When Vision Races Ahead of Execution

So a few days ago I told you a little secret. I'm working on a book. More accurately, I'm working on a book proposal which is the step before you work on a book. And I shared with you a few of my fears. More accurately, I shared with you a small fraction of my fears because if I shared all of them you would get bored and think I was a self indulgent nit-wit. Which most of the time, I am. But just around that same time, a friend of mine who understands the perils of making a living by making gave me a little gift. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine. It was a thin, rectangular package. It felt a little floppy. I knew it was a book. I just had no idea how it would bless me.

Art and Fear is a book by David Bayles and Ted Orland about how every single day artists everywhere are facing their fears. Some quit. Some don't. And that's the only thing that separates the successful from the unsuccessful. They write, "To survive as an artist requires confronting these troubles. Those who continue to make are those those who've learned how to continue—or more precisely, have learned how not to quit."

When I read that, I felt shored up. Encouraged. Because I know that I know how not to quit. During my two years with Teach for America, I called my mom (and then my husband) every single day crying that I wanted to quit. It was too hard. I wasn't making progress. The gains weren't worth the pain and the exhaustion and the sacrifice. But they helped me keep going. They taught me to continue. And now, in a job I love—I know the same must be true. I can't quit continuing.

I spoke to a portrait artist a few weeks ago—and he said something that meant a lot to me then, but means even more to me now. In portrait art, in drawing, he said most people stop because they look at a picture they've drawn and say, "Oh, that's horrible!" But David says when he works with new artists, he uses that as fuel to keep them going. "If you can tell that it's not good," David says, "then you're capable of doing better."

This morning, I was reading Art and Fear, (my new morning ritual before pulling out my pen), and the author reiterated what David was trying to tell me. Together, they both hammered home the same idea: more often than not, our vision exceeds our execution. We can see something in our head that doesn't exist yet on paper. We can envision something on the screen that doesn't exist yet on film. We can hear something in our mind that hasn't ever been played.

That could drive us crazy, or it could drive us to the Ultimate Creator.

"Consider the story of a young student who began piano studies with a Master. After a few months' practice, he lamented to his teacher, 'But I can hear the music so much better in my head than I can get out of my fingers.' To which the Master replied, 'What makes you think that ever changes?'" Art and Fear, p. 14.

Perhaps we will always be plagued by this knowledge that what we create isn't exactly what we want to create. We desire better. We desire what is more beautiful. We desire what we see but can't attain.

And maybe that is on purpose. In those moments that I hear the story so much better in my head than I can get out of my fingers, I can be reminded that this three dimensional world is not the only one that exists. There also exists another dimension—the dimension where that thing that I see in my head, or hear in my ears, or feel in my soul—where that actually exists and breathes and sings. I believe God exists in both of those dimensions. He can see and create exactly what he sees. He did it with you. He did it with me.

And He's still creating.

"He who began a good work in you will carry it out to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." Philippians 1:6.

And if God's still creating—then I can keep creating too.

Don't wear a zebra-striped blazer

The other day, I interviewed Colby Jubenville, Principal at Red Herring Inc. and a professor of Human Performance at MTSU for a story about marketing. He showed up in a red and black Zebra-striped blazer.

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He then handed me a copy of his newest endeavor: a book entitled Zebras and Cheetahs: Look Different and Stay Agile to Survive the Business Jungle. And by golly, he's not just writing the prescription—he's popping the pills. He walked with confidence, not shrouded in zebra print, but completely enlivened by it. Everywhere he walked, people's eyes followed: and inevitably, their mouths puckered and slid to the side in a approving grin. One onlooker even said to me, "tell that guy that  I love his jacket."

It got me thinking. What's my Zebra-striped blazer?

What am I doing to look different as a writer? Do I already look different? Do I even want to look different?

To me, wearing a zebra-striped blazer would be absolutely terrifying. For one, I don't look good in red. But aside from that, I'd be afraid of the stares. Fearful of eyeballs. And most certainly, I'd be concerned that "I love her jacket," might turn to, "who does she think she is?" 

From a young age, we're conditioned not to call attention to ourselves. I specifically remember a time after a JV football game where I was cheering on the sidelines, and afterward, my mother came to me and said, "Be careful it doesn't turn into the Claire Carlton show."  Yikes. I didn't want to be that person that calls for the spotlight. I still don't.

But Colby wasn't wearing a zebra-striped blazer because he's a narcissist. He was wearing that jacket because he's an entrepreneur. A great one. He's wearing the jacket because he's not afraid to be different.

So why am I?

I need to come to terms with the fact that there's difference between hogging the stage and standing with confidence in your own skin—whether it's zebra-striped or not. After all, we all ARE different. Made by a creative God, full of individual talents, quirks, idiosyncrasies and gifts. We're all unique—we all have something to offer the world that's wholly different from the person standing next to us.

