No, I'm Not Afraid of the Dark

9125 days. That’s how long I’ve been alive. 

It's 7:30 AM on a Wednesday morning and I'm curled up under a down comforter… I realize it’s my birthday, then wonder why the hell it’s so cold in the middle of March. 

My tabby, Caspian purrs softly beside me as the dusty fan whispers quietly overhead. 

From beyond the cardboard walls of my downtown apartment, I hear distant sirens echo against high rises like tenors inside a stone-walled cathedral. 

I’m groggy and hit snooze, rolling back onto my side. Within moments, the borders of my consciousness flutter away and, as often happens on birthdays, my mind recedes back into the past.

I’m gliding across a clear glass lake in Alaska April, our inflatable Zodiac boat drifting toward the remote, rocky shore. From nowhere, a Grizzly bear club leaps from the water and across the bow, a shiny silver salmon clasped within her teeth. I blink, and before I know it I’m 7,000 miles away. 

I find myself in the center of a narrow street in the dead of night, a sinister, sniper-topped wall to my back. A boy, not much younger than me describes his life on the wrong bank of Jerusalem, trapped in a prison without a roof. 

Tears sting my cheeks like nettles.

I fast forward, my mind blending memories like a river meeting the sea… 

Suddenly, I’m hiking 100 miles in the Rockies, stumbling over my feet as I learn to use my gangling legs and pubescent body. 

I trip on the rocky soil and I’m falling - but I’m not in New Mexico anymore, my legs are above my head and I’m bungee-jumping off a bridge. Screaming, petrified, falling across the Zambia / Zimbabwe border - the rushing Zambezi River below and crashing Victoria Falls behind. 

I hear the memory of my own profanities as I close my eyes tight, but when I open them I’m at peace, watching a rainbow of hot air balloons rise across a Turkish plateau from a sleeping bag inside an ancient cave.

Like the Soviet train that took me across Eastern Europe, my thoughts pick up steam, memories flying off the dusty shelves of an ethereal library in my mind… 

Falling asleep in a hammock on the side of a Nicaraguan volcano, struggling to breathe in an unpressurized Vietnam-era turboprop landing in a Sudanese desert, fishing a black mamba out of a latrine in Kenya, reef diving in Maui before four-wheeling across Kaui....

I feel the heavy rain assault my face, the roof of my Arctic fishing hut torn off in the throes of a Norwegian storm. 

The lyrics to “Wildest Dreams” play in the background as the storm dries up and I’m curled up on the floor of Taylor Swift’s home listening to her play an unreleased album. 

Forty countries. Five continents. Four businesses. One lifetime of adventure woven into less than three decades. 

Caspian paws at my face, clawing me from my thoughts, scowling in admonishment over her empty dish.

I roll out of bed to fill her ceramic bowl before padding to the bathroom. After brushing my teeth, I crack my black journal and flip back through the pages. 

The tattered Moleskine in my hands contrasts the narrative of grand adventure, my inky black handwriting paralleling the inky black places I once found myself. 

In spite of my achievements and laudable successes… for years when I tried to find dreams at night, I found myself instead swallowed up in nightmares; afraid if my demons left me, the angels would too. 

Silently, for many of my years, I struggled with self-doubt, depression, and anxiety. I’d spent so much of my life traveling the world, telling other people’s stories… but struggling in silence to believe in my own. 

In the last twelve months though, I’ve started sharing more-and-more of myself - slowly at first, and then all at once. Before I knew it, those monsters inside me turned out to be nothing more than trees. 

And so, as I reflect on the first quarter of my life - I remember my extraordinary adventures, but mostly I think about my shadowy canyons… and all they’ve taught me about the light. 

When I think of luminescence, I think about all of you: friends and family, counselors and coaches, mentors and advisors…  and the fleeting glimpses of eternity revealed to me in the courage, forgiveness, hope, and laughter you’ve offered so freely. 

I can say, for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of the dark anymore… because I’ve found, when you sit it long enough, your eyes adjust and you start to see all the people sitting around you, and realize they’ve been there all along. 

