You're an eff-ing loser.

You're an eff-ing loser.

It kept replaying in my mind.

Who cares? 

Just quit. 

No one even cares about you.

Have you ever had those thoughts? Have you ever wrestled with self-worth? Have you ever wondered what exactly you've accomplished in life? Have you ever wonder if you've made a difference?

I'm sure we all have had those questioning thoughts roll through our minds. A barrage of doubts attempting to pull us down into discouragement or depression to the point of just wanting to give up. But it is what we do in those situations that can make all the difference.

I'd like to share with you one of those times.

The day was September 20th, about two months ago. It was my first trail half marathon race. I knew it was a major milestone kind of day, but not for the reasons I'd thought. I thought it was just about running, but it was really a spiritual battle in my mind.

Over the past few years, life has dramatically changed. Going from what I felt like being on top of the world with a lot going for me to the place I am now has been difficult.

Running has been good for me, helping me push through adversity. But this race wasn't supposed to be about that, it was to be about accomplishing a milestone. I was in OK shape at the beginning of July and began training for this race. Two and a half months of training is a long time, especially considering my health issues. 

Wouldn't you know it, three weeks before the race, I have a health flare-up. I do very little training for those three weeks, and I feel miserable. I'm not even sure I will race. Two days before the race, I start to feel a bit better, so I decide I will race no matter what.

I just want to accomplish this one goal: I want to run a half marathon race on a trail. That's my goal. Once I reach that goal, I'll feel a sense of accomplishment. I'll have a bit of satisfaction in the midst of health issues and life challenges. Just one race.

The organization that is putting on this race is great. However, since this is the first time for this particular course, there are only 45 people signed up. At the starting line, I can get a sense of  who will be the faster ones, and who are slower. Almost everyone is fast. Easily faster than me at least. Not a good sign. I line up at the back of the pack.

My mindset is to just go slow and pace myself. I want to complete this race. Studying the course map, I know there are several very steep hills late in the course. I need to conserve energy.

As the race starts, immediately the fast runners take off. A cluster of us bring up the rear. This is a new experience for me. Normally I'm in the lower-middle of the pack. The runners spread out, and soon I am running only with an older gentleman. We chat about families and find out he just celebrated his 50th wedding anniversary. I am keeping pace with a 71 year old.

About five miles into it, he needs a bathroom break, and I continue on. I see no one else behind us. My ego has been severely taking a hit.

I cross a stream twice, once with water ankle deep, and then another with shin deep water. The cool water feels good as the temperature is heating up. I look back again, and do not see the man. I hear the faint sounds of a four-wheeler. Probably the sweeper - tailing the last person on the course. Perhaps the man has dropped.

An aid station is supposed to be at mile seven. It isn't there. I see the elderly man catching up to me. I'm supposing that the aid station has closed up. Finally at close to eight miles, I see the aid station. Shortly after that, the man catches up and passes me.

Back in the good ol' days, I was extremely competitive. In school I was very good at sports and I was almost always in the top 10% in athletic competitions. I hated to lose. I wanted to win. I needed to win. I think I felt I needed to win in order to have value. I needed to be good at something. I wanted to be known for something. 

I was never a mid-packer. I certainly was never at the back of the pack. 

It wasn't only sports. In math speed drills, in writing the best report, in reading the most books, in attempting to eat the most blueberry muffins on a Sunday morning. It didn't matter, I was competitive and I wanted to be the best. Not mediocre. Certainly not one of the worst.

Karen and I bought a video game machine several years back. I was so competitive (and so was she) that we started getting mad at each other if the other won in a game. We actually got rid of the game console because it was causing problems in our marriage. I wanted to win.

My philosophy was that if I was going to do something, I was all in. Not half-hearted. Not just to survive, but to win, to do my best.

Over the years, the competitive nature has great subsided. I don't have to win. Every once in a while, I even let my kids win.  :)  But I still have pride and an ego.

So here I am, eight miles into the race, in seemingly last place.

It is just a race.

No one even cares that you are out here.

The thoughts start to flood in. Not just about the race, and my position in the race, but about life in general. Six years ago, life was going great. I had purpose, vision, drive, enthusiasm, seeing fruit in our church ministry opportunities, the family was mostly happy, and doing fine with my job and finances.

Doing well. "Running the race" well. Living life well. Being successful all the way around. 

But then everything changed. Like the rug was yanked out from under us. Now things didn't look so good.

