​Most people view perseverance, hope, and commitment as virtues (because they are). Yet, there are times when clinging to these virtues keeps us from moving forward.

I have discovered, in some hard ways, that before a new beginning, there often has to be a necessary ending. That can look like ending an old mindset, a relationship, a job, or even a version of myself that no longer aligns with who I am becoming.

Who I am called to be.

I think sometimes we lack the courage to make necessary endings because too often endings are called failures.

Failed marriage. Failed job. Failed project.

The more we personalize our endings as failures, the longer we will hold onto situations that might be harmful for fear of being seen as a failure.

I have learned a hard lesson in life. I have spent a lot of time holding on to things that were in reality - holding on to me.

While I was holding on to things in the name of perseverance and hope and commitment, an evil force in the world was smiling - big - in recognition that those very things were holding me back from contributing real light and hope to the world.

Paul had to let go of his former identity as a Pharisee and a persecutor of Christians to become the great apostle who carried the Gospel to Gentiles.

Abraham had to leave his home, all of his people and belongings, to step into God's promise.

Jesus had to die to introduce everlasting life.

Richard Bach once said, "What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly."

There are times when we absolutely need to persevere, when we need to do everything in our power to heal the things that are fraying our commitments. Ending is not always the best alternative to doing the hard work of continuing.

But sometimes it is.

And I know, discerning the difference isn't easy. So how can I possibly know?

If prayer plays a role in your life, pray for clarity. Maybe talk to a pastor or trusted friend.

Differentiate between struggle and harm. Struggles are temporary, and if the relationship or situation is strong, you will likely be able to persevere through a struggle. If the foundation is not strong, a struggle may turn to harm; poor mental or physical health, constantly feeling depleted - depleted of energy and hope - or a compromise of one's well-being in general.

Is not making an ending about fear? Fear of the unknown. Fear of the hard path and growth ahead? Fear is rarely a great fuel for decisions.

I would also play out the end game of perseverance. If I persevere through this, what is the best-case scenario? What is the best way this possibly ends?

Also, what is the worst-case? And how do those scenarios align with who I long to become?

This is not an easy message. So many of us have been raised to believe that the brave and right thing to do is hold on.

And indeed, sometimes it is.

But there are times, I am here to assure you, that the brave thing to do looks like an ending. Sometimes letting go of something that is no longer serving you, or worse, is tearing you apart, is not giving up; it's making space for what is next.

Sometimes, endings really are the bravest and healthiest choice.

​Partnering with two dear friends and colleagues, I led a three-day experience this week designed to help people understand the implications of childhood experiences on long-term health.

Physical health. Mental health. Spiritual health. Relational health.

One of the main goals of this experience was to help people see that these four areas—often thought of as separate aspects of health—are far more interconnected than we sometimes realize.

Healthy relationships often contribute to better physical health.

Poor mental health often leads to declining physical health.

Stronger spiritual health is often a salve for all areas of health.

In this training, we came to understand that health is health. And that so much of our well-being can be predicted by—or traced back to—the kind of experiences we had in the earliest days of our lives.

For some, this realization can feel overwhelming. Some have lived through deeply challenging early childhood experiences.

Others find great hope in it. Because the brain, which adapts to unhealthy experiences in ways that can leave us living with anxiety, depression, or an overactive stress response system, can actually be rewired. No matter how old we are, it can be rewired to see the world as less threatening and anxiety-inducing.

At the end of our experience, one of the attendees told us it had been life-changing. They said they had always known there were hard things in their life—difficult histories, complicated family dynamics—but they had always believed they could keep barreling ahead, strong enough to overcome them.

“But now,” they said, “I know I need to seek professional help. And I am going to seek it when I leave here.”

One of the primary goals of these experiences is to grow compassion and empathy for others. When we understand the implications of what people have been through—especially in childhood—we are far less likely to judge their choices or behaviors.

Further, I often say that we are far more equipped to understand others when we fully come to understand ourselves.

And that is where hope comes from.

Connecting the dots to a more hopeful future often begins by connecting the dots of our past—not as a way of “going back” or “fixing” the past, but as a way of recognizing that we may have failed to take a step forward because we were unknowingly handcuffed to the hopelessness of our past.

And quite often, we don’t even realize the past has been holding us back.

