The virtues of discomfort and how the world gets changed: a manifesto

If you want to change the world, you will never do it sitting down. Not there in that chair, all comfy and cozy. No, you don't care enough from that position. 

You will never be radical if you can’t embrace discomfort. 

You will be a safe, squishy slug no one is afraid of. You must hand over your World Changer title.

Comfort is you in control. 
It’s a place where you know what is best for you. 
Where you and I can be the gods of our own personal universes. 
See why it's so hard to give it up?

But being uncomfortable doesn’t mean you are unsafe, unprotected.

It usually means you are in search of truth, 
and the discomfort is the indicator you are closer. 

Discomfort is the ache we get when we grow, your guaranteed, without-a-doubt knowledge you are changing, evolving, becoming.

Your desire for comfort and feeling good could be the death of you. 
At least it wants to be the death of you. 

In fact, I would say discomfort is a good thing, and we can embrace it because we will always be safe. Really safe.

Safety is the place we live every day in the eyes and palm of a Father who loves us. 

[photo cred: www.armsaroundba.org]

Safety does not mean nothing bad ever happens. 

It does not mean our feelings never get hurt. 
Being safe does not mean we always get our way. 

But it means we are never alone. 

We can be in pain and uncomfortable and feel like we've never been here before 
and we never want to come back. 
But we can survive because we are with Someone.

We are not alone. 

Not alone is what makes danger okay. It's what makes discomfort bearable. 

And this is the truth of our existence. We just aren't ever alone. 
Father God put Jesus through the alone so we don't have to feel it ever again.

We no longer need to create our own safety; we are already there. 

So if you embrace discomfort, vulnerability and the pain of your own human existence, you will discover real truth, the gems and mysteries and hidden things of God and his creation.

And if you decide to give up your recliner and your right to the bubble wrap, 

you just might change the world.

“Happy am I to love a hungry life, 

and blessed am I to thirst. 

Disillusionment is a gift within; 

I am blessed among men.”

{Lyrics by Lovesick, by Misty Edwards}

The danger of safety

Word of warning: This post is about comfort. You may feel un-comfortable while reading.

Two weeks ago I wrote about living in between, about the unhappy space where I live, a place in which I have a dream, goal or destination floating somewhere in front of me, and yet I do nothing to move towards it.

This “ah-ha” led me to the conclusion my motivating values do not match my stated values, in that I am motivated by something other than what I claim to be.

For me, the values most true and evident in my life were fear, comfort and laziness. It was disheartening, to say the least, to realize these weak and powerless motives and desires were CEOs of my everyday existence. But ironically I’ve been too comfortable to change.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve been acutely aware of my love for comfort, and believe me, I am uncomfortable now. I think God is pressing the issue.

Last week I talked with a Soldier who grew up in an urban area in the South where violence was the norm, where gunfire and other life-ending measures settled disputes on a regular basis. He lost his first friend at age seven.

He told me it is unfair so many people in the world controlled their access to global unrest and poverty with the click of a remote. If they wanted to, they can simply shut off the TV and ignore the problems, he mused. “But some of us live there, and we can’t ignore it.”

I immediately saw in the mirror the many nights I’ve read news of atrocities committed on our soil and abroad. I signed a petition, retweeted an article, shouted a call to action. And then I turned off the light and went to bed. Outside my house no gunfire echoed through the streets, no screaming for help, no sirens.

But perhaps what is worse than my love of comfort is the safety I pack around me makes me safe. Creates in me a preference for the moderate, for 70 degree temperatures and sunshine, for the indoors, for well-manicured everything. My desires for comfort and safety weaken my ability to innovate and increase my whininess. They strip me of change agent status. 

They make me “un-dangerous”.

Most of us want to know we are not in danger as we walk around, that we are not about to get robbed or shot. I think this should be a right for all humans, although it certainly isn’t a reality for a majority of the world.

But what about all the other convenience features of our lives: dishwashers and warm showers, functional cars, indoor plumbing, a closet just for shoes, a cup of coffee every morning?

We claim we cannot live without these amenities, and we loudly bellyache if it is ever required. The inability to live without the extras, the things beyond food, water, shelter and air, seems to be more a sign of a maladaptive state of being than a badge of success.

photo credit: www.wyndsongwrites.com

In our middle and upper-class American bubble today, we are snugly unaware, insulated, bubble wrapped from a hurting world that knows the feeling of a dirt floor in their bedroom, and wonders if they will have enough food to eat tomorrow.

