We Are All Human

We are all human. You're going to laugh at me, but that fact became starkly apparent to me this past week after watching the season finale of ABC's The Bachelor.

Full disclosure: I love Jesus, I love worship music, and I love listening to sermon podcasts. I also love me some Chris Harrison and indulging in the guilty pleasure that is the The Bachelor/Bachelorette franchise.

Whether you watch the show or not, you probably heard that last Monday was the season finale. Ben Higgins narrowed down his playing field to two women. Spoiler alert: he tells them both he loves them. He ultimately must decide who to propose to—he goes with Lauren, the woman he can't imagine life without. It's been four months since filming wrapped, and the happy couple is still together and planning a wedding, which is already somewhat of an anomaly in the Bachelor universe.

Now I don't believe in soulmates or "The One." I don't see The Bachelor as the ultimate way to find love or reach some elusive happily ever after. What I do see this show as is a fascinating look at the way we as a culture tend to think and behave, particularly when it comes to relationships.

While the show has been around for 30 seasons (yes, three-zero), I actually started watching only a few seasons ago. It became a fun way to spend time with girlfriends on Monday nights, and it also sparked some really thoughtful and serious conversations.

I became especially invested in this recent season because Bachelor Ben is a Christian. He's spoken openly about his faith, his church, and his relationship values on a regular basis. And not to brag or anything, but he and I also happen to have mutual friends, so I can confirm that his faith is the real deal.

But do I actually know the guy? Nope, never met him in my life. In my dreams? Now that's a different story…

My point is that I'm completely fascinated by Ben and his fiancée Lauren. I feel like I’ve been a part of their relationship since the day they met. I'm wrapped up in this couple’s life together as they navigate dating, engagement, and hopefully marriage, in a Christian context, while the whole country watches them do so.

The publicity and the pressure is enough to make anybody flinch.

Yet here I am at home on my couch, getting into spirited discussions with my friends over whether Ben and his fiancée live together. That's what US Weekly reported, guys, so it must be true.

If they live together, how well are they really representing the Christian faith? I mean they're good people and all, but, like, how much of Believers are they really?

They've prayed together on the show, and they recently gave an interview saying they pray together before bed. Immediately, my mind goes to, Of course they do because they're living together. They're celebrities now. They’ve sold out.

Whoa. Somebody pump the brakes before I drive this car off the road.

Who do I think I am? Who am I to judge?

I don't even know Ben and Lauren. I might think I do because I've been watching them for two hours a week the past three months. But I don't. The only people who know this couple’s true hearts are they themselves—and God.

"Being a Christian, there's a judgment factor placed on you."

That's what Ben told People magazine this week. And he's right—we are so quick to judge, even when as Christians that's exactly what we're called not to do. Judging is one of our favorite pastimes. It's easy. Second-nature even. It makes me sad that we can be known for being judgmental when we serve a God who hung out with societal rejects. He didn’t just hang out with the lepers, the prostitutes, and the tax collectors. He loved them and treated them as equals.

It’s hard to remember that when we live in a world defined by hierarchy.

The Bachelor/The Bachelorette series is a manifestation of this. The process of highly manufactured romance might lead to lasting love and it might not, but ultimately the shows are based on competition and comparison.

In fact, at the time of the Bachelor reunion show (when all the rejected female contenders go on TV to talk about their experience), one woman from Ben’s season was offered the role of the next Bachelorette—only to have it revoked once fans freaked out about the decision and producers deemed another woman’s story more compelling for the Bachelorette. As if it’s not enough to be turned down by the guy you love, this poor girl had (seemingly) all of America turn on her, too. And I was totally a part of that.

The whole situation reminds me of something my friend Hilary, a successful business coach and stylist, posted about the show a few weeks back:

"Tonight's the first time I've ever watched the Bachelor reunion show with such empathy for women, all women. In this microcosm of 28 women there are so many who misunderstood one another because they're an introvert not an extrovert, have a different sense of humor. 

They all have stories of why they're right, until someone apologizes and they concede maybe it wasn't so outrageous after all… I felt I understood every 'villain' for how she acted out of her defensiveness and imperfection. 

So many of the women describe how they feel hard to love. These beautiful, successful, vibrant women who had the courage (or yes, insanity) to take this leap.