That, I suppose, is the power of these shared experiences. When one person reflects with openness and vulnerability about their past, it implicitly gives others permission to do the same.

Dots begin to connect. And as one starts to see the connections in their past, they can also begin to imagine—with new hope—the connected dots of their future.

That is my life these days: new hope.

And when I hear someone say they, too, have taken their first steps toward new hope, I feel deeply fulfilled.

I am also reminded that entering into another’s struggles is the pathway to hope. Not hiding from struggles. Not retreating from them. Not rushing in with our own answers.

Simply entering in—with a heart for hearing and healing.

Hearing and healing—the pathway to restoration.

Often, in ways greater than we have ever seen before. 

​Sometimes we lose a job and get to feeling like this is the end.

Sometimes we get a divorce and get to feeling like this is the end.

Sometimes we have a health scare and get to feeling like this is the end.

Sometimes when we overcome an addiction we get to feeling something may have ended but there's no way anything more meaningful can begin.

A lot of things can happen in life leaving us feeling like this is the end.

There's a story in the bible, a man named Moses got upset when he saw how one of his people, the Israelites, was being treated by an Egyptian. Trying to gain favor with his people, Moses killed the Egyptian.

Moses' plan didn't go as expected. The Israelites actually turned on him for what he'd done. So Moses fled to a place called Midian, where he lived for 40 years.

I have to imagine in Midian Moses got to feeling like this is the end. I have to imagine in Midian Moses spent a lot of time replaying the past; if I had only done this, then that would have turned out better. I have to imagine in Midian Moses was spending a lot of time giving up and imagining a way forward.

I have to imagine this because in the aftermath of poor decisions in my life, in the aftermath of undesirable circumstances or events, in the aftermath of trauma and adversity, in the aftermath of many challenges in my life, I have often sensed the end.

But you know, one day, after 40 years of Moses feeling like this is the end, God showed up in a burning bush. And God called out from the bush, "Moses! Moses!".

I think God knows that we are sometimes so convinced it's the end that he shouts our name twice to assure us that he's about to introduce us to a beginning.

And God said to Moses, "“I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering. So I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey—the home of the Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites. And now the cry of the Israelites has reached me, and I have seen the way the Egyptians are oppressing them. So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt.”

And Moses says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”

You just know Moses had spent 40 years convincing himself how unworthy he was of rising up to what God was asking him to do. You just know Moses had spent 40 years living in his mistakes and not for a second mapping out his redemption.

But here's the thing, the thing Moses came to understand and this thing I have come to understand, when we are living in our mistakes and not mapping out our redemption, we are leaving God out of our story.

Because that IS the God story - God IS the map from mistake to redemption, from oppression to freedom, from trauma to resilience.

God is a God who shows up just when we think the story is ending and assures us that no, that is only the middle of the book. I'm about to show you the REAL ending to that story.

Moses was living in the land of Midian fully believing his best was behind him. Just like many of us are doing in the land of this Monday.

But with God, the God of redemption, the God of the cross who proved even a grave is only the middle of the story, with that God our story is never over.

You are not at the end today, my friends.

There's a burning bush waiting to remind you of that.

Listen to it.

​I’ve encountered a mess or two in my life. More than a few, if I’m being honest—and plenty of them were messes of my own making. Either way, in the middle of some of the messiest messes, I’ve found myself asking, God, where the heck are You?

Have you ever asked someone a question, only to realize they aren’t going to answer it? Either they stay silent, or they say something that doesn’t remotely sound like a response to what you asked.

Gideon had this experience with God once.

He was in a mess. And right in the middle of it, God showed up and called Gideon a mighty warrior. Because that’s exactly what you want to hear when you’re losing a battle with your mess, right? Someone calling you a warrior?

Especially when that someone is God.

Gideon responded out loud with a question I’ve often kept to myself: If I’m such a mighty warrior, then why am I in this mess? And while we’re at it, God, why did You wait until my life fell apart before deciding to show up?

God’s answer? Almost dismissive. “Go in the strength you have and save Israel.”

I’ve come to realize something: there are times in life when God doesn’t feel the need to explain His whereabouts in my messes. Not because He’s indifferent, but because He understands better than I do that the answers I long for aren’t found outside the mess. They’re found going through it.

