. Furthermore, when you begin to see results, you start to feel a fundamental sense of control over your life. Life is not just something that happens to you, and I believe this lesson is learned well as you pursue your physical wellness.

2.) Podcasts

The connections we make with people we don't know are curious, aren't they? Whether it's a group of guys on a popular Youtube channel, or a celebrity talk show host, we begin to feel connected with others even if they don't know us by name. Humans are biologically wired for community. Podcasts provide an interesting long-form connection with thoughts and ideas from around the world. Furthermore, many of them are genuinely hilarious and thought-provoking. I highly recommend the dark comedic fiction Welcome to Night Vale and the political comedy show Lovett or Leave it, just to name a few.

3.) Cheesy music

I was sitting in a therapist's office and I overheard another client, in an adjoining room, talk about how she had to avoid certain songs because of the emotional toll they took on her. As obvious as it may seem, this made me realize that the vast majority of music I listen to is neither fun nor joyful. In light of this, I've tried to steer myself into the direction of generally more upbeat music. A lot of classic rock, for example, has a kind of undeniable cheese factor to it -- and that's okay! Whether it's old tunes, comedy albums, or god-awful 90's pop hits, embrace the cheese. I bet it'll make you smile.

4.) Catharsis

I am passionate about writing and music, as you probably know. These creative avenues can provide a profound therapeutic benefit -- in fact, that's one of the reasons I started this blog. However, you do not have to be a dyed-in-the-wool artist to pursue cathartic experiences. Journaling, for example, can be a simple and effective means to explore your thoughts in a new medium. If you are interested in the arts, I would implore you to pursue them as a continuing discipline in your life -- these efforts will pay off over time.


Again, these have helped me immensely, but the daily pursuit of joy and wellness may look different for you. The question that must be answered is this: what does your path to joy look like? What brings you a sense of wellness and wholeness?  Find that path and pursue it as a deliberate discipline. We must all grasp a fuller picture of what it means to be mentally and spiritually well -- we need to understand our daily struggles and the road to recovery from them.

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. If you're looking for a little background on what inspired this blog, check out the introduction.  Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one. 

The Audacity of Certainty

What do you know to be true... and how do you know it?

In the aftermath of our experiences over the past few years, Hannah and I have re-calibrated our worldview from virtually every possible angle. As I consider our journey, I find myself less concerned with the specifics of what people believe, but instead how they came to these conclusions. It's the process that matters. Every person needs to understand the mechanisms that drive their core values.

Most people live their everyday lives without even glancing at the internal machinery that drives them. Right vs. wrong, good and evil... we all have basic presuppositions that guide our behavior. Often, our values are some indistinct conglomeration of how we were raised, who we spend time with, and where we get our information. A Muslim raised in northern Africa has been imprinted with a certain impression of truth that may conflict a great deal with the opinions of a Southern Baptist child in Alabama. So... who is actually right?

I'm not here to make that call.... I just want to understand myself and the world around me. I want to recognize the components of the machinery.

Looking back upon my former self, I am astounded by my prior sense of certainty. I was sure of so much, and I continually reinforced so many baseless conclusions in my mind. Now, I've come to find that the notions I once considered stone-cold facts will easily disintegrate under the slightest scrutiny. Especially when it comes to the unseen and intangible, certainty is often a kind of audacity.

As I mentioned in My Daughter's Revelation, I believe we could spend a lifetime searching for the big answers: is God real.... is He good... does He care? In that light, it seems downright audacious to assume moral high-ground on the more minor issues. If we believe that honesty is a basic moral virtue, we have to first be honest with ourselves. 

When you examine the truths about faith or morality you hold dearest, ask one question: how do you know? If you cannot quantify, measure, or observe this concept that you're so sure about, then perhaps it's not as rock-solid as you think. It's time for reasonable people everywhere to parse the difference between knowing and believing, between theory and reality.  False certainties build a partition between us and the dreaded other. We have to bridge that divide.

My outlook is simple now: I want to be sure of the certain things, and I want to be open-minded about the uncertainties.  Anything less would be profoundly dishonest. As I tread the path laid out before me, I want to be a person in continual pursuit of knowledge, instead of a fool who hoards the scraps he's already found.

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. If you're looking for a little background on what inspired this blog, check out the introduction.  Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one. 

The Infernal Seed

Sometimes I think the four most damning words in the English language are

             what could have been.

This idea, like a seed, implants itself inside our minds. It can take root in any soil -- your family, your career, your passions -- and once it buries roots within, it drains you. It steals your joy and warps your perspective. It damns you to a life spent wondering "what if?". If you're not careful, it can leave you as a hollowed husk, pining for another life that never came to pass.

I can sometimes feel that seed blooming in my mind. You see, I wasn't close with my mom. Therefore, it would be dishonest to summarize my reaction to her suicide as merely grief or missing a loved one. It's more complicated than that. Instead, I'm left wondering what I could have done or what signs I missed.

My mother spent her life wrestling with deep and abiding issues. She had mental health issues, and I believe she may have had some substances issues too. Where is the line between the two? It's hard to say. This massive weight on her shoulders was composed of two parts, but indistinct in terms of where one ended and another began.

In light of this, we grew distant. I had two young children, and I often felt wary of getting too close to my mom. I knew she lived an erratic lifestyle and maybe, subconsciously, I knew something like this was possible. A sudden departure. Imagine what would happen if my children had been truly close to her?

