A Discipline of Names

Last night, I was having dinner with a half dozen friends and we began talking about the people in our lives who provide us services. Namely, the waiters, checkers and baristas that we come in contact with daily. So frequently, these are not people to us; they are essentially things designed to meet our need in that moment.

As someone who has both waited tables and stood behind the counter of a coffee bar, I can attest to the fact that I am, in fact, a real human being.

In the course of this conversation, we talked about the value of a person’s name. Using it communicates worth and humanity to the person you’re addressing. Because it is so easy for us to treat these service people as machines created for our own fulfillment, I think they often feel invisible.

So we came to conclusion that we should do our best to take notice of the people around us and we will treat them as such. That means using their name whenever possible.

This is a discipline of names. For the next week, commit to two things: first, look for nametags; checkers always wear them. When a waiter or waitress tells you their name, pay attention or ask for it again if you missed it the first time around. Second, call that person by name. You might be surprised at the impact that one word can have on someone. 

The Importance of Hope

As someone who loves words, I appreciate when I learn a nuance that I didn’t know before. A few years ago I discovered that our word “hope” has a distinction in ancient languages that it does not have in English.

In two thousand year old Greek, hope means more than desire; it also means confident expectation.

For us, “hope” is often equivalent to “wish.” I find myself saying, “I hope you have a great weekend” or “I hope that test/project/conversation/flight/paper/drive/vacation/lunch goes well.”

If “wish” is all that is meant in hope, what good is it? Why would hope be something we have any use for?

Instead, I want to change my language. I want to say “wish” when I mean wish, and I want to say “hope” when I mean I believe something is possible.

You see, I struggle with cynicism. Strike that, I don’t struggle with it; I embrace it. Perhaps the better statement is, cynicism is a big part of my life. I tend to think that someone already drank the water, because that glass is certainly half empty. Hope is so important because it indicates a belief that something is possible. When I relegate hope to merely meaning “wish,” I remove the importance of the word. I remove its power to make me believe that the improbable is possible and that the extraordinary could become reality. When hope is just desire, I’m only telling you what I want. But when hope becomes belief in the future, that gives me a new lens to see the world around me.

Hope is just a word, one for me to use however I wish; but hope feels different than mere desire.

Culmination

Recently, I ran a half marathon. It’s not a giant accomplishment (and certainly not a full marathon, which a friend ran that same day) but it’s not something I ever thought I’d do.

I bring this up mostly because it required me training for a few months. I committed to running three times per week for about four months to get ready.

Normally, as someone who detests running, I would make excuses for why today wasn’t a great day to run. It’s too rainy, I have a long day at work ahead of me, I’d rather make some bacon for breakfast…reasons to avoid running are easy for me to find. In the past, when I intended to run for general fitness and not training for an event, I often skipped workouts simply because I wasn’t in the mood.

But in preparing for this race, I was pleasantly surprised at how few training runs I missed. I would get up earlier than normal, strap on my shoes and head out into what was usually frigid morning air.

When I crossed the finish line after 13 miles, I realized this was the culmination of lots of effort. Don’t get me wrong, every time I ran in preparation I knew this was something that required effort. But it was the sense of culmination that was unexpected. It seems that most things in my life that entail preparation are small. Even my grad school, which will take years, seems small because I think of it in 10-week chunks. Most projects at work require a few weeks of planning. There is little in my life that has so much buildup before a final, peak moment.

I could choose to be disappointed in this realization; I could decide that it’s not worth putting in so much time for something that is over so quickly.

Instead, I choose to see those four months as more valid. I surprised myself with my commitment to training; I think I learned something valuable about the preparation process. By committing myself to something with a clear culmination, I found fulfillment in both the process and the end. In one sense, the preparation is actually more meaningful that the final moment. This was more long-term than most things in my life; I need to have less instant gratification and more delayed value because that teaches me to develop in the midst of the process.

Really, the only question for me is “What is my next commitment?”

Conversion Moment

I never had a “conversion moment.” I know many Christians who had a profound moment when they suddenly became aware of their belovedness and made a decision to follow Jesus, but that’s not my story. I grew up going to church and lived invested in that community. I never stepped into a new relationship with Jesus; it seemed to me that I’d grown up knowing Him.

Rather than a stark moment of change, instead I had a day that upped the ante. Previously, it’s like we waded through streams together and I was fine getting through the water. It was shallow and slow and I had no trouble sliding my feet along the smooth rocks.

On this day, we arrived at a rushing river. In my anxiety about navigating the flood, God told me He would make sure I wasn’t swept away. Did I believe that was true? I knew no other truth. And I knew I wasn’t strong enough to forge the river.

So I told Him that I needed Him to walk downstream of me to prevent me from being swept away and upstream of me to protect me from the debris.

I fought through the currents, thrashing wildly and trying to keep my head above water. Sometimes in the midst of that flailing, I brushed up against sharp rocks and rammed into God because He was the closest thing within reach. Because of the splashing, I couldn’t see what was trying to help me and what was trying to hurt me. In those spinning moments, it all seemed an enemy to me.