I admit it, I was proud of the fact that everything was going well. Maybe not the "best" around, maybe not the wealthiest, maybe not the most productive, maybe not doing the most Christian service, maybe not the "best" Christian, but I was up there. Whatever that means. Like it is a competition. Like there are winners and losers in life.

Over the past six years, it has been a challenge to my thinking. At times, I still want to be the competitive person. I see my life through those lenses, and when I do, I cringe.

You are a failure.

Look at what you had. Its all gone now.

I thought you said you had fruit from your ministry. Where is it now?

You are an eff-ing loser.

Look at you. You just sit there, doing nothing any more.

I continue running when I can. When the hills are too steep, I walk. I'm hurting badly. I'm so tired. I just want to give up.

The course is shaped kind of like a four-leaf clover, with each leaf being three or four miles. Each leaf comes close to the center of the race course. I know that I'm very close to the center again; I could just drop out. Give some excuse of an injury. Or even just state that I'm not feeling well. Runners drop out of races all the time. My family would understand.

Why do you even bother?

Do you think this will make any difference?

Look at all that hard work you put in in training. It doesn't make any difference. What a loser. You can't even train correctly.

Just quit. Give up. No one cares anyway.

Why do we keep going in the midst of adversity? What propels us forward? Are we trying to attain something? What do we do when we feel like we can't go on?

I can hear the music playing at the central location. My body is exhausted. In my mind I feel like a failure. Emotionally, I feel drained and discouraged.

You are an eff-ing loser. Just quit now.

You're in last place. The volunteers just want to go home. The music is playing. That means they are giving out awards. Just quit.

But I press on. I know there is another aid station at mile 10. Right before the worst hills. I can't see anyone in front of me or behind me. All alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone in the woods. Not a sound now except occasionally I hear the distant sound of music or a cheer. The negative thoughts, however, are rock concert loud.

The aid station is not at the mile 10 marker. I'm now sure that they've packed up. I can't hear a sweeper ATV. The last time I heard the ATV, the old man was behind me. Now he is in front of me. I think that they think he is the last one out here. I'm completely forgotten. Now the sweeper is in front of me. How much worse could it be?

I'm humiliated. Behind the sweeper? Will there even be a finish line or will they have taken down the banner? Will anyone even be in the parking lot when I get back? 

I am a winner. I finish first or near to first. I excel at everything. I dominate at my sports.  I never, ever finish last. This can't be happening. 

Last. Loser. Forgotten. 

Finally, the last aid station! It was close to mile 11. They were still there! Embarrassed, I grab a Gatorade and continue on. They are clapping and cheering me on, but deep down I know. I know what they are thinking. What happened to that guy? He looks mostly in shape but he is so slow. Now finally he is through so we can pack up. I imagine all kinds of negative thoughts coming from them.

I hear the finish line music again. I could quit now and just walk over. Two more miles to go. Big hills. At my speed that's another half an hour at least. I am tormented.

It's now not just the race. It is life. I feel like a failure at life. Things were going so well. Now I have no direction, no ambition, little hope, and have health issues. From a place of blessing, things going well, and making a difference to a place of sitting, taking up space.

The thoughts pound at me. I start to cry. Running and crying don't mix well. I am just so emotional. 

I don't want to continue. I want to sneak back to my car and go home. But three of my kids are here at the race to cheer me on. I can't disappoint them. I can't sneak back to the car - I need to bring them home.

I used to look at people who were going through difficult times and judge them. I wanted them to just suck it up and put on their happy face and be fine. Now I understand. Sometimes you can't. Sometimes all you can do is hang on.

A verse came to mind as I ran, "...when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." (Ephesians 6:13)

In the midst of feeling like a loser, I could stand. I could stand my ground. I may not feel strong. I may not feel like I'm taking over the world. But I can stand.

Obviously, in a race I can't just stand, or I'd never complete the race. But I took it as continuing on, one step at a time, but NOT GIVING UP. Not quitting. Not shrinking back. Not saying, "I can't do this."

One step at a time. Sometimes running, sometimes walking. I press on. I am not a quitter.

I may not be the fastest. I may not be the strongest. But I am not a quitter. Each of us are built differently. Each of us have our own journeys to make. Each of us have our own obstacles to overcome. We are all different. We are each made slightly different. There isn't a winner. There really isn't a loser. Some are faster, some are slower, but that isn't the point. There is a journey for each of us. And it is up to each of us to run the race. To not give up. To not give in to the lies of the enemy. To press forward. To overcome our pains, our insecurities, our humiliations, our doubts. 