The sound of war and pestilence are foreign to us. We simply shut off the television. We can close our laptops, safe from the dangers of the world. 

But the safety comes with a price. Now that we are safe from the world, the world is now safe from us. We are no longer dangerous.

Think about it. What life-changing invention ever came from a man on a couch who said, "Ah, this is great. I have everything I need. I am perfectly comfortable"? 

Looking back at great innovation, we don't see a trail of people without problems at the helm. We clearly see lack, a sense of something missing, as a creation motivation. Pain and hardship are excellent inventors themselves.   

So I’m here writing this, painfully aware of my comfort, and suddenly, very uncomfortable. 

I want to be dangerous again, but I'll admit I'm still terrified of what it will cost. Because I know that on a good day, it will cost my comfort. I will have to hand over my complacency. But it could cost me more.

Is being dangerous, being effective, being an envelope-pusher, a creator, an idea-generator, a problem-solver worth it? These people stand out on the edge near the issues. And the issues are inherently uncomfortable. They feel like world hunger and look like war orphans and widows. 

There's no room for complacency here. There is only work to be done, and room for people who will do it. 

Something to think about: 

What are you compromising so you can be comfortable? 

What ideas and innovation have you missed because you have to start our day with coffee and the news? 

What parts of God do we overlook because it takes discomfort to see it?

{The topics of discomfort, waiting and the ability to change the world are eating me up this week. At least one more post is coming on this topic. Perhaps more. I am uncomfortable now. Thanks, God.}

What the Waiting Is For

I was thinking about my daughter the other day. 

I don't know her yet. She hasn't been born. But for Christmas, I bought her a pink polka-dotted tutu from JCPenney. It seemed appropriate. I practically lived in mine the year I was 6. 

There's also an antique pink rose headband waiting for her, along with a plush, white crochet coat hanging in her closet. And she hasn't even been conceived. I'm expecting her though.

As I gave John a bath the other night, I remembered that not very long ago, he too was just a dream. Three years ago in December 2009, I wrote about waiting for something I really wanted, and the wrestling with God that inevitably followed when I took a risk and hoped for something. 

Is God good while we wait? 

What is the waiting for? 

Why does waiting feel so empty?

Why is hoping so risky?

Photo cred: http://viraeya24.tumblr.com/

These are the questions we ask when we want something and are forced to wait, and I've realized, we often give up without really asking. The longing hurts too much. What if God doesn't come through? What does that say about God? What does that say about me?

I hate to say it, but that's what I did this time. With John, I didn't know if I could get pregnant or not. I never had before. I prayed and lamented and cried and begged. I wanted a child, and I only knew one person who could get one for me: God. 

This time, I've been more hands-off. I've disguised it as a laid-back approach to conceiving, but it's really lack of faith turned apathy. I've been afraid to hope. 

I wrote about it in the dream blog. I tell my friends about it. I even buy her clothes. But I don't talk with God about it. I don't plead anymore. Too much to lose. I remember it hurt, the sting of wanting something I was helpless to get for myself, only to wait and delay again. I would rather just pretend I don't want it. Maybe she will surprise me. 

So what do I really want? And what am I willing to do to get it? 

My friends and I are reading through Donald Miller's Storyline book, and these are the ultimate questions of our lives: 
Who am I? 
What do I want? 
And what am I willing to do to get it?

The Civil Wars were playing in the background while John splashed in the tub, and the album arrived at To Whom It May Concern. I wasn't paying too much attention to the words until this song. I pulled John out of the tub and wrapped him in his towel, and hugging him close, I listened. 

Maybe it's not just me waiting. Maybe she is waiting for me. 

Maybe this is how God makes our hearts and lives ready for the things we want. He makes us want them desperately. And the desperation, the longing, is what forges in us the humility and character and beauty to care for the gift.

Beautifully, hauntingly, the Civil Wars sang, reminding me a dream is just as real as the thing itself. I was holding living proof there in my hands, soaking wet and squirming.

"Why are you so far from me?

In my arms is where you are to be

How long will you make me wait?

I don't know how much more I can take

I missed you but I haven't met you..."

So I swung him around in his fluffy brown towel, and we danced across the hardwood as I kissed the tiny face of the boy who used to be a dream. 

What's a thing or person in your life you have now that only used to be a dream? 

For most of us, it's relationships: a partner, a child, or even simply a sense of belonging or knowing one's life purpose. What do you have now that was only a daydream not long ago? 

It's encouraging to see that dreams do take shape and come to dwell among us. I need to remember this pattern so I can gather up my courage to dream some more.