Through the Gate

Reading some of the realest words of encouragement from great men and feeling long-lost dreams awaken within me. 

"He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the sea-harvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight"

     Life is ruthless. It moves fast, not caring how badly you want it to stop. Not noticing you falling behind. As you race to keep up, it begins to move faster, never giving rest. Never giving peace. More days than not, I find time is my greatest enemy.

     Time is what keeps me from the people I love, and the places I've always wanted to visit.

    “There’s not enough time. Not even for the important things in life.” I’ve heard it and I’ve said it so many times. I would love to read the complete works of Lewis. I would love to lay in the grass every night and count stars. I would love to drive to the mountains and ride an inner-tube down a river. But time builds a wall that no one can climb.

   The world is condemning, and the church is worse. Be busy, we are told. The constant question is what you are doing with your life. How can you live with yourself knowing that you could go harder...knowing you could be more driven...you can make YOUR performance MORE important in your life.

   But this weekend, I spent an afternoon in a little state park in Connecticut. I climbed rocks and explored a forest. I rested in my hammock. I chatted in peaceful exhilaration with the one person who shows me the heart of Christ in a way that blows my mind. I shared the silence in awe of creation around me, and through it, I saw a better way.

  “Come you me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest for your souls. Take MY yoke. It is easy, and MY burden is light.”

   Time has no power against a promise like this. I pray today that every one of God’s children realizes it.

   Your performance means nothing in comparison to the uncontrollable vastness of love.

   Lay it down. Come.

Try hard to concentrate,

Hold out your hand

I’m chilling in a little place called the drawing board right now. It’s huge, almost overwhelming. It’s a place that doesn’t harmonize well with delicate plans. Even its very existence is somewhat ambiguous. But for now, I love it here. I see a canvas—a canvas as big as life itself, which is empty, and waiting to be painted.

Can you feel the weight of it,

The whole world at your fingertips

I remember reading a strange book as a child. It was titled Harold and the Purple Crayon. In it, Harold finds himself in a world created by his magical crayon, limited only by his imagination and willingness to create. Without it, his would be blank…empty…lifeless. But the strokes of his crayon create boats, hot air balloons, even new cities and landscapes to explore.

Honestly, I always felt Harold was suffering from crippling delusion.

But here I am in a place similar to Harold. I’ve never been here before. My canvas is blank. Free of many of the obstacles many my age suffer from…student loans…obligations…crippling self-doubt...the constant tyranny of time. I am so blessed in this way. I hold within my being the passion and education that has been given to me by so many amazing influences.

Don’t be, don’t be afraid, our mistakes they were bound to be made

I know you’re out there. I know you’re reading this and saying “You have a great life, but I am crippled. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve abandoned my dream.”

I am intimately aware the self-doubt. The wondering…the nagging questions of whether I am in the right place. I’ve been there. I’m still there and it’s terrifying.

Today, as I sat alone writing about the past few weeks of my life, listening to Mozart and watching the rain fall, I was struck by the fact that I am not alone. Neither are you. It’s impossible. Your canvas has been created by someone greater than you could ever dream, someone who is waiting to see the amazing masterpiece that is your heart.

I promise you.

Success in life is not creating a million dollar painting. As I find myself back at the drawing board, I realize that the beauty of art is that value is in the eyes of the one who owns the painting, and He is not swayed by the world’s standard of value. He’s given all of us a blank canvas, and a life that he wants to see poured out on others as he pours it on you. You are an artist who holds a promise that allows you to draw passionate dreams and wild adventures:

I’ll keep you safe.

“When we meet again I can promise that there will be no wasted moments. Every minute spent with you is nothing less than a gift to be cherished. There are many times when I want only to know your presence, to hear you moving around…to see you next to me.” 

- Letter from Maj. Bertram Arnold Bunting to his wife. He was killed 26 days later. 

Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” cranked louder than it has been in years.

Finding out who I really am–a hopeless romantic, an adrenaline junkie, a fighter who draws lines for the sole purpose of stepping over them.

Searching for an overdue Valentine, running from an early goodbye. A late night struggle to preserve the beauty, the love, the insanity.

And to find a little bit of wild clarity inside myself.