To stand. To stand our ground in the face of lies.

Our journeys include those Cloud Nine experiences and times of difficult trials. Don't stop! Don't give up. Stand your ground. It may look ugly. It may not look very victorious. But it makes a difference.

My kids watched and cheered as I rounded the last corner. I picked up speed and crossed the finish line. Several other strangers were cheering too. The old man was there. He came over and shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. Another man grabbed a cool cup of water for me. I felt nearly delirious from exhaustion, hurting badly, but encouraged. Several smiled and congratulated me. I had accomplished my goal. I made it. My kids were all smiles, asking me about how it went.

As I oriented myself, euphoria set in. I HAD made it. There were still people here. I found out that there were still three people behind me. I wasn't the last person, not that that really mattered. I had done it. I had ran a half marathon on a very difficult mountainous course. I hadn't quit. My kids saw that I was hurting, but that I pressed through.

I am not a loser.

I will not quit.

I am making a difference.

I will press on, even in the midst of great adversity.

I welcome and endure the pain, knowing I am stronger because of it.

I know that this season will pass. I know that it has changed me greatly.

I know that my family watches how I handle the adversity. Leading by example, they too learn how to praise God even in the midst of the storm.

I am not an eff-ing loser. I am victorious!

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Please let me know if you were encouraged by this blog post.
Keith

The Stench of Victory

It was over.

I plopped down on my seat in the car and glanced in the mirror. Wet stringy hair was matted to my face. The look of exhaustion. Face flushed red with heat. I looked at my arms, covered in sweat. My ankles were dirty from the dust and rocks of the road. My back and torso drenched in sweat. I already felt sore and tired. Then I got a whiff, and that put me over the edge. The stench. I stunk. Bad.

But I did it. I made it. I overcame. I was victorious.

It was the stench of victory that stuck out in my mind.

I had just finished an ugly, hilly, nine mile run. It wasn't the furthest I'd gone. It wasn't the hardest. It was just ugly. But I pressed through. Now I stunk, but it was a stench that goes with the territory.

As I sat there, I contemplated what it all meant. Obviously there are many parallels between running and life. Yet another life truth was highlighted that day: there is a stench of victory. Put another way, victory stinks.

If you pay attention to almost any sport, except for golf (ha ha), at the end of the competition, the winner can be elated, but they usually are also a mess. They are all sweaty, dirty, exhausted, and emotionally spent. But they are victorious. The victory makes all the smell and exhaustion worth it.

Just like life.

In your mind, think of several people that you know personally that you respect and perhaps look up to. Think of why you respect them. Chances are it is because they have gone through some dificulties in life, but battled through those difficulties and were victorious. 

But if you've watched them go through it, most likely it was anything but pretty.  In the midst of those struggles, people tend to get pretty raw. Tired. Stressed. Emotional. Exhausted. They stink.

Then they make it through. Victory.

Without challenges, struggles, and obstacles, the victory would be insignificant. It is because of those challenges, struggles, and obstacles that the victory is great.

Perhaps you are going through a challenge right now. I guarantee you that others are watching. It may be ugly. You may be tired. Frankly, you probably stink. But when the victory comes, it will be worth it.

The next morning I could barely walk but inside I was happy. The battle was over. I had made it through. It had been ugly. I had smelled badly. 

But I am victorious!

A Crappy Running Adventure

WARNING: The story you are about to read contains graphic and disturbing images that you may not wish to have burned into your memory. You may want to wait until after you've eaten before reading this story.

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Sometimes I'm as bright as a burnt out light bulb.  

Yesterday, due to the three day weekend, I decide to do about a hundred things in the yard. I gather the family, make a plan, and we tackle the mountain of things that need to be done.  The most time consuming and physically laborious task is pressure washing the house, sidewalks, stone blocks, driveway, RV pad, neighbor children, and anything else that looks slightly dirty. I attacked the challenge like a madman. Nine hours later, I am exhausted. 

Today after church I am still so exhausted that I immediately fall asleep after lunch. After three hours of sleeping, dozing, drooling, and mumbling incoherent phrases, I awake fully non-energetic.

But I have plans. Running plans. Plans to run with my friend Joe. However, something is not right. I should not feel like this. I chalk it up to working too hard yesterday. I can't back out of running. I have my pride. My ego. I am Running Man.

