​John Mark Comer says, "The dark underside of radical individualism is loneliness."

And what is radical individualism?

Radical individualism is the belief that the highest good in life is personal autonomy - the idea that freedom, identity, and meaning come from being completely self-determined and independent of others.

Sociologists often classify the U.S. as a "highly individualistic society" on the cultural spectrum. The U.S. consistently ranks at or near the most individualistic extreme in global studies, meaning American socialization, policies, and even marketing language tend to reinforce "I" over "we."

So yes - we are radically individualized. And while that’s given us remarkable freedom - not always a bad thing - it’s also left us relationally impoverished. We’ve become experts at building lives, but beginners at belonging.

And that has a cost.

I talk with people often about connection and loneliness. So I believe the following stats when I hear:

- 54% of Americans say no one knows them well.

- 36% report they feel lonely frequently or almost all of the time - and that number goes up to 61% when we're talking about young adults.

I have written often about the ache of loneliness, the longing to be seen and known and held. Well, that ache isn't a flaw, it's the soul's memory calling us home. It's not punishment for being too sensitive or needy, that ache is evidence of God's divine architecture for our lives.

God created us with connection in our bones. In our hearts and souls and minds. Our earliest childhood development wires us to NEED connection, not have it as a lifelong bonus.

Radical individualism tells us to numb the ache - to prove we don’t need anyone. But when we deny that longing, we don’t become free; we become broken. The loneliness doesn’t disappear, it just hides beneath busyness, success, and self-reliance.

The truth is, loneliness isn’t a sign of something wrong with us; it’s something right within us trying to get our attention. It’s the soul whispering what God said from the beginning: It is not good for man to be alone.

But are we hearing the whisper?

I fear not.

The shouts of what's in it for me seem to grow louder by the day. The willingness to push others aside in the chase to have what's in it for me have become all the more forceful. And we seem to be blind to the reality that in actually getting what's in it for me, we are losing what is most critical to you and me.

Each other.

Connection.

Radical togetherness.

It always was and always will be our human design. Without it, the ache will only grow more hurtful and destructive.

​Steven Furtick says, "When something comes into my life in a package I don't like, I can miss the purpose for which that package came."

It's true. We are good at judging the book by it's cover. Judging the value of the gift by the box it comes in and how it's wrapped.

We see the torn paper and think, this can’t be good. We see the broken box and assume, nothing valuable could be inside that.
But sometimes God hides His best gifts in boxes that have been through a lot, boxes that have been dropped, kicked, or left out in the rain, because He knows the treasure inside won’t be appreciated by those looking only for perfection.

Sometimes the gift of patience comes wrapped in the paper of waiting.

Sometimes the gift of compassion comes in the box of loss.

Sometimes the gift of peace comes through the package of pain.

I drove Elliott back to Virginia Tech yesterday. For almost all of the 3 hours driving there, the weather was dreary. Large sections of the drive were so dark it felt like nightfall. But you know what, my kid didn't stop talking to me the whole way.

Not so much as a moment of silence.

I've had two desires as a father. That my kids would come to know and love God with the same kind of heart with which I love God, knowing that they will come to that kind of heart much more from seeing my heart than from hearing about it. And then also, that my kids would look forward to talking to me. Not talking to me because I'm their dad and they feel obligated to - but because they love talking to me.

As we drove, talking through the darkness and above the sound of the windshield wipers wiping back and forth, and as I looked down at the rubber wrist band Elliott was wearing with an important to him scripture written on it, I felt a beautiful light in the darkness.

I felt God remind me that my life has not always been offered to me in the most stable of boxes, and nor have those boxes very often been wrapped in fancy wrapping paper, but my life has overflowed with beautiful gifts.

God has taught me, over and over again, that darkness is not a sign of dark in my life, but of approaching beauty and light. For it is God in my life that is the measure of my gifts, not the boxes.

Maybe you'll have some broken boxes come into your life this week. I'll gently offer, maybe trust God, not the box.

​Storms.

It's so easy to see storms as thieves arriving in the middle of the night, intent on robbing us of hope.

But is it possible - maybe - that they arrive DELIVERING hope?

I know. That seems so backwards.

But how much time do we spend searching for hope in the good times, in the peaceful weather? The times that can feel like hope is just magically dancing all around us.

A gift given and not one sought.