God showed up to remind Gideon that he wasn’t in a mess because he wasn’t a warrior—he was in a mess because he was a warrior who wasn’t acting like one.

How many of our messes come not because we aren’t strong enough to face them, but because we refuse to be strong enough?

How many messes feel overwhelming because we assume God isn’t with us—when, in reality, the mess is the very place He’s calling us to find Him?

We will all face personal messes. We will all face cultural messes. And there is a spiritual enemy that wants us to believe the mess is too big to tackle. Too big for us. Too big for God.

This enemy wants to leave us in a state of shouting, “Where are You, God?”

But in the mess, God wants us to hear: “Go in the strength you have.”

Not as a scolding, but as a reminder.

Because the strength you have? It’s more than enough for the mess when that strength is God.

There are times when our children are begging us to explain ourselves. And there are times when we simply tell them - Go.

We are children who more than ever need to hear - go in the strength you have.

Pastor Robby Hilton says, "sometimes the why isn't understood in a conversation, it's understood in the going."

Go.

​I watched a news piece yesterday in ESPN's pre-Super Bowl coverage about Ryan Quigley and his friendship with Tiger Bech. The two friends were victims of the New Year's Eve terrorist attack in New Orleans.

Quigley was seriously injured in the attack; Bech was killed.

Bech was a huge Philadelphia Eagles fan, and Quigley had told him that if the Eagles made it to the Super Bowl this year, he'd buy them both tickets and they’d go to the game.

Then the tragedy.

Bech was killed before Quigley had the chance to keep that promise—because the Eagles did, indeed, make the Super Bowl.

Quigley had vowed never to return to New Orleans after the attack, a vow he was deeply committed to keeping. But then the Eagles stepped in and offered him tickets to the game. In the story, it was shared that Quigley ultimately decided that going back to New Orleans for the game was the best way he had to keep a promise he’d made to his best friend.

As the hosts commented after the story, Jason Kelce, a retired Philadelphia Eagle and a man beloved by the city, broke down in tears. He couldn’t speak. He had met Quigley and was deeply touched by the story.

After seeing that, I commented on social media that it was a beautiful display—a grown man crying on national television over a deeply moving event. I honored him for giving men like me permission to cry.

A dear friend reached out to me after I shared that and said, “You are growing so much.”

Her words caught me off guard, but they meant the world to me. These days, my life’s goal IS growth. But Steven Furtick said something in his sermon yesterday that helped me reframe how I think about growth. He said, “A lot of what we call growth is forgetting what we thought we knew.”

I used to think big boys don’t cry. That’s what I was taught growing up. I saw it all around me—big boys don’t cry. It was just the culture embraced by big boys back then. (And based on some of the discomfort on the faces of Kelce’s co-hosts as he sobbed, I’m not sure that culture is entirely back then.)

I do think about my growth, about the person I’ve become, and how so much of that growth isn’t about learning something new—it’s about leaving behind things I once learned. So much of who we are is dictated by the patterns wired into us, patterns we follow mindlessly.

I am grateful that over the last decade, I’ve learned that not crying—not sharing emotions—is actually more bomb than glue when it comes to relationships.

I am grateful that I’ve come to believe not only that big boys cry, but that they must.

Big boys must cry.

They must, or they will allow their insides to be flooded by the tears that so naturally want to express all that those insides experience—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

A flood that will ultimately destroy everything in its path—inside AND out.

I have grown. It’s true. Partly because of wisdom I’ve picked up along the way. But largely because of a wisdom that has allowed me to leave an awful lot behind.

A wisdom that allowed me to see Jason Kelce crying and think, Thank God, big boys really do cry.

They must.

​I have spent more time than usual living in the land of regret this past week. I honestly don’t know where it came from—regrets can be stealthy that way. But in several areas of my life, I’ve found myself thinking: If only I had done THAT back then, my life would look like THIS right now.

I’ve caught myself thinking that way about relationships, finances, my writing, and the work I do.

The good news is that I’m at a place in my life where I recognize when I’m in the land of regret. And I know that regrets only have one job: to keep us so busy thinking about what we could have done that we lose sight of what we’re still capable of doing.

Regrets want us to believe that while we’re staring at a full-grown tree, if we didn’t plant our own twenty years ago, there’s no point in planting one now.