Our plan is to run about six miles on two trails connected by a few blocks on the street. Not too difficult.  At least for Joe. Joe the Ironman. Joe, the one in the peak of his training for another triathlon. I think he is running/biking/swimming half way across the country or something. Definitely more than six miles.  Me, on the other hand, have no plans to run a triathlon. My plans still involve running to the fridge for more whipped cream to put on top of my ice cream.  Or for longer distances, I run - in the car - to the store for a box of Twinkies.  But Joe, now he can run. He is like the Energizer Bunny, he keeps going and going and going.

I have my pride. My ego. My stupidity. Surely I can keep up with The Animal. We take off at a torrid pace, Joe leading the way. Gasping, grunting, wheezing, and staggering, I manage to keep him within eye sight. He glances back and asks if the pace is OK. "No problem," I respond.  Actually, it takes me several attempts before I can get all of the words out.

"No."

"Pr."

"Ob."

"Lem."

Each syllable comes out as I try to calculate if I have enough air to actually breath while at the same time as talking. "Problem" is actually two syllables, but I have to change it to three. It takes four steps, but I manage to communicate with him.

Joe smiles and speeds up.

We reach the end of the trail and turn around. We've gone around three miles, but it feels more like three hundred miles. I get a burst of energy and things feel better for about one mile.

Then it hits me. Stomach pain. Hurting. Must. Find. Bathroom. NOW. The problem is I'm two miles away from the car and then three miles away from home. And I had picked Joe up, so I'd need to drop him off. Two miles, plus dropping him off, plus getting home. That's at least a half an hour.

I sweat even more profusely than I have been. What shall I do? What can I do?

I've got to go really bad. I tighten my cheeks and run on. Its getting worse. Then I hear my named being yelled. "Keith! Keith!" Someone is waving at me. This is awkward. By now I'm practically holding onto my rear end and praying that I don't have an accident on the side of the trail.

She is waving. Through my pain and humiliation, I see who it is: a friend from church. To save her embarrassment in case she reads this, I'll just call her Gail. She waves, I remove one hand from my rearend and quickly wave. Thankfully she is far enough away to not hear the rumblings of the stomach.

The volcanic stew is about to erupt. I must get home. Fear surrounds me on every side. I tell Joe what is going on. He laughs but quickly speeds up to get away from the impending accident.

"I think there is a porta-potty at the college up ahead. Maybe it won't be locked," he says. Wouldn't that be something - I make it there, only to discover it is locked?  My mind races with questions: Can I make it there? Would it be better to run and get there quicker, or walk but get there slower? What if I don't make it? What if the bathroom is locked? Could I just ditch Joe, and hurry home?

Now we are on the street connecting the two trails. Houses all around. I'm desperate. I recall leading some youth on a missions trip to Mexico a few years ago. One of the teenagers had to use the bathroom very badly. We were going door-to-door in a very, very poor city that consisted of cardboard or scrapwood houses and a few that looked more like normal houses. We found the nicest house we could and knocked on the door. They let the teen go to the restroom. We had knocked just as the owners of the house were starting a birthday party for one of their kids. So this poor Mexican family had invited us all to join them for cake and Coca-cola. They gave up half of their small cake for total strangers. It was humbling, yet awesome.  Anyway, as I'm passing these houses by the college, I wonder if I could just knock on their door and tell them I need to use their bathroom NOW.  Would they let me in? Would they have toilet paper? Would they hear the minor explosion from my backside? Would they be in the midst of a birthday party? Would they invite us to stay? Would it be Costco cake? 

I don't have the nerve to knock, but I was very tempted. I awkwardly run on, butt cheeks tightly clenched, with the volcanic eruption held at bay.

Joe points out the porta-potty across the way. I take a short cut through the college's vegetable garden. Smashing carrot tops, kicking lettuce and cabbage heads, and squashing onions, I press on knowing that if I don't get there quickly, their garden is going to be very "organic."

The door was not locked. I made it.

I ended up running about a mile less than I intended to. I've heard many times of people having "issues" during a race. Today I experienced what they've dealt with. After getting home, it dawns on me that two of my kids have the stomach flu. Apparently, that was the "something is not right." Next time I'm coming down with the stomach flu, I think I'll stay home. Or run in close proximity to a porta potty.