If we're not careful, we can begin to focus on the dance and not the dancer. It is tranquil times that can lead us to believe that hope is found in our circumstances, in our situations, and not in the One who lives in us, unfazed by circumstances and situations, an endless and unwavering stream of hope.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you believe in Him (Romans 15:13).

Paul reminds us here that hope is linked to joy, peace, and faith. It transcends our circumstances because it is placed in God’s unwavering nature.

Maybe storms come as a reminder of that. A reminder that the nature of hope has little to do with the nature of our lives, and everything to do with the nature of God.

Life can feel like an endless roller coaster of hope - up and down. But that is not life, that is us.

That is us wavering, not hope.

Not God.

​God's mission for our lives?

Growth.

Not perfection. Not arrival. Not applause.

Growth. Growth toward Him.

And the beautiful thing about God is that He doesn’t need the soil in our lives to be just right to nourish our growth. While we’re wondering when our season of flourishing will come, God is knowing that our season of growth is right now.

When it comes to growth, God doesn’t favor spring over summer, or summer over fall, or fall over winter, or winter over spring. With God, the season of growth is always now.

Today. This month. This year.

Right now.

So often we think, I’ve screwed up again. And God thinks, another chance to grow again.

So often we think, Why has this happened? And God whispers, Growth.

And so often we believe, This is it. I’ve arrived. And God reminds us, not yet. There is no arrival when there is still room to grow.

Grow. Toward Him.

We miss the value in so many days, so many seasons, when we lose sight of the mission: growth.

We use so many metrics to measure the worth of our days, the value of our lives. But God has already declared He values nothing more than us, and our worth is found in discovering that truth a bit more each day.

Discovering it in the joy and in the pain. In the easy and in the hard. In the summer and in the winter.

We may think there are seasons in our lives standing in the way, but God sees every season as THE way.:

Winter is coming. We can be sure of that. But hey, you’d be surprised what grows in the winter.

“Fruit trees of all kinds will grow on both banks of the river. Their leaves will not wither, nor will their fruit fail. Every month they will bear fruit, because the water from the sanctuary flows to them. Their fruit will serve for food and their leaves for healing.”

(Ezekiel 47:12)

Every month.

They will bear fruit.

​A dear friend recently said to me, "I get the impression that a lot of what you write is sometimes difficult but it's also incredibly inspiring to the rest of us."

Writing is healing for me. It's a large part of my therapy. In many ways it's my best friend; so often I wake up in the middle of the night excited to have coffee with my morning friend - writing.

But to be truthful, sometimes writing - that friendship - it IS difficult. Because many days I am writing about the most difficult parts of me. That has certainly been the case as I write the final chapters of my life story.

Writing about the hard things I've experienced.

Writing about my failures and endless flaws.

Writing about my fears.

Writing about the truth that life almost always feels more like a fight than a journey to me.

But I had coffee with a friend yesterday morning and I was reminded that's what best friends share - the hardest experiences, the failures and endless flaws.

The fears and the fights.

I have come to know this about my writing without any doubt: God gave me this gift. A gift not for me so much as a gift for others. Because God has given me the wisdom to so deeply understand the depths of my own struggles and pains, and the capacity to express them in ways others understand, it blesses me with the chance to let so many others know - I do truly understand your fights in life.

Many can not read what I write without feeling themselves within my words. To any degree that is healing or inspiring to others brings great healing to me.

I have been asked many times if I find healing in writing because it allows me to release my pain. The truth is, I have pains that I accept will never ever go away. Many of us do. But I've come to believe God is far more interested in USING my pain than RELIEVING it. And I haven't always been able to say it, but I can now; I love God for that.

God watched his son suffer in pain on the cross.

Because God's a fan of pain?

No.

I think it's because God needed us all to understand as clearly as possible that what people long for most in life is someone who can see beneath all that hides their pains, and into the hearts and souls so overwhelmed by them.

When Jesus says he understands our pain, because of the pain of the cross we have no reason to doubt him. And we have no reason to not find comfort in his understanding.

I am glad I don't have to suffer on a cross to say I see you all. I am thankful that God has given me another avenue to express that to you.

I am thankful that so many of you have given me purpose in my pain, for in that purpose, there is healing. Because as Pastor Larry Brey says, "Healing isn't the absence of pain, it's the presence of purpose."