Entrepreneurship isn't ideal for every personality. Nor is going on a reality show. Maybe motherhood or city life doesn't light you up the way someone else does.

As strong as we are, we're also tender. I've become and am becoming far better at celebrating who I am. And hope I'm growing better at giving others permission to be who they are.

Be you. It's the only choice that will make you both successful, and happy."

Preach, girlfriend.

How different would life look if we had a little more empathy and a little less judgment? I shudder to think how I would be portrayed on a reality show. I’m sure I would make mistakes. Life works in the same way.

In his book Searching For God Knows What, Donald Miller recounts an incident from middle school when the popular girl was dared to give a geeky boy a kiss on the cheek. Well she goes for it—and “shrivels in disgust” when it’s done. Miller writes,

“Though it was only a dare and could not be confused with a sincere act of affection, she had broken the invisible social barrier. That evening I wondered if the kiss would make an impact on social partitions. A valuable person had crossed the line to kiss a person of no value.

Maybe they would realize we are all just humans, I thought.

Maybe they would realize the feelings of the hierarchy were not true, that we were somehow equal, a computer nerd and a football player, the same.”

We are all just humans. 

I don't know Ben's or Lauren’s stories, I don’t know the stories of the other contestants on the show, and I don’t know the stories of the people I encounter on the streets of New York City every day. They don’t know my story either. How would my storyline be masterfully edited by producers if I went on a reality television show? Lord knows I have made plenty of mistakes and will continue to make them for the rest of my life.

But that's where grace comes in. Oh, how we need it. My heart is so quick to rely on a first impression, my own perception. I make snap judgments every single day—about the homeless man on the subway, about the woman who bumps into me on the street, about the candidates in the presidential race, about the young and attractive Christian couple on America’s favorite dating show. Thank God I’m given grace in this. We all are given His grace, free of charge. What a gift.

I pray that when the world hears about Christianity, they don’t think of being judged or ranked. I pray that we would cherish the uniqueness of each other’s stories and experiences. In the words of Miller, “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

In the end, our hearts are not our own; they belong to God. He is the only one who gets to judge, and that’s a very good thing. I pray that whether we’re reading an entertainment magazine or we’re interacting with the homeless in our neighborhood, we extend a little more kindness and grace to one another. I know it will go a long way.

On Microwaves, Boardwalks, and the Best Kind of Subway Rides

I hopped on the train last Thursday, feeling excited and ready to take my slightly longer commute because it practically guaranteed me a seat and time to read before work. (All this excitement at 8 a.m. coming from the girl who has only drank a half a cup of coffee in the last two weeks. #whoami)

And grab a seat I did, right as another young woman sat down next to me. I pulled out my iPad Mini and selected the She Reads Truth app—she pulled out her Bible. Naturally, I was drawn to her. Not many people will pull out their physical Bible while riding a crowded subway in New York City. I can’t say I’ve ever done it before. This woman’s faith and heart for the Lord were immediately evident.

So I smiled and showed her that I, too, was reading the Bible. Her face lit up. She told me she was reading Philippians.

“I’m trying to make changes in my life right now, and I have some anxiety about that. Philippians is a great comfort.”

She’s right about that. I told her this year marks the first time I’m reading Scripture every day and going through a Bible in a year plan. That it’s made a difference in my daily life and brought me a greater sense of joy. I told her that I, too, feel moments of anxiety. I tried to be an encouragement to her and let her know I could totally relate but that God gives us a deeper sense of peace than anything else can. We exchanged names and numbers, and we’re now Facebook friends.

I went on with the rest of my day, not fully recognizing what a gift my commute was. The fact that we sat next to each other was no coincidence. That night, it hit me how much she had encouraged me—how much I needed to hear those words in Philippians.

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God,which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

I had been feeling anxious that very day about my upcoming weekend trip. I was going to visit a new city with new people, and I had no idea what to expect for the days ahead. It all felt very unknown. My anxiety stemmed from waiting for the weekend to start, waiting for what was to come, and waiting for how I’d feel upon returning to the Big Apple.  

I hate to wait.

So much worry and anxiety comes from waiting, from our impatience.

