Disappointment can be a four-letter word

Disappointment has four syllables yet it conjures responses consisting of one-syllable, four-letter words. It's frustrating, exhausting, cyclical, and painful. You feel like you've been had. You're the butt of some cosmic joke - except you don't get it. It's not even remotely funny.

Disappointment occurs when expectation and reality converge in a tangled mess of hurt. You've built something up in your head to be a certain way and when reality hits, it's more like a tidal wave than an ocean breeze. It knocks you off your feet and sends you reeling. I embarrassingly confess that I am a fairy tale type of person. I love stories. I love when the hero suddenly throws a punch at the villain unexpectedly right at the end when all hope had been lost. I hold firmly to that expectation that somehow good will prevail. My heart's desire will be fulfilled. After years and years of disappointment and unfulfilled expectations, I still am that girl...waiting, hoping, dreaming, believing.

So, should I tell myself to listen to history? To survey the tell-tale signs of the past only to give up and lower my expectations? Would I somehow be happier if I was pleasantly surprised when situations turned out well? or when people turned out to be better than who I thought they were? I don't want to live in a world like that. I don't want to think less of people just so when they rise to their true worth, I am stunned and amazed. I want to believe in more than that. I want to believe that God has more for us than low expectations.

As an almost therapist, I know that unmet expectations spell disaster for relationship. And while these words ring in my academic heart and I know how it plays out in interpersonal relationships, I hear another voice calling me to believe in something bigger. I choose to believe that people are better than their circumstances, better than their actions, better than maybe they even believe.

I think I'd rather take decades and decades of disappointment than a lifetime of low expectations, but you may hear some four-letter words come out of my mouth in that time waiting and dreaming and hoping.

Giving Thanks?

It's that time of the year when the marquee reads "Thanksgiving" and our hearts are encouraged to reflect on thankfulness. But can it be more than a directive? Can it be more than just a short burst of a holiday so easily overshadowed by parades, football games, and super savings with doorbuster deals? Please tell me it's more than the ringing of the ceremonial gong indicating the start of the holiday shopping season.

So what about the very first Thanksgiving? Images of Pilgrims and Indians sitting around a table of turkey and corn fill my head (well, that and a hand traced with crayon and colored to look like a turkey). What really happened and why do we set aside this one day and call it "Thanksgiving"? Arguably, the Cliff's Notes version sums up the new Pilgrims experience struggling to settle in Massachusetts and unable to make it through a tough season. The Indians saved the Pilgrims from starvation and showed them how to hunt, fish, and harvest food in America (hence, the picturesque scene around the table). The Pilgrims had nothing. Their basic needs were not being met.


I recently heard a phrase that went something like this: when your needs are high, your wants are low. If I need a glass a water like I need my breath, I probably won't be scouring the internet for that great new pair of boots. If I didn't have warm clothing in a MN winter, I wouldn't care if my jacket and hat clashed. Is the converse true? If our basic needs are met, do we always want more? How can we change our attitudes? How can we, those who live in a "land of plenty", choose to not want more? How can we be thankful for what we have and seek justice for those in need?

Luke 12:27-31 says, “Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith! And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well."

I am thankful that God knows my needs and I want to develop an attitude that can be grateful without wanting. Content without looking forward to the promise of more. Trusting without meddling in His plans. And blessed without neglecting the needs of others.

Christian Celebrity?

In approximately 6 days I will technically be in the same room with the Donald Miller. Now, I recognize that for most people the mention of that name causes you to scratch your head in confusion and say to yourself, "Who?". That's because he is a Christian Celebrity. What does that even mean? The fact that I'm attempting to strategize my potential meeting with Mr. Miller six days in advance (which is totally warranted if you know me at all and my cheesiness) caused me to think about this whole concept of Christian Celebrity and why it even exists.

