I heard the song “Heroes” by Ben Rector in the car today. In it, he describes and rhymes an all too familiar feeling. The feeling of learning about the real world, discovering that heartbreak isn’t just about romance, and that feeling of having to set aside those who were once our childhood heroes…in exchange for the reality that super powers aren’t real, fairytales are just tales, and that people are in fact…just people. Essentially he describes the sobering act of growing up.

In one particular lyric he sings:

I miss my Bible study leader

Had all the answers for livin’ in the big bad world

Don’t know if he still talks to Jesus

But his wife’s remarried now, and I think he sells garage doors

Heroes, Ben Rector

I was reminded of all of the foundational Christian leaders I had growing up—how seeing them live out their faith as a grown-up really showed me that I could do the same. I get where Ben Rector is coming from though…I understand missing the days when weekly small groups turned into sleepover giggle fests which turned into late-night talks about real life issues around a fire or in cabin at summer camp.

It’s the last two lines that stuck out to me most though. I’ve known plenty of youth leaders and youth ministers I’ve lost touch with. Others, I vaguely know what they’re up to via social media—some still serving in the church and some “selling garage doors.” It’s a profound thing…to think of an old Bible study leader and wonder if they are still “walking  the walk” and talking to Jesus on a regular basis. To wonder, regardless of their current profession, if that person you watched wrestle with faith and who taught you so much about it…to wonder if they’re still wrestling.

To those leaders that have done the work of…and continue to pour into whoever your next generation is…you will be remembered. You may not always know it, and you certainly may not always feel like it, but you will be remembered. 

My encouragement to you is this: Be the type of leader—the type of human—that the student who ultimately will remember you, can still reach out to! Maybe it’s the youth leader in me, but when that song ended and nostalgia and wistfulness settled in my heart, my biggest hope was that Ben Rector feels like he can message that Bible study leader, just to check-in, simply because he came to mind. So I guess that’s my hope for all of us who get the privilege to sit with young people for a season of their life.  Because yeah, maybe we all have to grow up eventually, and maybe fairytales are just tales and people are just people. But youth leaders? The crazies who love, mentor, and point kiddos to Jesus?  Those heroes? They’re real and they can last.

Your black friends are tired. Move on their behalf. Make space for their voices. They are tired of yelling to be heard. Make room to listen.

Listen to the stories of being in the backseat of Pop’s car in 2018 and hearing about how one day, walking down the road, Grandma Peaches was verbally assaulted by a white man because he simply didn’t like that she was walking down the street while he was driving by.

Listen to how they used to work the fields with M’dear as sharecroppers—knowing full well that share cropping was the white man’s acquiescence to the abolition of slavery.

Listen to a dark-skinned mother tell her first-born that there was a time she didn’t think her light-skinned friend would like her; because racism is so engrained in our society that it seeped into the psyche of the melanin-rich skin tones, and pitted light against dark within the history of the oppressed.

Listen to the stories of the father who was once a, “high yella,” kid who had to remember not to ride his bike on the other side of the viaduct for fear of rocks being thrown.

Listen to the stories of the brother who just wanted to be able to drive without a fleet of police officers searching his car for what we all know wasn’t there.

Listen to the stories of the brother who always loved the stage and simply wanted elf ears that matched his skin-tone so he could play his part authentically, and not look absurd.

Listen to the woman who holds two degrees, is the head of two departments and isn’t just, “the little colored girl who sings.”

Your black friends are tired. Move on their behalf. There are allies and advocates and there are partners in moving forward, but trauma is exhausting, and it seeps into the very make up of who a person is.

The years are long, and hope can often seem fleeting because the battle for equality continues and this messy war wages on…and your black friends are tired.

But through the exhaustion we continue to battle for these inalienable rights; we raise our voices, we speak, and we learn. We raise our arms and we lead—and we will not stop, but when the burden gets heavy and when the fight gets long, be the Aaron and Hur on either side holding up our arms, because your black friends are tired.

Your black friends have stories. Be a part of the narrative. Don’t ignore the battle they are waging. Come close, bring a stool, get side-by-side and hold up their arms.

“When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset.” Exodus 17:12 (NIV)

Fun fact: my mother was a music therapy major in school, but the profession of working solely with special needs students was too much for her, so she became a music teacher instead.

I think working with a majority of special needs children overwhelmed her because her heart was so big she wanted healing for anyone that struggled.

She always told me that music was special. There was something about it.