I came back to New York City on a total high from the weekend but also feeling weird about being here. It’s a busy and demanding place. Patience is not part of the New Yorker’s vocabulary. (To be fair, I don’t think it’s a part of many Americans’ vocabularies.) People push past me as I walk through the city streets. The contrast between my weekend and my Monday morning commute is a stark one. Everyone, myself included, has somewhere to be. We need to get there as quickly as possible.

What in the world are we rushing toward? Why do we hate to wait so darn much?

Even while I write this, I am overwhelmed with my schedule for the month to come. I’ll feel great once May 1 hits, but until then I am waiting. Waiting for a new apartment, waiting for how that will change my community, waiting to work on and complete some upcoming projects, waiting for more weekends of travel and spending time with friends and family.

There has to be a way to find peace within the waiting room. I don’t want to look ahead and expect May 1 to be the day when all my waiting and my anxiety will disappear. That’s not how life works, which is actually a very good thing.

Here’s the deal: We are all always waiting for something, whether it’s for a job or an apartment, for marriage or a baby. We will wait throughout our lives, ultimately waiting for the return of the kingdom or life beyond this one. Most of our life is waiting. Last year, I wrote about waiting—how waiting is an act of utmost faith. Waiting means choosing to say every single day, Jesus is better.

Our God is not a microwave God.

No, sir. Our God is a Crock-Pot kind of guy. His end result tastes and smells so much more delicious than anything we could quickly nuke in the microwave. Think about it. Wouldn’t you so much rather have the mouthwatering chili that’s been stewing in the slow cooker all day over the two-minute chili a la essence of tin can that came out of the microwave? I know I would.

The sermon I heard on Sunday was all about this Crock-Pot God. He is good and faithful. He fulfills His promises to us. But He works slowly—often much more slowly than we would like. Look at Abraham and Sarah. They wanted a child but remained childless through their old age. Yet God came through, and at the ripe old ages of 100 and 90 years old, Abraham and Sarah had a son. Seriously. They waited for a ridiculously long time, and they saw that they could not do anything without the Lord.

They’re the true definition of couple goals, am I right?

I’m back in NYC, still reflecting on that sermon and still reflecting on the woman I met on the subway. God 100 percent placed her in my life last Thursday. He used her to deliver His message and remind me that He is never far away. He was with me all weekend long, guiding me, protecting me, and allowing me to have fun. And then this week, as the anxiety hit hard, He reminded me the value of patience. His peace transcends all my little worries. I get to pray to Him, and He hears it. My subway buddy is evidence of that.

She kicked off a weekend full of rest and restoration. As I look back on the photos today, in the midst of anxiety, I had to pause on the one above. The boardwalk feels a little like my life right now. I don’t want to wait to find out what’s at the end of the boardwalk. I’m walking along, waiting for what’s next, and I really don’t know what’s to come. I want to just get there and be done with it. In life, we don’t know where our journeys will take us. But if we keep our eyes fixed on the path set before us, on the clouds above—on heaven—we’re sure to land in a spot that’s more beautiful and more satisfying than anything we could have ever hoped for. And that makes it all worth it.

Come Fly With Me

It’s Tuesday, and I’m sitting in the airport as I write. The guy across from me keeps looking over at me every time I pause in my writing. I promise I’m not writing about you, I try to communicate with my eyes. Well not really.

The past forty-eight hours have blended together. Me, sitting at the airport, hoping to get back to New York and back to the routine of life.

My flight was originally scheduled for Sunday and was delayed and delayed until eventually completely cancelled. I re-booked for a flight this morning, only to see it was cancelled when I woke up. That means I am waiting and sitting around a lot. I am doing what I can with my job. I was able to work remotely all day yesterday and that was helpful. My coworkers are wonderful. Most of all, I’m so glad I was able to spend the weekend away with my family. It was truly special, and I’m beyond grateful I could be there.

Except today I am tired, and I am bored. I feel restless after sitting in terminals and staring at suitcases.

Clearly my last two days were meant to look differently than I anticipated.

Flight delays and severe weather are a very tangible (and often occurring) reminder that I am not in control. I cannot calm the storms. I cannot clear the runways or streets. I cannot do anything to make this plane take off. All I can do is be.

I think God is saying, Hey, Mags, I got this. You just leave it to me.

He is the one navigating my journey.