And the fact that we are each special shouldn't hinder us from serving others—it should spur us on to serving others all the more. Even God-in-flesh, the most special, most renowned of all—didn't use his peer to garner the spotlight or acclaim. He stood confident in his human skin to bring glory to God and to serve others. 

"For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."  Mark 10:45.

So once we accept, even rejoice in the fact that we are different—how can we wear it with confidence?

What if you actually stepped forward and became the leader you know you are inside?

What if you actually put pen to paper and wrote the song God put in your heart?

What if you actually took out the canvas or the casserole dish or the computer and created what you were made to create...

Who would you serve? Who would benefit because you are different?

So don't go buy a zebra-striped blazer. That one's taken. Who has God called you to be? And more importantly, how might he use that to serve the poor, the oppressed, the needy... in other words... all of us? 

 After all, if we all wore zebra-striped blazers, it wouldn't really be all that special anymore, would it?

The horror of it all.

If you're anything like me, this week has been a punch in the gut. It started with a bombing, followed by ricin-filled envelopes, followed by an explosion that killed more, and a manhunt that feels like a live action packed movie—except it's not a movie. It's real. And people are dying.

All of this while spring is bringing everything else back to life.

Do you feel it in your gut? Do you walk around feeling that cloud of frustration, sadness, and deep grief—even if you're miles away? Even when the T.V. isn't on? Did you wake up on Monday feeling off—even though the bomb hadn't detonated?

There's something to this. This collective feeling. Bearing this burden together—feeling it in your soul. To me it's nothing but evidence. Evidence that there is something more than what we see, feel, experience, or observe. There is something in the air or in the soul or in a dimension beyond us that moves something within us.

We feel it inside. And why would I feel it all the way here, in Tennessee, away from disaster and death, surrounded by new life and a new kitchen on the way?

It's because we're connected. And we're all in this fight together.

"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms." Ephesians 6:12.

But there's promise of newness.

There's a promise that what is dead will come back to life.

There's a promise that evil will be ultimately and finally defeated. That though evil may strike our heel, the Prince of Peace will crush its head.

Thank God.

One phrase every guy needs to memorize before he gets married.

I was hanging out with a friend of mine yesterday. She's tall and beautiful, and she's wearing this gorgeous diamond ring on her left finger. She throws around dates, vendors, designer names, and colors with ease, and jokes about the hoity-toity and high-falutin' wedding planner. And she mentions that she and her honey had their first fight. It's a beautiful time.

I found this wise man hidden in a bush when we cleared out our yard. 

I remember before Patrick and I got married, my middle sister asked—in particular—whether or not we'd actually been in a legitimate fight. The answer was no. We'd been to premarital counseling, we'd talked a ton about conflict, but when it came to a real knock-down-drag-out... it just hadn't happened. That concerned my sister. But it didn't concern me. I didn't think we were perfect—I knew that at some point we would inevitably disagree. But what I didn't know was that there is a magic phrase that would help about 80 percent of our fights end before they even began.

Imagine this.

It's five-thirty on a Tuesday and you're chopping onions. Eyes stinging, nose filling with the white earthy stink, your neck is stiff and your mind is on the fact that by seven o'clock you have to be out the door and on the other side of town. There are three e-mails you haven't sent, and one you're sure you've forgotten entirely. Your boss told you today that your evaluation is tomorrow, and because of the hectic schedule, you're not going to have time to solidify any plans for tomorrow. It's in this state that your husband/boyfriend/fiancé/friend walks in the door.

"Hey [insert cute nickname here]! How was your day?" he says with innocence. He's unaware of the trap he's walked right into.

"Well," you say. "I'm cooking dinner all by myself. We have to be across town in an hour, and my boss is worse than a dog in a cat parade. My evaluation is tomorrow and I'm not going to have any time to prepare." You throw down the knife and send daggers out of your eyes, too.

"Well, here, let me fix dinner," he says.

He's wrong. That's not the right phrase. He's immediately entered a fight.

Okay. So he tries something different.

"How about you just stay in tonight," he tries.

Now you're livid.

All he needs is one phrase. It's a really magic combination of five words that can help any woman at her wits end and save any man from the impending dog-house.

Do you want to know what it is?

"Gosh [instert name here]. That is awful." 

That's it. Five words.

Gosh babe, that is awful. 

Try it. Practice it. Mean it. Because most of the time we're not really looking for your help or your solution. We're just looking for some sympathy. Some compassion. Someone to share our no good very bad day with.

You might want to have a few versions of this phrase ready for whenever the time is right. Because if you say "awful" every time, she'll get that you're onto her and the phrase will lose it's magic.

Alternate phrases?

"Gosh, that's the worst."

"Man, I'm so sorry."

These will work, too. It might just save you. [Disclaimer. It may not always save you because us women reserve the right to react to phrases in whatever way we deem necessary and proper at the time.]

My story.