What I learned from being off of Facebook for a month

Several weeks ago, I decided to do a little experiment and - without announcing it - I just stayed off of Facebook for one month. I only logged on Facebook if someone InBoxed (messaged) me. After the month was up, I have now been back on Facebook for three weeks.

I learned a few interesting things about myself. I learned a few things about how my interactions with people have changed. I learned a few things that frankly bother me.

This is not meant to be judgmental. The name of my blog is "Being Real", and I purposefully try to be that. It may be blunt. It may seem harsh. It may seem judgmental... because it probably is. I'm judgmental just like everyone else.  Ha: that is a judgment right there!  Anyway, I digress.

 The following are things I discovered. They may or may not be true for you.

Communication has changed

I realized how I, in pre-Facebook days, used to communicate with people: it was in person, on the phone, via email, or texts. Those methods of communication were primarily with an individual. One on one, or a small group. Facebook subtly changes that. If I want to talk with someone for the sake of talking, I just "throw out" a post and see who bites. That is the person I may chat with.  I know it is not just on my side of relationships. During this month off, I noticed I received very few text messages, no emails, only a couple of phone calls. I still saw the people I usually see in person the same as before. Only one person asked me why I was so quiet/wasn't on Facebook.

The effort of friendships has deteriorated

There seems to be a connection made through Facebook that appears to connect people, but is false. If I read someone's post or see a picture, I have this "connection" to them. That is whether or not I "like" or comment on their post. I feel connected to them.  Why? Just because they put something out there? How is that any different from noticing what a stranger is wearing or eating or talking about? A false connection keeps me in "friendship" with that person. How often do I purposefully connect with one person on Facebook? Not just a post, but something real? And not just because it is their birthday? Individual conversation and friendships take time and effort. A generic post to my own wall is not putting any effort into a friendship.

Out of sight, out of mind

This is a two-way street. If I read someone's post, I may think about them, pray for them, comment/like, or otherwise communicate with them. When not on Facebook, since many people's names/comments/issues are not in front of my face, I honestly may not be thinking of them. It goes the other way too. Right before taking the month off, I was very, very sick and asked for prayer. Yet a month later, only a couple of people (whom I haven't interacted with outside of Facebook) asked how I'm doing. I was just as bad: I know there were others going through some major things, and I think I only kept in contact with one person to see how they were doing. Posting on Facebook, whether humerous, informative, or complainy, is making yourself visible to others.

Addiction

The reason I took a month off was because I was addicted to Facebook. I usually don't have the time at night to spend an hour on Facebook scrolling through my news feed and coming up with my own posts.  So I'd grab my iPhone and look quickly throughout the day. I probably looked at Facebook 10 times a day. That way I didn't have to scroll through huge amounts of content. But that was addicting. I noticed that those few minutes between activities, I'd grab my phone. Instead of a conversation with my wife or kids, I "had" to catch up on Facebook. I consciously or unconsciously thought of some event or photo that'd be good to share with Facebook-land instead of focusing on the event itself. It was like I was bypassing the journey so that I could share about the journey. I realized I was spending too much time on the iPhone, and not enough with my family.  Once I gave it up, I had two conflicting feelings. One feeling was to just replace Facebook with something else; still picking up the phone and playing a game or reading something, or changing the screen wallpaper: important things. That removed me from Facebook, but didn't help my phone addiction. The other reaction was to just put the phone away. This was much better. I was able to focus much better on what was going on around me. I was able to actually converse instead of just grunt. Not that there is anything wrong with grunting. It also was strange and sad how many times I was tempted to pick up the phone. It was embarrassing when I got a Facebook InBox message and was very tempted to just peek at the News Feed. But after a while, it felt nice to not be so tied to the phone.

Missing people

I realized that most, if not all, of my interaction with most of my Facebook "friends" is actually through Facebook. Without being on Facebook, this meant no interaction with these "friends". I never contacted them and they never contacted me.  I wonder if it had been a year instead of a month. Would we have made contact with each other? But I honestly did miss many people and did wonder what was going on in their lives or how they were doing. I just didn't make the effort to find out. Sad.

Shallow

It highlighted again how shallow our relationships can be. If it is all about sharing memes, inspirational quotes, recipes, and selfies, how beneficial is that relationship? It reminds me again of how we really have a few circles of friends: close, casual, and shallow. Facebook, for the most part, keeps the interaction at the shallow end of the spectrum. For closer relationships, different forms of contact need to happen.