I write this from the airport, unsure of exactly when I’ll get out of here. I snagged one of those cushy leather chairs with a cup-holder in the armrest, and I have ample leg room since I’m not sitting on the plane. So there’s that.

In my previous post, I wrote about bad habits of mine that I continue to go back to. Just a few days ago, I was explaining how one of my bad habits is planning. Yes, planning. I strategize. I schedule. I plot. I do what I want to do. I planned to fly into New York City on Sunday evening. I was going to pick up a few groceries, order takeout, do laundry, and go to work Monday morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I might have hit up a yoga class after work and then I’d be drinking wine and watching “The Bachelor” with girlfriends.

Obviously that did not happen. (Although my sweet golden retriever provided excellent company for Ben Higgins and me.)

I glance up at my flight information at the gate. I am delayed. Again. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s two cancellations and countless delays. My body is getting tense. I feel my shoulders creeping up, my jaw clenching. I am angry, frustrated, and stir crazy. I am ready to get out of Le Club de Airport and back to reality.

I breathe in. I breathe out. In. Out.

I am not in charge here. My to-do list is not getting tackled today. I am sitting in the airport alone, while the man with the salt-and-pepper hair and goatee next to me talks to someone named Brenda about Heath bars and how he’d like to go to Mexico right about now. You and me both, dude. You and me both.

But for now, we’re at the airport. Plans shattered, calendars completely moot.

Why does that bother me so much? Why do I cling to my calendar, my goals, my plans? Why does that unexpected almost always produced expected distress?

I think it comes down to security. I want security, comfort, and happiness. If my goals are accomplished, if my plans come to fruition, I am happy. Right? Isn’t that how it works? The life plan is engineered to secure happiness and fulfillment.

I stroll (as much as one can stroll while wearing a down jacket and carrying a duffel bag and overpacked purse) to the airport bookstore. The most prominent shelves are lined with books on success, power, happiness, fulfillment. The bestseller list is generally a pretty good indicator of what we humans as a whole are concerned with—ever notice that? I like the security and comfort that comes from taking matters into my own hands and making plans for myself. Judging by these hardcover bestselling tomes, I’d say I am not alone.

“'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord.”

I keep hearing that as I write.

“Plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

His Word rings true.

I’d rather boast about tomorrow than rest in that truth. I’ll tell you about my plans and my schedule—and then they can be completely erased in a mere moment. They don’t provide security. Not really. They feel safe, stable, comforting until a snowstorm blows them away—and I am reminded of the insignificance of my worldly plans.

In its own way, that’s comforting. More comforting is knowing there’s one thing constant and stable through it all.

I’ve written in my testimony how God’s hand of protection has been on me my whole life—through hospital visits, through broken relationships, through multiple moves and a layoff and a job change. His hand is on us during the big stuff. Why would it be any different for our ordinary day-to-day lives?

I can tell you that God cares about the minutiae of our lives. He really does. Even when your flight is cancelled and you're alone at the airport, He's there and He cares. I may not believe this all the time, but it's one of the things I am certain to be true.

No matter where you're at right now—in the airport, on the train, or sitting in your bed after a really long, really hard day—

God is right there with you.

This is know. 

I suddenly hear a muffled sound come over the loudspeaker at my gate. A young flight attendant’s soft voice grows loud and clear:

“Those flying to New York, please return to your gate. Your aircraft is here and will begin boarding shortly.”

Walking in the Light

When I started this blog last year, I decided to call it "Light and Grace." I wanted to distinguish my writing from the thousands of other blogs out there. I hoped that by creating this title, I would stick with those two words as a common thread throughout my writings.

You might notice that I’ve recently given the site a mini-makeover. I’ve dropped the title and instead called the website by simply my name. These are my musings on life and faith. I’m giving you a window into everything I’m experiencing, right here and right now.

I wanted my site to look softer and almost ethereal in a way. I want the images to evoke the deep-rooted joy I have in my life. While the header on my site no longer says “light,” I’d like the images and the content to still feel illuminating. I loved the old images on my site and when I initially created it, they were the right fit. They felt moody and a bit more serious. And last summer, that’s how I felt in my life—more serious, more somber, and less content. Today I don’t think those images fully capture who I am or how I feel about my life. I’m more hopeful and content now, and I’d like this blog to be a place where you can come for hope, encouragement, and truth.