We tend to admire people who are saying the "next great thing". They've cornered the market on the next kitchy phrase or cool way of doing things or articulating faith. I wonder what dude coined the phrase WWJD? That gave him mileage for a few years in the 90's. I can hear it now, "Yeah, my neighbor is the guy who made up WWJD!". Ick! Even though it makes me want to vomit, I must admit the Christian Celebrity bug has bit me more than once. A few years ago when I was in youth ministry I was attending a National Youth Workers Convention. It was around the time when Shane Claiborne's book, Irresistible Revolution, was gaining momentum. I can remember bragging to my friends that I brushed passed his homemade hemp shirt on the way to the trade show floor. I think I could even smell his dreads. Really, Dana? You're gonna brag about that? He's just a dude. A pastor friend of mine has a man-crush on Robbie Seay and before you say man-crush?, just take some time to silently admit that you know what that is. We brought the Robbie Seay Band in for a free concert a few years ago that spawned a ministry of people giving themselves away (see Robbie Seay Band's song, "Give Yourself Away"). I watched as my pastor friend almost tripped over himself to get Robbie whatever he needed and smiled incessantly almost as if he couldn't believe Robbie was actually at our church.

But as much as I can retell these stories with sarcasm, here I am, doing the same thing with Donald Miller. I am actually trying to plan how I can say, "Hi" to him without seeming like a cheesy, ridiculous fan who mutters in a nasal voice, "Will you sign my book?". What is it about Christian Celebrities? What do we want that we think they have? What makes a Christian Celebrity? Have you made your pastor one? or maybe your worship pastor? What happens to God when we turn his people into celebrities?

p.s. I would totally brag if I ever grabbed a beer with N.T. Wright.

Welcome to the rest of your life?

I realize I have taken an extended hiatus from writing in my "oh so eloquent" blog. That phrase actually doesn't even make sense. How can something called a "blog" be eloquent? It sounds messy. It sounds unpolished and unrehearsed and unrefined. Not unlike how I feel these days. Let me explain...

I am just about to enter my third month of my practicum for my Marriage and Family Therapy masters degree. When I began this journey a little over three years ago, I was unrecognizable from the woman you'd meet today. The funny thing is, I thought I liked who I was. I thought I was fine. The last three years have completely broken me down and built me back up, or rather begun the process of building me back up. I couldn't have dreamed what this process what look like and how much I'd learn about people and systems and mental illnesses sure, but...about me. That is what really happened. Along the way God gave me the gift of discovering who I am. Let me be the first to say, it's scary, it's lonely, it's painful, but it's so worth it.

My previous posts seem to have a theme running through them. I like to tie them up with some cheesy bow that creatively utilizes a metaphor of how God loves us, works for the good, etc. The truth is, that is not how real life is. We are incomplete messes. In our mess God still says, "I want to be in relationship with you, YES YOU!" In our attempts to wear the mask we so frequently don we say, "But let me learn this lesson and pray about it and journal about it and apply it and...". God doesn't want us to be spinning our wheels in pretense. He likes us in process because that is where he gets the most glory. In our mess, He is revealed. That doesn't change the fact that we want the bow. We want the fancy overpriced metallic wrapping paper. We want to have it all figured out and be on to the next thing. Our desire to be complete and His desire to finish us is where we meet.

Where are you meeting God today? Or rather where is He meeting YOU?

I’m reading Don Miller’s new book. I feel like that in itself is a confession because I told myself I wasn’t allowed to break the binding until all my homework for the fall quarter was completed. I have one 10-page paper looming over me like an anvil from an old cartoon ready to fall and squish my head, so I thought I deserved a distraction. Whew! I feel better having confessed that and all.

Anyway, I write this because in the first few chapters Don discloses that his story isn’t interesting enough for a movie. I think most of us would agree that if our lives were displayed on a screen, there’d be a lot of dull (and embarrassing) moments. Remember, Jessica Simpson and the ill-fated Newlyweds series? She successfully achieved dull and embarrassing in one foul swoop. It’s easy to laugh at her misfortune, but if in the same situation, I might slip up and confuse chicken and tuna myself.