Finally, the bank came within view. The water shallowed and calmed.

He and I came out together on the other side, sopping wet and definitely worse for wear. But we were holding one another to keep warm and forever bonded by the adventure of fearfully traversing the waters.

What’s your story?

What You Say

I’m sitting in a coffee shop and overhear a conversation next to me. I heard the words “homeless” and “poor” so I decided to listen in a little bit. What I heard encouraged me and dismayed me.

In a nutshell, the conversation was a man explaining to his friends how he likes to spend his time sitting with the homeless and bringing them food. He then told his friends, “The homeless are my Africa, because they’re just as poor.”

This stirs up a few feelings in me. Part of me applauds the man and I’m thankful for his desire to meet real and tangible needs. I’m easily overwhelmed by that need and find myself paralyzed into inaction. This man is doing a good work that is much needed and I’m grateful he has accepted such a challenge.

But a different part of me is frustrated by his statement. No doubt he truly means it; but to compare America’s poor and homeless to the situations of people living in Africa is just painful. (Side note: the decor in this coffee shop is pictures of Kenyan orphans. I’m just sayin’.) By no means am I an expert in American homelessness or in African life. But I do know this: American poor can find clean water. American poor can get help from the government (though it is woefully inadequate). There is help available for the American homeless, even if it is insufficient.

I don’t intend to ride a high horse in this case; I don’t pretend to be deeply involved in EITHER situation.

What frustrates me is that this man has created an unfair comparison in his head and is sharing it with his friends. I doubt that he has created this statement “The homeless are my Africa, because they’re just as poor” in order to impress people or validate what he does. It is just a simple, catchy phrase I expect he has used before and is now comfortable with. But it makes me sad that we NEED to compare; I’m dismayed at how easily we put things beside each other for the sake of simplicity. Why justify your passion for the homeless by comparing it to another need that is NOT comparable?

I guess what this raises for me are the questions, “What are my ‘sayings’ that I haven’t really thought through? How am I being careless with my words?”

Be careful what you say.

Exhaustion and Joy

A few days ago, I was with a close friend and we were discussing the seasons coming for both of us. His past year has been one of diligence and patience; he has worked hard and in six months this period will be over. Not only will that season come to a close, but the fruit of that work will be present; and I anticipate that his work will produce much of it.

He characterized the past year as a time of “deep exhaustion and deep joy.” I found that pairing to be beautiful, poetic and true. How often are exhaustion and joy partnered together?

It reminded me of a three month stretch in 2006 when I was unemployed. I was living on a friend’s couch in San Clemente, a five-minute walk to the beach. Every day I slept in, watched a little SportsCenter and then went body surfing. I’d work on my tan and then head out for some afternoon Starbucks and reading. When I tell people how I spent that summer, they are envious. It just seems so relaxing to them…no responsibilities, no schedule…it seems so restful.

So why does my stomach drop whenever I talk about those three months?

I think it’s because I had no joy. There really wasn’t much to my life in that season.

Vacation is only restful because it is a pause, a respite from the ordinary. The first two weeks of my couch-surfing were enjoyable until they became my daily reality; after that I just felt aimless and unfulfilled.

I don’t believe that we are to work ourselves to the point of collapse, but I do believe that there is something to be said for the connection between joy and participating in life. Perhaps the lesson is this: our goal should not be to have fuller schedules leading to exhaustion. I’m not sure there’s joy to be found in being busy. Rather, caring deeply, working passionately and being devoted to our commitments will lead to joy. My friend is exhausted because he participates in things that have meaning and purpose, not just fluff that packs his schedule. He is exhausted because he has poured his heart into life, and that has led to joy.

Go and do the same.

Self-Checkout

You know those self-checkout stands at the supermarket, where you scan and bag your own items? I used to think that they were all about convenience, but now I’ve decided that they’re more about how insecure and self-conscious we are.

I realized that this morning when I didn’t put on deodorant.

Stick with me on this.

I didn’t have any this morning but didn’t realize it until after I’d showered. So I got dressed and headed to the closest Safeway. I snagged deodorant and walked towards the self-checkout and then pondered why I went there instead of a regular check stand.

I went there because I was fearful that somehow, the checker would see my lone purchase and intuit that I had foolishly forgotten deodorant that day and now I smelled obscenely like a pig farmer or some other foul-smelling individual.

Of course, I KNEW that the checker probably wouldn’t jump to that conclusion, and even if they did, so what? What do I care what a checker thinks about me (especially when what they think would have been TRUE)? Yet there I went, towards the self-scan machine in order to avoid a Safeway employee judging me.

Maybe those self-scan machines are more about hiding the pseudo-embarrassing things we buy and preventing a stranger from getting a look into the intricacies of our private lives. So what if the checker knows you like nacho cheese a little too much, or that you’re buying donuts paired with diet Coke, or that you have problems with foot odor…does it really matter? I think we need to learn how to be okay with who and what we are. After all, you have two options in regards to those embarrassing items: you can quit buying the cheese in a can if it embarrasses you so much or you can embrace the reality of who you are and confess your love of terrible food and admit to having smelly armpits.