I can't tell you how grateful I am to know and be known by you. 

Courage dear heart, 

-JM

Psalm to Myself

My angry stomach rumbles as I snooze my way out of the cheap cotton sheets lining my tiny hostel bed. I stumble to the dirty shower; my Chardonnay mind pounding heavily as it resists the early start to the day. 

Dodging bikes and fighting cold, I find my way to the heart of Amsterdam to explore the Museumplatz - home of the remnants of Van Gogh, Warhol, Banksy, Rembrandt & others, scattered like ashes amongst numerous museums around a spacious courtyard. 

I wrote the following in the Rijksmuseum, the largest museum in the Netherlands and one of the largest in the world. I frankly didn’t plan to spend all day there - Amsterdam is full of galleries to explore. I certainly hadn’t anticipated finding a work so profound I couldn’t leave it. I fall to my knees and take an awkward stance, getting lost in the 15th Century ink, the brushstrokes and vivid colors. 

"Break of the Dike" Jan Asseljin 1510

I'm only there a moment before a single tear rolls down my rosy cheek as I connect the dots five hundred years later. The billowing cloak of the man at the left shows that the storm is not yet over, however the squalls are already moving on at the right. The vivid red contrasts sharply with the bright blue of the parting clouds. 

I retrieve my Moleskine from my bag & pick up my fountain pen… this image, this painting, makes me think of Psalms. I’ve always been amazed by David - at his uncanny ability to express joy and anguish simultaneously. To describe in gruesome detail the painful situation he finds himself, yet proclaim the truth of who God is within the final lines. 

This is my story. This is my Psalm. 

______________________________

whimsy, hope, and kingdom

are what i hope to find -

yet why is all this darkness,

buried deep inside? 

i long to feel.

i long to heal.

free me from this place -

of sin, and woe, and angst.

free me from this melancholy,

free me from this brink.

am i going mental? 

have i lost my mind? 

where along the way,

did i find myself trapped inside?

the prison of this space -

the space behind my eyes -

an Alcatraz of my design;

an island, in my mind.

yet even in this place,

somewhere far at sea-

there is light in the distance;

illuminating You to me. 

i board the boat You designed,

to sail this stormy sea.

the winds are rough,

the sea is tough,

yet here You are with me. 

I feel the wind upon my face;

the sea salt stings my eyes.

i inhale all Your breath -

and move from life to death.

not death of You, but death of me;

for I am not my own.

Your breath brings life as my dark soul dies;

my black shirt changed to white.

Your breath has made me brave.

Your son has brought me life. 

the storm still rages 'round me -

my cloak billows in the wind.

rain may sting my face like pebbles,

but You've made me brave again. 

______________________________

I’m not sure I believe the end. I’m not sure David would either. Yet, he wrote his anyway. I can’t help but think that’s important. 

Choose courage. Choose hope. Choose truth. And, if nothing else, remember sometimes the wind we feel is nothing more than a storm’s final breaths.

Courage dear heart, 

-JM

Ritz Crackers, Franzia & Communion

It’s 6:15 P.M. on a Sunday evening and I’m in the last place I’d like to be. The once-familiar fabric chair feels foreign against my thighs as the distant melody of a hymn I’ve known my whole life resounds alien against my eardrums. 

My mouth knows the words but my heart no longer seems to know what they mean. After the service ends, as I finish my now cold coffee, I am approached by someone I haven’t seen in a long time. 

They ask me the oft asked question in Christian circles- “what do you feel Christ teaching you in this season of your life?” 

I pause; now wishing I hadn’t finished my coffee so I could buy myself a few extra seconds with a long swig from the cup. 

No verse sticks out in my mind; I have no profound insight from the Divine to share. 

An awkward silence fills the air before I share the encapsulation of my faith the last year. “I think” I stutter, “I think I’m learning sometimes the bravest thing one can do is be courageous enough to stay.” 