Misunderstandings

I realize that with all forms of communication, misunderstandings abound. But Facebook, to me, seems to just highlight it. Someone is dead serious about an issue, concern or need and at least one person seems to always give a flippant/rude/inconsiderate response. It just is not an ideal place for something serious. Someone posts about a topic, and people hijack the conversation and make it into something completely different. You can even use Facebook to portray yourself with a certain persona: purposefully attempting to project an image of your life that may or may not be what you are really about. The inverse of that is that you can become, in people's minds, what you post on Facebook. That can cause misunderstanding of who and what you really are. Facebook seems like it is primarily a medium for entertainment, chit-chat,  or self-exhaltation. Yes, that sounds strong, but really how many truly life-changing experiences have happened via Facebook? Its like the status quo is to keep it light, ignore the hurt, make a joke, promote yourself. That causes all kinds of misunderstandings. Real communication begs for something deeper.

Conclusion

Taking the month off of Facebook really opened my eyes to where I was at. It also reminded me again of the difficulties and challenges of relationships. In general, people aren't the greatest at relationships. Facebook, it seems, makes that even more difficult.  Frankly, this time off has taken a lot of the appeal of Facebook away from me. It now feels much more empty of substance. I hope my addiction has been broken and I hope that I can take something away from these lessons and actually make changes in my life. I hope that my time will be spent a little more wisely. I hope that I will value and work harder at my friendships.

Thoughts? Comments?  Looking for the de-friend button?  :)

More than you imagined!

I decided to do something different for this blog: it is a video blog.

You have much more potential inside of you than you may realize. Using an illustration of a recent running event, this video is about discovering you have more strength inside of you than you may have realized.  Watch this video and be encouraged!

Compassion

It has been an extremely rough week. I needed prayer. I hesitated doing this because of past experiences, but I did it anyway: I posted my prayer request on Facebook.

I wanted some friends who were strong in their prayers - some who had it all together, some who weren’t already weighted down with their own struggles - to just pray for me.

I hit the Send button and there it was for all my Facebook friends to see. I crawled into bed and went to sleep. After a four hour nap, I woke up and was stunned by a few of the replies to my earlier post.

It wasn’t WHAT they replied, it was WHO replied that said they were praying:

• the friend who has battled migraine headaches for years plus battled for her husband’s severe illness for many years before he finally got healed
• the one who has battled through her own illnesses, pastored a church with her husband  in the heart of the city, pouring out her life for others, and walking with family after family in hardship and death
• a former mentor to me who is facing big decisions for the future
• the pastor who already has her hands full with lots of things
• the co-founder of a ministry to the orphans and widows in another country
• the friend in severe chronic pain, struggling to manage living life in the midst of an incurable situation
• another pastor who is constantly giving of his life to others
• one with chronic back pain that has completely altered his life
• one who saw firsthand the effects this had upon my health, my life, my work, and my outlook on life; he listened and was/is my friend
• the one with numerous challenges and health issues in her own family

I looked down through the messages and was overwhelmed. Many were already hurting. Many were already going through huge challenges and obstacles in their lives. They already felt a heaviness and burden for themselves or those around them. 

These weren’t the ones I was meaning to pray for me. They already had enough on their plates. 

I received another Facebook post. One who has been through so much pain was saying she was still praying for me and was checking in.

It floored me. 

In the midst of their own pain. In the midst of their own heartache. In the midst of their own overwhelming challenges in life. People were reaching out to me.

Then I realized what it was. 

Compassion.

If you’ve never been through a life-altering situation, you won’t understand. If you’ve never lived with back pain for 25 years, you won’t understand. If you’ve never been to doctor after doctor with no resolution, you won’t understand. If you’ve never wondered if you’ll live through the night, you won’t understand.

But if you’ve been broken. Scared. In pain. At the end of your rope. No where to go. Then you understand.

A thread is weaved through people’s spirits who have suffered together. An understanding. A compassion. A burden. A strength in numbers.

With each of the friends I described above, I’ve connected with. I have a glimpse of their pain. I have a bit of understanding of what they go through: the challenges of an illness, the weight of ministry, of a hurting loved one, or the constant giving of oneself to others. A thread connects us. They have no idea how many times I have hurt for them, prayed for them, tried to share their burden, cried for them, wanted to be able to help them. Or simply just had compassion. 

Today I was touched with their compassion. 

Thank you.