Today is the Super Bowl. I don’t have much of a rooting interest in the teams involved, but I am a big fan of the game itself.

I’m always awed by the athleticism of these players. And I think what often sets apart the individuals and teams that play in these SUPER-SIZED games is their ability to stay focused on what they can and need to do right now.

It’s their focus in the pre-season. It’s their focus in practices. It’s their focus in meetings. And so, when the big game comes, they’re prepared—able to stay locked in on their role, in that play, in that moment.

They don’t look at big trees and lament the one they should have planted twenty years ago. They imagine what that tree might become if they plant it right now.

I often watch these games and imagine—what if I had that kind of athleticism?

The reality is, I never did, and I never will. But I do share a superpower with every one of those freak athletes: I have the power to plant something today that will be meaningful tomorrow. The one thing that stands most in my way of doing that? Getting stuck thinking about all the things I should have planted yesterday but didn’t.

You can stare at your neighbor’s beautiful front-yard tree all day long, wishing you had planted one like that when you bought your house. Literally, you can sit and stare ALL day long.

Or—you can quit staring and plant a tree right now.

Stare or plant? Only one of those choices has a chance of adding any beauty to the world.

When you watch the Super Bowl today and find yourself impressed by the playmakers, don’t lose sight of the fact that they became playmakers because of the many hours they spent focusing on the plays they can still make—not the ones they didn’t.

Plant a tree today.

Maybe you can't make it to the Super Bowl, but you can still make the plays that will add much needed beauty to the world.

​A good shepherd doesn't leave when the night falls.

Jesus called Himself the Good Shepherd because He never runs from His flock. And if we follow Him, we’re called to stay, too—to be the ones who stand firm, who shine light, who protect, who love, even when it’s hardest.

When the sky darkens and the wolves creep near, the shepherd doesn’t abandon the flock to save himself. He doesn’t run to safety while the sheep scatter in fear. Instead, he stands his ground, staff in hand, eyes scanning the shadows. He listens for the sound of danger, ready to defend, to guide, to protect.

Because that’s what shepherds do.

In the daylight, it’s easy to lead. The path is clear, the dangers are few, and the sheep follow willingly. But the real test comes in the night—when uncertainty grows, when the predators close in, when fear makes the flock restless. It’s in those moments that the shepherd’s calling is proven.

And it’s the same with us.

It’s easy to show up when life is bright, when the culture is calm, when standing for truth and love comes without risk. But what about when darkness falls? What about when division prowls, when the world is restless, when the easy thing is to walk away?

That’s when the real shepherds stay.

The world needs people who don’t flee when the night comes. Who don’t give up when fear spreads. Who don’t retreat when the wolves of hatred, despair, and confusion circle.

Anyone can lead in the daylight.

Shepherds stick around when the night falls.

​I’ve shared this high school memory before.

Back then, like now, wars were raging around the world. And in the early 80s, there were murmurs about reinstating the draft.

I remember friends who were almost giddy at the idea. They had this bring-it-on attitude, ready to go off and fight.

I didn’t get it. That wasn’t my reaction. My reaction was Canada. And how fast I could get there.

That memory stayed with me—not in a way that haunted me daily, but in a way that subtly shaped something inside me. I think that was the first time I came face to face with the possibility that I wasn’t brave. That somewhere inside me I had adopted coward as part of my identity.

I don’t think that way anymore.

Because I’ve come to understand that bravery doesn’t always look like running toward war—even as I recognize that doing so may be one of the bravest things a person can do. Sometimes, bravery looks much smaller. At least on the surface.

Bravery is getting out of bed in the morning—soaking in the first breath of the day when you’d rather not breathe at all. You get up not because you want to, but because if you don’t, something in you will wither. Because you know there are people who need the pieces of you that you still have to offer, even when you don’t feel like you have what it takes to offer them.

Bravery is getting up and being a good and loving dad to your kids when you've lost all belief you can ever be that good dad. You do it not because you feel some sudden reassurance toward that belief, but because you'd rather feel like an incapable dad than a missing dad.

Bravery is getting up and writing and sharing the insides of your heart, not because you need to prove you can share them, but because you so deeply refuse to ever go back to the place where you had no idea how to share those insides at all.

Bravery isn't proving to the world who you are and what you stand for, bravery is being unable to sleep living out any version of you that doesn't look like who you are and what you stand for.