As much as I would like to be Paul - this strong man who had a singular radical experience with the luminous Nazarene and never once looked back - I find myself resonating more deeply with the character of Peter. 

I don’t have a life verse - and I feel like the embodiment of Christian cliche to use Biblical metaphor in a blog post - yet I hope you’ll indulge me for a moment. 

There’s a passage in John where the Christ is seated amongst His disciples and He says in order to make themselves like Him, they must eat of His flesh and drink of His blood. If you’ll bear with my brief hermeneutic - contextually, in Jewish culture, this would have been offensive. Not only because of the implied cannibalism, but to eat the flesh and drink the blood of an animal was to make oneself like God. This was, in fact, why the Jews ritualistically offered animals to God Himself - for only He was fit to consume it. 

Today, this context makes the passage all the more beautiful because the crux of the Gospel is we become “like” God through the death, resurrection and ascension of Christ. 

Yet, at the time, these words were baffling - offensive even - to the crowded table for they knew not the full depth, breadth and intention of Christ’s coming to Earth. 

This is my layman speculation - somewhere between John 6:67 and 6:68 I envision Peter standing up from the table where he had just broken bread with the Divine. In my mind’s eye I seem him rise and place a calloused right hand on the doorknob of the dusty room where they dined. 

A large part of him - perhaps even most of him - wanted to write off his time with this carpenter from Bethlehem as a misguided adventure. 

Yet - something in him - perhaps Spirit, power or breath of God - compelled him to stay. It wasn’t because he wanted to stay - in fact, everything inside him wished to leave. And yet, anyway he stayed. Not because he understood, but because he knew this man in sandals had “the words of eternal life.” 

What I love most about that story - and what I cling to in this season - is that, through this miraculous, mysterious, cosmic grace - simply staying is enough. 

And so I’m learning to show up. Not because I feel like it, or I want to… in spite of the fact the wooden cross behind the pulpit that once defined so much of my existence now appears to be nothing more than Home Depot 2 x 4’s nailed together and bolted to a wall… in a season where communion feels like nothing more than a Ritz cracker swimming in cheap boxed wine. 

East London; November 2016; Sony A6000 35 MM Prime 

If life is a camera, wipe the residue of judgment from the lens of your life and stop judging yourself for feeling less than outstanding or adrift from your own Divinity. 

I’ve heard it said that sometimes getting off track is essential to our growth. Maybe getting off track means you’ve already left the room. That’s fine too. Peter left the room at least three times. 

Even if you believe Scripture is nothing more than metaphor or poetic writing from history, I think there is a profound lesson to be found in the life of Peter the Disciple. Peter - in his doubt, his insecurity, his inability to see the future - represents humanity; he represents me, and I think, regardless of your faith background, he represents you. 

I guess, what I’m trying to stay, is it’s brave to stay. It’s courageous; especially when you don’t understand and aren’t sure if - or what - you believe. It’s strong to lean into things you don’t fully understand and sit in your longing instead of attempting to fill it up. 

In seasons where it seems like it’s taking too long for what you want, for what you believe, to arrive; better to lean into the ache than abandon the desire. 

As I begin 2017, I’m making the conscious choice to stay, to keep going, to keep believing, to keep fighting and hoping… even on the days when I don’t believe; on the days when my hand is on the doorknob and it feels easier to leave the room. 

This is pure speculation, but I think Peter stayed in part because the other 11 sitting around the table stayed seated. There was a silent accountability - an invitation to come back to the table - which is why, I’d like to invite you to mine. We need one another to remind us who we are, at least, that's what I think. 

Courage dear heart, 

-JohnMark

When you don't feel like "enough"

The wooden plats creak as they slowly rotate over head; the old ceiling fan ignorant to the dust it’s breath stirs about the largely unfurnished room.

It’s 2 P.M. on a Tuesday and I’m laying in bed…. or more accurately, a freshly unboxed mattress on the hard oak floors of a thin-walled, mid-century apartment.

I curse under my breath as I slip out from beneath the single luxury item I’d allowed myself- Egyptian cotton sheets — and think, “how did I get here?”