Music was what she used to teach me not to be afraid of the dark…music was what she used to teach me scripture…that taught me not to be afraid.

Over and over, lesson by lesson, note by note.

I believe there is therapy in the repetition in music. Much like physical therapy for an injury or counseling for mental health…there is healing in the repetition. It’s an exercise, an opportunity to work out whatever it is that needs to be worked out.

When a song repeats, it’s a reminder of the message that’s being conveyed. It’s a chance to internalize what’s being communicated. The therapy comes through the working out of the message.

At my home church the Sunday after mommy passed, we sang, “Death was Arrested.” I had never heard it before but I believe that song was God’s gift to me because He knew I had stuff to work out. Through that song, He gave me the gift of repetition because every. single. time. I visited my home church, that song was in the worship set. Every time. There’s therapy in the repetition in music.

Through that repetition God showed me that when we are absent from the body we will be present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5:8) …and so because of Christ, when my mother’s life here on earth was arrested—stopped—ended—her life truly began. I learned that through the therapy that’s in the repetition in music.

Sometimes, it’s not just repeating the song, it’s repeating the words within a song. From the first word to the last, there’s an exercise. We have an opportunity to take the words to heart and apply them.

I used to be so offended when my friends would complain that gospel music was, “too repetitive.” Gospel music comes from an African American heritage and the repetition was a part of the richness of that history. Slaves would sing songs working out in the fields, songs of freedom and fortitude that would encourage them to live one more day despite the present circumstances. And it was through the repetition of the words, the verses, the songs, that they committed God’s Word to memory, sent messages to each other about escape routes, and found the will to live.

In Exodus, when the Israelites were escaping years of slavery by the hands of the Egyptians, they found themselves up against the Red Sea with Pharaoh and his army hot on their heels. With seemingly no way out, the Israelites cried out to God in fear and Moses said to them, “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still (Exodus 14:14).” They were completely surrounded by impossible circumstances, and they were told to just be still and let God fight for them.

That’s the message God’s been teaching me in my music therapy. There’s a song called, “Surrounded (Fight my Battles),” and it repeats the same words over and over…through that, I have learned that in the times when the circumstances around me see insurmountable and I am completely incapable, the Lord will fight for me—I need only to be still. My fight is the battle to be still, to stop trying to fix things, save myself, spin my wheels, and find a way out. My fight is the battle to be still and trust that the Lord will indeed fight for me.

There is therapy in the repetition in music.

There is a child who wakes up in the morning, bleary-eyed from a good night’s rest. He sits up in bed and scratches his forearm where the sleeve of his too small pajama shirt left a slight indentation on his skin. He pops out of bed knowing that he’s usually the first of his siblings to wake up, and if he’s fast enough, he’ll get first pick of the cereal options. After a quick pit stop in the bathroom he, sprints down the hallway and then down the stairs. The TV is muted, flashing images of recent news reports. Mom sits at the table and greets him with the usual, “Good morning bud,” as he reaches for the chocolaty goodness he’s been thinking about all morning…all seven minutes of it.

“Hey babe…” he stops, knowing from her tone that all was not right in his little world. “Yes, mom?” he squeaked.

“So I’m looking at your planner here, and according to a note left by your teacher, you seem to have missed turning in a homework assignment.”

“Uhhhh…”

“Now remember when you were playing video games with your brother and I asked you last night if there was any homework you needed to do…you told me there wasn’t.”

“Ok, but mom listen,” he said as he finally turned his attention from the box of cereal that now called to him.

“No, no. It’s time for you to listen. As a matter of fact, come sit down. I’ve fixed you some buttered toast for breakfast.”

“I hate toast!”

“I know…but you know what I hate? I hate when my children lie to me and fail to do the things they are supposed to do, so you can come have a seat next to me and eat while we discuss the consequences your father and I have arranged for you…”

His shoulders drooped and he slumped toward his mother and sat heavily in the seat next to her. His stomach rumbled loudly as he picked up the toast that wouldn’t taste nearly as good as the bowl of chocolate he’d been dreaming of. His mom raised her eyebrows at the sound of his hunger rolling around his belly. “Traitor,” he thought to himself as he sighed and took a bite.

Another child, wakes up in the morning. Stiff from the cold that seems to live in his bones. He hoped that the others that usually congregated in the vicinity would start a fire that evening. His stomach rumbled within him, as it had done last night. He eyed the satchel that lay in the corner of the alleyway across from him. He knew the woman who owned the satchel probably had something edible in there.