He also talks about narrative. His first book is written in a narrative, essay form. The moviemakers discuss how narrative isn’t engaging for an audience. They can’t get inside your head. They quickly lose interest when they can’t engage. It made me think about my narrative. I don’t know about you, but the voice inside my head is my most cherished companion. It laughs with me when I see an arrogant, toolbox of a guy trip on his ego. She helps me get rid of the red hue that sprays across my cheeks when what I intended to say and the actual words crash in a destructive mess of words and subsequent hand motions. She rehearses the important deliveries and pumps me up when I need an extra dose of courage. She reminds me that although my thighs are not as small as the girl working out in front of me, I am here working out and not sitting on the couch at home investing my evening into a sea of Ben and Jerry’s. She helps me to rationalize situations that would cause me to react poorly. She helps me make it through tough encounters with people I don’t want to see. She rolls her eyes internally so I can restrain myself from being impolite on a blind date. She prays deeply and loves freely. She is vulnerable. She cries when she hears songs that tell a story. She’s great. But I think the moviemakers are right. The audience doesn’t get to see all that. That comes when you are in relationship with someone. You can’t expect to know all there is to know about someone from a movie, or even a book or a blog. I think the gift of relationship is meeting their narrative and becoming part of their story.

I’m only a few chapters in…Dangit Don!

Lessons from the Apple Store

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to travel to Asia and before you think this post is about my wonderful adventure, let me say, I will save that for another date. Today’s story is however about something that occurred while jaunting halfway around the world. A friend had used my MacBook to access something via her thumb drive and my hard drive crashed...well, twenty minutes later it crashed. Coincidence? I think not. For any of you mac users, when you see the faint light grey file folder with a question mark blinking at you, you know how this feels. It reminds me of the coon dog that would enter the foreground of the screen during old school “Duck Hunt” from the original Ninetendo. It pops up and laughs at you and shakes up and down a little as if its laughter at your failure is causing it to convulse rhythmically. I would always try and shoot the dog to stop its berating of my hunting skills once and for all, but alas the gun only worked on the poor ducks. In other words, you feel like you are the butt of a huge practical joke. Like someone or something is laughing at you saying, “Ha! Your stuff? It’s gone! Sucks to be YOU!”

I didn’t have time to mourn the loss of my laptop while on the trip, but as soon as I returned home, the reality of what happened hit me like a ton of bricks. Questions circled about. “What will I do for school when I start classes again this fall? How can I afford to fix it or buy a new one? Are you supposed to keep graduate school papers for anything important? How many pictures did I have on iPhoto? What kind of small fortune did I drop on iTunes in three years?”

Craptastic!

I was able to grieve the loss of my papers quite quickly in almost as much time as it took to write them (don’t tell my professors), but when I started to think about the pictures and the iTunes, my heart began to sink.

Off to the Mall of America Apple Store where in a miracle of sorts the manager honored my expired extended warranty (that I forgot I had purchased once upon a time) and installed a brand new hard drive for free ($800 value, gasp!).

As I went to pick it up the next day, I was explaining my plight to a cute, little Apple Store associate not quite nineteen years of age. As she returned from retrieving my computer in the back, she handed it to me and said, “Well, you could look at it as cathartic!” Now aside from the fact that lil’ miss Apple probably just learned the word ‘cathartic’ the previous year in her freshman ‘Intro to Theatre’ class, it made me think – “Maybe she had a point”. My entire hard drive was wiped clean. Everything good and bad, gone. A fresh start. A new hard drive with no mark of my history of my struggles or memories I’d like to erase. Hmm…

Now, to be honest the three years I’d owned that hard drive had been riddled with some crazy memories. Most of which have been deleted. But, you can never completely delete things off your hard drive, right? CSI could probably locate those bad memories in two minutes flat. So, yeah, I like this new hard drive. Cathartic indeed! But then I start to think about the memories that I would never, ever want to delete - Pictures of my nephews growing up, years I spent in CA as a youth director with students I love, goofy photo shoots with forever friends, secret songs I got from ordering Matt Wertz’s latest album early!!!!!