My eyes glance over at the pile of management and leadership books in piled high in the corner of my room — Jim Collins, Malcom Gladwell, John Maxwell… paper men on paper pages sitting silently.

My phone- with its hundreds of unread text messages, thousands of emails, dozens of voicemails & too many apps vibrates loudly against the scratched wood floors.

Staring up, I wonder when the verbs in my life decided to switch tenses… at what point did:

“I love” become “I loved” or

“I believe” became “I believed” or, finally -

when did “I have a dream” become “I had a dream” ?

I didn’t understand, I’d tried everything. I’d read dozens of books and even more articles. I had subscriptions to “Time”, “Entrepreneur”, “Inc”, and “The Atlantic” — I’ve downloaded hundreds of iPhone applications and podcasts, joined yoga, Crossfit & pilates, tried (legally prescribed) prescription drugs and various coffee blends — GNC supplements and kitschy Pinterest quotes.

I lay still, racking my brain in a futile attempt to think of anything else I could have tried.

I’d done everything I could to turn life into a system in which I controlled every aspect and outcome. I took creativity and turned it into a game to be won and in the process, started to believe human emotion is a linear journey… instead of a complexity of undefinable nature.

Instead of being present — showing up each day in the moment and understanding I am enough — I insisted upon filling life with productivity tools and enough lists to fill a hundred legal pads.

What I failed to understand in those moments, is while I surrender myself to myriad productivity tools and templates… I never surrender to time. We may cognitively understand we can’t manipulate everything, but we certainly don’t live that way. Time is the one thing to which we always forget to surrender.

I’ve heard it said, “things are dark until they’re not” and I believe that sentiment is true. We put our ideas into actions when the timing is right.

Even though I wish Anthony Hopkins could narrate my life, I don’t exist in “Westworld” — I’m no strangely attractive robot. As frustrating as it may be, I can’t summon motivation, inspiration or creativity when they’re simply not there. Sometimes, I’m going through something, life happens, grief happens and sometimes… I have to take the long way. I don’t get to manipulate and control every aspect of my human experience.

I can wake up at 6 A.M. every morning until I’m broken and numb, but if the ideas, inspiration, or creativity don’t want to come to fruition, then they won’t.

It’s true, self-responsibility is indubitably empowering; a concept I won’t dispute. There is absolutely a degree to which we can position ourselves into postures of growth and cultivate healthy habits. However, the broader concept of self-responsibility can lead us to a resentment, bitterness and apathy nobody deserves to hold inside.

Personally, I’ve always dreamed of writing a novel… but maybe it’s not written because I haven’t met my leading man.

Perhaps I’m not falling in love because whatever I need to uncover about myself can only be unearthed in solitude and silence.

Maybe the reason darkness has encircled so much of my story is because one day, my painful experiences will become the opus upon which I build my life and enkindle the hearts of others.

All of that to say; I found myself under the sheets on a sunny summer afternoon not because I needed more inspiration, but because I needed less shame around the idea I wasn’t doing my best. After all, most of our self-loathing and self-hatred is rooted in the idea that we get to control the human experience; that we should be able to change our circumstances. Simply put, we’re depressed because we believe we aren’t doing enough.

Instead of listening to people with completely different life circumstances tell you you’re not doing enough, surround yourself with people willing to meet you where you’re at… people who see whom you’re becoming. In lieu of seeing closed doors and brick walls, start seeing lessons. Begin to understand what you’re experiencing right now will become inspiration later.

Your “hidden season” isn’t unimportant… it’s just unseen. And, I think, it’s the dark places and empty spaces that ultimately shape us. What we do here matters. These winter seasons and lonely nights should be celebrated, not wasted.

So give yourself a break. Stop beating yourself into oblivion long enough to understand there’s a cosmos beyond us at work in ways we cannot begin to fathom. And it’s something you can’t game or control.

Begin to walk in the freedom to feel what you feel and to be where you are and to know, deep down, that it’s enough.