COURAGE | A SHADE DEEPER

I dislike shallow things. 

Which might be why my first post isn’t a “Hi, welcome to my blog!” sort of deal. You never really get to know a person from an introduction anyways. You get to know a person -- really understand and be able to predict them -- after you’ve talked to them, watched them, been around them in groups, seen how they handle things, and gone through something rough together; after you’ve laughed really hard together, most likely over something that nobody else would get, that somehow randomly inserts its memory into multiple conversations afterward that earn you at least a few weird looks. For me, those generally come from escapades in the kitchen that went hilariously awry, very quotable stupid remarks, or have something to do with getting lost. Which happens a lot, in case you wanted to know. 

In any case. Back to shallow things. 

{by studiowonder, found via pinterest}

Sadly, we live in a culture of shallowness. People ask, “How are you?” but don’t really want to know. People rarely have reasons for what they say they believe. And even fewer people align their actions with those beliefs. 

I have acted, believed, and protected my own share of shallow living. It’s easy to live shallow. Often, it’s safer. You don’t rock the boat, you don’t threaten, your thoughts don’t wander to the dangerous realms of “what if...” 

But you live half dead too. 

How many people get asked, “How are you?” and wish they had someone they could really give an answer too? Or have a dream they won’t follow because they’ve gotten the hint that it’s “silly”? Or are more content with not knowing, than knowing and having to be responsible for their actions with that knowledge? 

What if we all were just brave enough to be a shade deeper than the rest? 

{via pinterest}

Courage, dear heart.

That has been my favorite line in all the world for as long as I can remember. My parents read the Narnia series to us when my siblings and I were little. C.S. Lewis has since then become my hero, and I adore all of his books.

But to me, Aslan’s whisper of those words to a frightened young Lucy--those three words that came like a soft crack of light, the tiniest breath of strength in the darkest journey--those words encompassed everything I wanted to be. How I wanted to live.

I want to live with courage. I want to challenge others graciously. I want to care for others selflessly. I want to listen without an agenda. I want to speak with love and gentleness. I want to give recklessly without counting on a return. I want to trust God relentlessly. I want to stand for something bigger than myself. 

And that, I believe, takes more courage than most of humanity believes. 

A woman with a beautiful soul once remarked to me that we underestimate the courage it takes to live an everyday life. That we dismiss the fact that we all know the pain of being human.

I don’t want to do that anymore. Living is a deep thing, and often, I feel like we are collectively taught to belittle how deep each and every one of us is. We avoid the depths in each other because we don’t know what’s there, and we’re not sure if we can handle what we’ll find. The fist-knot in our chest that says, “Let’s not go there...” Don’t tell me what I don’t want to know.

But I think deep down, we all desperately want to know. 

Want to know that someone else has the same hurt, doubt, worry, dream, quirk, delight, sorrow, preference, or love that we do. 

We are relational. It’s how God made us. 

And what amazes me is the fact that honestly, if we knew everything there was to know about a person, I doubt there would be a person on the face of the planet that we could not love in some way. 

God does. 

He knows everything about everyone, and he delights in them. He loves and cherishes EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. And he died once, and he fights daily, for them. 

And if we had the courage, dear heart, could we not live recklessly deep, knowing that our God is with us?