I think what it comes down to is you can never erase just a part of who you are. The good comes with the bad. It makes up who we are. Even though I have painful memories that make me nauseous to think about, I love who I am today and I know that those painful days played an intrinsic part in making the “today me” happen. I think about the many photos I lost and how many I had uploaded to facebook (oh, thank goodness for facebook). But, isn’t true that you only upload the best to facebook. You don’t upload the photos where someone blinked, or when someone is cracking up because someone said something funny or farted right before the shot. You edit life a little for facebook and that’s what I missing. So, as thankful as I am to have a new hard drive for free (plug MOA Apple Store once again), I would rather have an unedited version of me and my memories. I’m learning that the journey isn’t worth deleting no matter how silly or painful it is and that the destination is just another starting point.

Happy Father's Day Brosef!

I have a big brother. I’ve never written about him because, like most sibling relationships, ours was tumultuous at best. From summer afternoons spent being forced to play the “robber” in cops and robbers with the neighborhood boys to dirty sock ambushes suffocating my face while my brother pinned me down on the couch as well as the classic loogie fake, I was subjected to the most common “big brother” moves directly from the playbook I’m convinced they all receive at birth (the little sister’s birth, that is).

Even though I daydreamed of what it would be like to have a big sister instead of a big brother, my favorite books and tv shows had brother/sister relationships. “The Berenstein Bears” and “The Cosby Show” were the top two. I felt special like Sister Bear and Rudy Huxtable. I have a big brother and even though he beat me up, made me play the roles nobody wants to play like goalie, catcher, and ‘robber’, and incessantly framed me for his indiscretions with mom and dad, I would still catch him sticking up for me. See, it was only okay for him to treat me that way. As my big brother, he held the exclusive rights to all teasing, embarrassment, roughing up, and fear induction to the point of tears. Any treatment toward me of this nature that occurred outside of his puppet strings was not allowed and he made sure to defend his birthright….out of my sight of course…or so he thought.

Growing up I also saw that he would feign disinterest or even a sense of irritation or indignation at having to help me with a ‘pickle’ I’d gotten myself into, but I’d soon learn to recognize the sly joy he got from helping me out and in later years, he grew weary of the mask and settled into the helpful big brother role, albeit a sassy, know-it-all one.

During our awkward transition into adulthood, my brother started to open up to the idea of me reciprocating some of the advice giving. The summer before I went off to college he began to actually ask me for my advice...in a very sneaky way. This odd tradition began. On the nights where we were both home, he would yell at me to turn his TV and bedroom light off because he was too lazy to get out of bed. Under the veil of darkness my brother shared his fears and struggles and hurts. It was almost as if he couldn’t see me, I wasn’t really there. He wasn’t really telling his little sister about all the crap he had endured his first two years (and incidentally the only years) of college. I was just a necessary sounding board for the pain he had been keeping inside for too long. I was the only one he felt safe enough to share his fears. That summer I sat in the threshold between the hallway and my brother’s room many a night and remained silent. He cried. He laughed. He sat in silence processing. I’m so thankful he couldn’t see my face because although I never said a word, so often my face betrays my desire to remain neutral (something I have to work on if I am ever to be a therapist). He shared a HUGE secret I have kept to this day and that, in itself, is a huge victory for this self-professed Chatty Cathy. I’m so thankful for that summer and how it allowed our relationship to mature and afforded me the amazing opportunity to see my brother in a different light.



Today, I see him as a dedicated husband and father of two boys. I see how the two rascals I call my nephews disarm my brother’s tough exterior in an instant and how they alone can soften him in a way that makes me smile on the inside. I get to put so many pieces that comprise my brother together: smart-ass, son, brother, husband, father. Growing up, I definitely took some knocks from my big brother, but I wouldn’t trade him for a sister for anything. Truth is, in a lot of ways, I look up to him. But, don’t tell him that. ☺





"Danielson" and I. Circa 1981.