In an effort at being a little more bold, I want to tell you a story. It starts with a smiley, goofy, youngest daughter. You know, the one who tries to make peace and tries to be cooler than she is and tries to be older than she is? That was me.

I remember what my faith was like in 1993. I memorized verses and believed that it was by grace I’d been saved. Somehow, a little six-year old girl, with a high pitched voice and scraggly hair felt she needed a savior, so I was baptized in a chlorine-filled pool at Hillcrest Baptist church, tip toes on the rubber boot of a pastor. I was so short, no one in the congregation could see my little head dunked under water. Underneath the watery-death, my sinuses filled and stung.  I didn’t want to hold my nose because I felt that would be cheating.

But what did that little girl know of good or evil? What did I know of amazing grace?

I grew up. I learned to do flips on command. I wore Limited Too clothes when that was cool, then changed to American Eagle when that was cooler. I cried in school when I couldn’t understand prime numbers. I wanted so badly to get things right. But I knew something wasn’t right.

I have this very vivid memory of lying to my mom. A pointless, aimless lie. We were living in Virginia and I was nine. I dropped a glass of lemonade on the kitchen floor—it splattered, shattered everywhere, and I hastily cleaned up the pieces, but left the lemonade behind on the floor. I guess I was being lazy. When my mom got home, she asked what I’d spilled.  “Water,” I lied. It was lemonade, and I’m sure she felt the dried sticky sugar under her loafers. And I knew she knew. I was a liar.

At school I smiled and wrote notes and sang songs and got good grades. I was a cheerleader. I went to youth group. I tried my best to be good and look better. Around that same time, I learned to steal from my sisters. Make-up mostly, but clothes and purses later. I’d put them back just in the right spot, just in the nick of time. But I was a good friend, and I went to church. But I knew I was a thief.

Something was wrong.  And in a dark moment, I realized it wasn’t just me. 

Everything is wrong.

It was night and the clock read 2:02. I was 12 and at a friends’ house. I should have been asleep but his hot breath was loud in my ear. And it turned out nothing is right. And it turned out I wasn’t the only victim. And it turned out no one believed us until it was too late.

How could I believe in a God that saves when he allows a man to abuse?

There are days I don't really remember: the trial, the sentencing... But then a youth pastor sat in a room with me and the other girls. Was this really happening? Surely it couldn’t be. Surely all of this was a dream or some kind of script someone was writing for some new movie. He had the impossible job of busting through the rosy glasses of four pre-teen girls. He confirmed our suspicions about the world: all this evil, all this darkness.

And he said something I’ve never forgotten.

He said that in life, we are impacted by two things: our own sin and the sin of other people. Some of it hurts more, but it all does the same thing: it separates us from a perfect, holy God.

He said that we were made to be with God, and all the pain we were feeling was this deep expectation and desire to be near God—the only thing we need, and the only thing we can't have in our current condition.

And that’s when I knew this world needs saving.

And the Truth I believed as a child rang True once more. We’ve all sinned. I deserve a death sentence. And so do you. And so does the man that hurt me. But God created us for relationship with Him and He couldn’t stand to watch us walk like sheep to the slaughter. So He sent a replacement. A perfect Man to suffer and die to make a way to God.

A Man that was God in flesh. A Man that didn’t consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage. A Man who made everything, then made Himself nothing.

He never lied, but lies were told about Him in open court.

He never stole, but His life was exchanged for 30 pieces of silver.

He never abused, but He was stripped naked and beaten and mocked.

This Man. Jesus. The one who healed the sick, opened the eyes of the blind, payed attention to the poor, stopped what he was doing for beggars, knew names before faces. The One who pointed a finger at the men who pretended you could get yourself right with God on your own, and called them snakes.

He said, “I Am The Way, The Truth and The Life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”

He didn't say he is "a" way. He said He is The Way. The. Only. Way.

If you believe in Him, He fills you with a new Spirit, a new life—His. I am no longer a slave to what my nature tells me to do: the lying, the stealing, the selfish jealousy and bitterness. He gives me power for life and godliness. Everything I need to be a conquerer, and to live with joy not despair, in a world where most of the time, despair is all that makes sense.

I can consider that my present suffering is not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in me through Jesus. And I can’t help but speak of Him. I can’t help but find hope in Him. Because without Him there is no hope for me.

This is a story about a God who loved me so much that He didn’t leave me here alone. And He didn’t just give me Jesus. He gave me Jesus in a pastor’s rubber boot, my parents, my sisters, my friends, and in Patrick.

I remember when I told my story to Patrick. The one about the night and the dark, and the man whose wife and children were blindsided by the evil in their own home. The one about how I still feel skeptical, and when I’m alone with an older man, how I still feel nervous.

And I remember what He said.

Quietly, softly, Jesus whispered through the love of a husband, “I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m different.”

It’s the gospel. It’s the good news.

And really—it’s the only story worth telling.