It's something any of us struggling to heal might want to explore. Am I not healing because I'm waiting for the pain to go away? Am I not healing because I've come to believe there can't possibly be any purpose to this pain?

​Much of my professional and personal life is centered on resilience. I often say I'm not as big a fan of the word resilience as I am the character trait resilience. Mainly because the word itself comes with a lot of definitions that at times aren't helpful to one's becoming resilient.

We often think of resilience as an act of will. As something we do -tighten our grip, toughen our skin, stand back up when life knocks us down. And sure, there’s a kind of courage in that. There’s honor in standing tall when the wind is fierce.

But maybe we’ve mistaken half the story of resilience for the whole thing.

Because my resilience journey has taught me some of the most resilient moments of my life weren’t the ones where I stood firm, but the ones where I finally stopped fighting. When I stopped trying to control what was breaking and let myself break. When I stopped demanding transformation on my terms and allowed transformation to simply have its way with me.

Dr. John Price said recently on the Rich Roll Podcast that the psyche is a self-healing organism. I love that. He said there are measurable and immeasurable currents at work within us - forces that, if we stop resisting, carry us toward healing and transformation.

He compared it to the old AA phrase, “let go and let God.”

That struck me because so much of what we call “resilience” today is really our resistance to those very currents. We push against life’s natural flow, insisting we know better than the river where it should go. We armor up, convinced that survival depends on control, but often what we call strength is just a slower form of drowning.

Maybe resilience isn’t about how hard we hold on but about how willingly we can let go.

Let go of the need to hold a marriage together just to look strong.

Let go of alcohol even when you have no idea where strength without it will come from.

Let go of the grief of that broken relationship that once felt required and let it make space for love again.

Let go of the hurtful narratives from the past that feel like self-protection and choose not to let bitterness any longer lead the way.

Maybe true resilience is less about muscle and more about momentum - our willingness to move with pain instead of against it. To accept pain without trying to outthink it. To trust that transformation often has its own agenda that has little interest in our own agenda.

There’s a reason Jesus said, “Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Maybe he was describing this very thing, the idea that the life we’re desperate to hold together often begins to heal when we finally surrender it.

I’ve spent years trying to become stronger, wiser, tougher, more disciplined. And yet, the moments that have truly changed me weren’t when I conquered something, they were when I finally let something go. When I let the storm have its say. When I stopped forcing my way through the pain and started listening to what the pain was trying to say back.

Because that’s where healing lives.

In the letting go.

In the trust that the current usually knows the way home better than I do.

Maybe resilience was never something I had to build, but something I had to stop interrupting.

​I was at a large work gathering yesterday. I finished my lunch quickly and decided to return to the large conference room where we were meeting for some quiet time. Because there are times when we all NEED some quiet time.

But on my way there, I noticed a dear friend and colleague sitting in a chair in the corner of a nook in our conference area. She was alone, but something told me her alone wasn't out of a search for quiet time.

So I approached her.

I hadn't seen her in quite some time. So I asked her, how are you? The answer was quite evident to me before I asked, so I wasn't surprised to hear her say, I've been struggling.

She went on to tell me she'd been battling health issues.

I asked her if the health issues were significant. Looking back I wish I hadn't asked that. Her sitting alone in a chair and the worried look on her face was all I needed to know about significance. I should never pressure another to rate their struggle as significant or insignificant. Struggle is struggle.

With that said, though, my friend's health struggle is indeed significant and complicated.

As she told me what she is battling, I found myself taking one of her hands with one of my hands and placing my other hand gently on her head - much without thinking - and I told her that I am praying for her.

I was praying for her in that moment. I am praying for her in this writing.

I don't know what the answer to those prayers will be. But I could feel in our exchange that I was a momentary answer to her worries. To her anxiousness. I could tell I was a necessary reminder that her health is more important than her work - helpers are often the worst at slowing down and taking care of themselves the way they tirelessly encourage others to take care of THEMSELVES.

I am glad that on my way to chasing alone time God pointed me to someone alone who didn't much care to be alone.

We live in a world where issues and struggles are often loud and amplified. They are attacking and in our face. That makes it all the more important for us to be ever mindful of those quietly struggling. Those sitting in a corner far away from the fray but not far away from the fray of their own inner turmoil.