This is the dilemma that haunts me. This is the seed taking root. I feel like I've been yolked with a heavy load, a question that cannot be answered. I ponder what could have been. If I had been closer to my mother, would she have spared herself? Would she still be around? If so, the decision to be distant was a dreadful one.

But what about the opposite? What if we had been close? What if my children knew her on very familiar and affectionate terms, and then she took her own life anyway? The devastation of having a grandparent kill themselves.... the toll that would take on a 5-year-old and a 7-year-old. That would have been unforgivable.

Indeed, I feel like the entire dilemma I was placed into is unforgivable. That's the word I keep going back to. Whether it was genetics, or happenstance, or fate... I have been forced into a scenario where I had two potentially life-ruining options. That's unforgivable.

And yet, as I consider all of this, I don't want to be robbed of my future by the misery of my past. I don't want to become a hollow imitation of myself. I have to uproot the infernal seed that longs to leave me mesmerized with notions of what could have been. I have to press forward with the path I've taken and the conclusions I have seen unfold. I have to accept life as I've lived it.

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. If you're looking for a little background on what inspired this blog, check out the introduction.  Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one. 

My Daughter's Revelation

Children, in their relative innocence and earnestness, can be a source of great insight.  I've had so many ideas simmering on the back burner of my mind for months and years.... and yet, something my younger daughter Maebry said awhile back has proven to be all the clarity I need.

Let me tell you a little story.

We used to have a wonderful cat named Baymax. He was a beloved pet and a welcome addition to our family, until he was killed by a neighborhood dog in our yard. This traumatic experience was deeply unsettling to our children, but Maebry took it the hardest. She cried off and on for months. She brought it up constantly. One day, when she was perhaps 3 or 4 years old, I asked her why she couldn't get past this loss. This is what she said:

"I loved Baymax, and God let him die. So God's not good."

In that moment, I was at a crossroads. How would you respond to that? Perhaps the proper Christian(TM) response would be to chastise her for this reckless and freewheeling thought process, but I recognized the sorrow in her words. It's a place many people have visited on their journey of faith. I was not going to admonish her for thinking, concluding, reacting. I want my daughters to be, above all else, rational and well-reasoned students of the universe. I'd rather raise my daughters as rational thinkers in search of the truth, than mindless adherents who are convinced they've already grasped it.

In her simplistic statements, Maebry discovered a much deeper revelation. We could spend a lifetime answering these questions: God, are you real? Are you good? Are you listening? And yet, churches, scholars and pastors spend so much time fretting over the minutiae of belief.

 Maybe belief is, in part, the product of circumstance. Maybe faith is a privilege for those who haven't been crushed by life's weight.  Maybe every person has a breaking point, a fault line running deep down in their soul. I am convinced that there's something that could happen to each person that would shatter their preconceptions.... it just hasn't happened, if you're fortunate.

This line of thought has captivated my attention so many times when I consider the scope of world history. Whether it's thousands of years of women being oppressed, or the North Atlantic slave trade -- which was really a form of genocide -- it seems audacious to demand belief from someone who has seen the profound darkness of this life. How can I insist that God is good, or even real, to someone who has lost their loved ones, or watched their homeland turn to rubble? How can I condemn a person for what they've concluded from the totality of their evidence?

It is a moral imperative to afford others the latitude for doubt and disbelief. And If I can grant them the space to think freely, I have to do the same thing for myself. So I have resolved to no longer feel ashamed or guilty about what I believe or where I am in my journey towards the truth. I am, above all else, a learner, hoping to make sense of everything I've witnessed.

I am in a place of uncertainty, and that's okay.

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. If you're looking for a little background on what inspired this blog, check out the introduction.  Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one. 

A Tragic Misdealing

The universe is cruel.

We often take for granted this simple truth. We bundle it in mundane trappings, repeating phrases like "life's not fair", as if this is something to be easily understood and waved away nonchalantly. For anyone who has seen the pitch-black core of a traumatic experience, "life's not fair" is an oversimplification. This trite phrase should be wrestled with, pondered, taken apart and put back together. It should make us pause for a moment in reflection.

I don't like playing cards. I don't like the chance that's involved in it -- so much of your success is dependent upon pure probability. You can be dealt a bad hand. There's a lot of talk about nature versus nurture... but what about choice versus chance? No matter how good you are at poker or spades, one thing is certain: it's not purely a game of skill. Neither is life.

In cards, we recognize the idea of the misdeal. Misdeal is defined as "a hand dealt wrongly". I'm haunted by the fact that I've witnessed this phenomenon in life, as well. I've seen a tragic misdealing in my mother -- her afflictions and her burdens. That's why I can no longer just accept that life's not fair.

I don't just mourn my mom's death -- I mourn her life. A hand dealt wrongly. Certainly, she made a series of poor choices, as we all have, but she was also dealt a criminally atrocious hand. By God, by nature, by the universe. Whatever you want to call it, I'll call it a miscarriage of justice.

The complexity of existence, the probability of life. These are the things that occupy my mind. These are the shadows that pace back and forth in my head. My feelings about my mother's suicide are like a tangled ball of yarn. I wish they were simple notions like "I miss her" and "I wasn't expecting this". Those things may be a component of the truth, but there's so much more... and I can't untangle it all.

For now, I know this: the universe is cruel, and whatever mechanism that doles out the cards must be questioned, examined, considered. Those of us who have been privileged with a sound mind and favorable genetics cannot shield our eyes and preserve our precious ignorance. We have to face the reality of life's injustices.

Thank you for reading On Letting Go, a blog about dealing with the wounds of the past. Click here for information on how you can find mental health resources for yourself or a loved one.