He’d left home a few years ago. Escaping the overbearing and judgmental environment of his family home. Here, only God was his judge and he lived according to his own compass. He’d picked a couple pockets yesterday and gotten enough to have some McDonalds. But if he could find something in that satchel, he wouldn’t have to work as hard today…

In Romans 8:20-21 we read: For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that[h] the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.

Many people view choosing to follow Jesus as subscribing to a long list of rules and regulations, or signing up to be judged as not good enough for all eternity. In truth, following Christ is subscribing to following two rules: Loving your neighbor as yourself and Loving God with all your heart mind and strength. It’s signing up to be liberated from judgement for your actions and instead being judged based on the actions of Christ who died for all mankind. It’s signing up to live in the freedom and glory of the children of God.

When you think of children who grow up in the confines of a loving family that guides, directs and corrects a child in order to give a child the best possible version of life…versus a child who grows up in an environment based on changing whims of society…which child lives in true freedom? Boundaries and rules are not put in place to enslave us, but to free us from the consequences of living outside of them. May we not see the boundaries our Father has given us as prison bars, but a doorway to living a life free of the baggage of consequences. May we rest in the confidence that we are children in the confines of a loving family that guides, directs, and corrects us because of the great love our Father has for us.

The act of loving someone is, in essence, giving them access to the most easily wounded and slowest healing parts of you.

The scariest part is knowing someone can hurt you, but hoping that they choose not to. Ultimately, you’ve no control over their actions.

Guarding your heart from people is nearly impossible and requires…being less…so as not to get hurt. Less open, less vulnerable. Less hurt.

But Jesus didn’t lead with less, He led with love. A love so big and so vulnerable it forced Him to face ultimate rejection.

So I think guarding your heart is more about being clearheaded and knowing that hurt is possible, but being resilient instead of closed off.

A heart that can withstand pain and yet continue to love regardless. That is the heart of Christ. So should our hearts be.

A well guarded heart is not a closed heart, but one that is aware of the dangers of loving others, readies itself, and loves big anyway.

A woman, standing in her home in the dark, dressed in a nightgown. A man enters her home in the dark of night and raises a revolver to her chest. He shoots. The cylinder releases six bullets and each sinks into her torso. Her body hits the floor and warmth leaves her body like the blood that pools beneath her. Each wound is a hole that shatters the image of what was once whole. Now it’s true. She is broken. She isn’t enough; and the darkness that’s creeping and taking over is validation. Right before she is overcome and air leaves her lungs for the last time, she thinks she imagines the smallest light. She hasn’t the strength enough to open her eyes or attempt to move. She hasn’t enough fight left in her; she wasn’t enough to begin with. Hasn’t enough. Isn’t enough. Never enough. But the light grows and it nears her. It joins her, bleeding, on the floor and she can feel its warmth. She feels the light overpowering the darkness. She feels the heat as it enters each wound. Each hole is filled with light, with warmth. She hears the words that answer her frustrated and scrambled thoughts. “I am…I am…I AM. I am ENOUGH.” That’s when she is whole again. That’s when healing comes.

…

Standing on a platform after fighting and wrestling with the person you loved most. Your partner–now gone. You tried to grab hold, but they maneuvered and slipped through your grasp. You’re left standing, scarred and bruised from the struggle, alone on the platform, and anyone that walks by might see. They might see the why’s. Because on that platform, the light hits you just right and it’s so unforgiving. It highlights the why’s in ways you didn’t think possible…and now everyone can see that you weren’t good enough. It’s visible that what you have to offer is a sad, pathetic, excuse for worthiness…so of course you weren’t chosen. Of course you were left standing there. Breathing heavily, first in fear, now in defiance, your stance moves from one of vulnerability and offense, to an angry and bitter defense. “Yes, I’m broken! Yes, I’m imperfect, what, you’re not?!” The words are a rage filled cry that come from a depth you’d never acknowledged you had. As your thoughts quiet, and the adrenaline dissipates, you realize your ragged breaths are not the only ones present. There is a slow and steady breathing beside you. How long it’s been there, you have no idea. Deep and calm, just hearing it brings your pulse rate to a slower rhythm…and reason comes to you. He too, has visible scars, though healed over time. The more you look at His scars, the less yours ache. His stance is neither offensive nor defensive, just confident. You feel the desire to adjust your own. Your breathing slows to match His pace. His confidence becomes your own. His presence and the look on His face imply that whatever happens next, you are not alone on the platform.