We live in times where it's easy to be grateful for the silence - for ours and the silence of others. I understand that. But we also need to understand that silence isn't always a desire, sometimes it's an invitation.

​I have been in relationships where I knew I had not been heard. I knew it because there was no remote sign of an answer in response to my talking or sharing.

That is hard. That can be defeating.

Isolating.

Maybe worse than all of that, though, it can lend to my believing that if I do not get an answer from God, then God too has not heard me.

They don't listen to me, God must not either.

But where too often we define each other by our answers - we use each other's answers to measure one other's attention and presence - God is defined by faith.

Steven Furtick says, "In between prayer and the answer is faith."

The challenge is we live in a world where answers keep coming quicker and quicker. The gap between question and answer keeps disappearing.

Google it.

ChatGPT it.

But God doesn't want to be defined by speedy answers; God wants to be defined by the strength that keeps us moving when we don't have any answers at all.

It feels like God is more interested in me knowing that he always hears even when my pity party wants to convince me he refuses to answer.

God doesn't want my perceived lack of answers to isolate me from him, he wants it to draw me closer to him in trust.

I think back on those challenging relationships. The truth is it wasn't the lack of answers that felt so defeating - it was knowing I wasn't heard. It was knowing my words carried no importance.

I have come to know that every word I think and say is important to God. I know it because many things I have thought or said years and even decades ago, God keeps finding ways to show up and say, I heard you.

Sometimes that shows up like a memory. Other times as new found wisdom - ah ha moments. And yes, often as a long awaited answer.

We demand answers. God longs for us to know we are heard even in the absence of answers. Too often worldly relationships are built on answers; a relationship with God is built on faith and trust.

I am heard; I need no answers to know it.

​The more I try to control life, the more life ends up controlling me.

I’ve seen this truth in so many corners of my own story. For years, I thought I could manage the fear and loneliness and feelings of insignificance that haunted me by drinking. I thought alcohol was a tool to keep me in control of how I felt. But over time, it became painfully clear that alcohol wasn’t a tool, it was a master. What started as me using alcohol ended with alcohol using me.

I saw the same lesson last Friday when I walked into a correctional facility to talk with a group of prisoners. As I looked around the room, I realized that almost every man was there because of an attempt to control something: a relationship, a fear, a craving, a moment that felt impossible to face. And now few humans have less control than they have. 

I’ve felt that in my broken relationships, too. I wanted things to go my way, to meet my needs, to quiet my insecurities. But the tighter I gripped the more those relationships slipped out of my hands. I've wanted desperately to control the path to love all the while being unwilling to surrender to it. 

Why is it so hard for us to surrender? Even in the aftermath of destruction, when we can clearly see how our efforts at control have failed, our first instinct is often to double down and fight harder. Richard Rohr says: “The word ‘control’ does not exist in the vocabulary of the saints.” 

Yet it remains in ours, every day, on repeat.

Our culture doesn’t help. Everywhere we look, we’re promised that control is within our reach if we just buy the right product or follow the right plan. Fitness ads tell us we can control our bodies. Productivity apps promise we can control our time. Financial gurus assure us we can control our futures. And maybe on the surface, these things give us small wins. But eventually, life reveals that small wins don't equal big control. 

The hard truth - and the freeing truth - is that surrender isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. Pastor Tim Keller once said, “You don’t realize Jesus is all you need until Jesus is all you have.” 

That’s the paradox of surrender: only when we stop pretending we’re in charge do we discover a power greater than ourselves. But is there anything we want to give up less than the illusion that we can ultimately be in charge? 

Is there anything we fight harder for in life than to be in charge of our life?

For me, surrender has meant admitting I’m not the author of every chapter of my life. It’s meant listening instead of forcing. It’s meant turning over the wheel when my need to steer has driven me into ditches time and again, and even not so rarely head on collisions. 

The more I’ve loosened my grip, the more I’ve found something better than control - occasional peace. 

Oh, trust me, I am still prone to closing my fist, trying to once again fight for control when my life feels so frequently chaotic, but I have loosened it enough to know that real peace isn't inside the fist, it's in two open palms lifted upward. 

Upward. 

Surrender. 

That is ultimately the story of every life - a fight for control only to realize that's a fight you can never win. It's what you do with that realization that matters most in life. 

Surrender.