“For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.”

— Ephesians 5:8

Because the truth is that the author of my story is far greater than I am, and He's writing a tale much better than I could ever try to plot out. There’s grace weaved throughout that narrative, in times of joy and peace but also during period of suffering and anxiety.

I believe this with my whole heart, and as I move forward I want my posts to continue to reflect the ideas of light and grace.

I try to live my life full of light and grace. But, last night, as I sat in an old, drafty, candle-lit church for Ash Wednesday, I started to ask,

How much am I really walking in the light?

I don’t say that to get down on myself, and I don’t say it because I expect perfection. I’m not asking this question because I think I need to be perfect in my walk, or because I think being a Christian means never making a mistake. None of those things are true.

I genuinely wonder how much my life, especially my past year since my baptism, has been spent walking in the light. I launched this blog, where I've talked about being a light to others. It’s something I strive to do—yet I know there are parts deep within me still embattled in darkness. There are those habitual things I do that I know are wrong, but I’m turning a blind eye to light and resting in the familiarity of darkness.

And truth be told, it doesn’t even feel that dark anymore. I’ve let the dark seep in through the tiniest of cracks, dimming the light every so slightly and happening so that I don’t really notice it all. I won’t notice it until the dark is overwhelming.

So I ask that question. How much am I—are we—walking in the light?

In many ways, 2015 was a hard year for me. It was refining and beautiful, a time of serious pruning. I experienced such good growth, even though some of it came through pain and hurt. I also started to be honest about my struggles. I talked openly with friends, with community, and even with readers on the Internet who I’ve never met. I built up this bubble around me of light and life-giving relationships.   

At the same time, there was a lot of mess brewing in my heart. The struggles with comparison, perfectionism, control, and pride were not just in the past but very much alive and well in the present.

I could say things like “the struggle is real” and embrace that culture of authenticity we New Yorkers love so much. Authentic living is the gold standard. (I’m looking at you, Socality Barbie.) Love your flaws! Embrace who you are! Do you.

In the midst of all the “doing you,” we can forget that there is such a thing as right and wrong. There is a law—one full of grace—that governs our lives. Yes, being who I was created to be is absolutely important. Uniqueness is a gift we each are given, and loving myself is so very valid. But I don’t want to just be who I am—I want to be like Jesus.

There’s no doubt in my mind that I was meant to hear a particular message on light and darkness in church last night:

“'The struggle is real' is not repentance,”

said my pastor. 

Well, shoot.

I’m all about admitting my struggles. I think part of me almost views them as a way to say, Yeah I’m not perfect. Look at all the ways I’ve screwed up, and look at ways I’m still a mess. But God loves me. I know this is 100 percent true. I struggle and God still calls me back to Him.

Except I forget about the part where He redeems and heals. Instead I take that struggle and set it on a shelf—a very high shelf that’s rather dark and dirty. The struggle just sits there, like an old library book collecting dust. It’s part of the collection and it’s in the system, but it’s never really checked out.

It’s time to check it out.

Acknowledging the struggle is great, but I think we’re called to do more than that. Lent is a reminder that we are made anew. We have hope—our God is one who heals and who brings us back to life. His mercies are new every morning. We get to experience true restoration. But we have to be willing to walk in the light.

I’ll be honest: I have been walking in the shadow.

I’ve been completely open about where I’m at, but I don’t know that I’ve really repented. I’ve let certain struggles become habits, and as habits they quite frankly don’t bother me that much anymore. They don’t seem like that big of a deal. It’s that feeling of complacency that scares me. I'll tell people, hey, I struggle but it’s part of who I am, and I know I’m still a good person. God still loves me.

God, I don’t want complacency.

I want the darkness to appall me. I want it to be so unappealing that I can’t help but to turn away. I’ve let the “struggle is real” become my fallback, and I’m sorry. I’m ready to make a change.

I’m praying that my eyes would be opened to darkness—that I would actively decide to step out of it. I believe real freedom, healing, and hope are available for us if we choose to embrace it.

This Lenten season (and beyond), I’m praying Psalm 139.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

 and the light become night around me,”

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

And I’m choosing to walk in the light.