It’s taken me a long time to get here.

It's taken a long time to get from being a high school kid completely unaware of who he was to being a man who knows exactly who he is. There are still many days I'm not brave enough to be that man, but when I am feeling those less than brave moments, I don't lean into a need to prove I am that man, I lean into a fear of dying my way back to the man I used to be.

Be brave today.

Not to prove who you are, but out of a fear of turning into someone you are not.

​The thing about complaining is that it's habit-forming. And the thing about a complaining habit? If you do it long enough, you can begin to feel like you're making a contribution when you're not.

Most people complain about things they want changed. Almost all chronic complaining changes nothing.

Seth Godin says, "The best way to complain is to make things better." I think that's a great litmus test for our potential complaints—is this going to make something better?

I also acknowledge that some people complain simply to complain, to let off steam, to signal belonging to a particular group, or maybe to hide from their own fears or concerns. I understand all of that. But I'm writing to folks who think complaining is a change agent.

It is Black History Month. This month, we recognize brothers, sisters, and movements that built fights to make things better—fights that transcended the misconception that change can be won by complaining.

I love the story of Shirley Chisholm, born in 1924 to immigrant parents from Barbados and Guyana. Chisholm didn't just complain about the barriers she faced as a Black woman in America—she shattered them.

In 1964, after years of deep community service in her Brooklyn neighborhood, Chisholm was elected to the New York State Assembly, becoming only the second African American woman to serve in that capacity.

Then, in 1968, she became the first Black woman elected to the U.S. Congress. Chisholm gained a reputation for her boldness (which is maybe the opposite of complaining) and was famously quoted as saying, “If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.”

Not to be limited by where she could take that folding chair, in 1972, Chisholm became the first Black woman to run for a major party's presidential nomination. Her campaign slogan?

Unbought and Unbossed.

Chisholm faced what felt like unbeatable odds in her run for the nomination. She had no support from white politicians and very little from black male leaders. Yet—she ran anyway. She didn’t complain about being an underdog. She just kept showing up with her folding chair.

Chisholm didn’t win the nomination, but she wasn’t done.

She went on to finish seven terms in Congress before retiring in 1983. From there, she became a professor at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts, teaching politics and women’s studies. She mentored young students, especially women and people of color, encouraging them to engage in politics and public service.

Later in life, Chisholm reflected, “I want to be remembered as a woman who dared to be a catalyst for change.”

There is nothing daring about complaining. It takes far more energy than boldness to complain—and that energy is often an energy-suck for people looking for spaces to fuel their courage to fight and make things better.

There will always be reasons to believe there is no seat at the table for us. There will always be reasons and opportunities to complain about that.

Or—we can see it as the best reason to pick up a folding chair.

Fixing things never happens by complaining that things are broken. Fixing things always happens when people like Shirley Chisholm set aside complaining in favor of making something better.

For Chisholm, that change started in her Brooklyn neighborhood as a young black woman and ended with her being posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom a decade after her death.

Unbought.

Unbossed.

Jesus often spoke in parables. He did so because he longed to reach people's hearts more than people's minds. Our hearts best connect at the intersection of each other's stories.

I've been playing around lately with turning some of my 3,000 articles into parables. Stories reach the heart sometimes in ways mere articles cannot. And my desire, like Jesus, is to reach hearts.

With that said, I have turned an article I wrote last year into a story I want to share today. I'll link the original article in the comments. I'd love to know your thoughts.

Stories always resonate with me, so this was fun to do.

***
I sat on the edge of my chair, fingers gripping the neck of my guitar, pressing into the same old chords I had played a thousand times before. The wood was worn, the strings stretched thin, but it still felt like home. Safe. Predictable.

Mr. Ellis sat across from me, listening, his fingers tapping on the music stand in front of him. When I finished the song, I let the last note hang in the air, waiting for his usual nod of approval. But today, he just sighed.

"You play that well, Liam," he said, tilting his head. "But why do you never play anything new?"

I shrugged, looking down at my guitar. "These are the songs I know."

Mr. Ellis leaned forward. "I know. But are they still your songs?"

His words caught me off guard. I frowned. "What do you mean?"

He stood and walked to the shelf, pulling out a crisp piece of sheet music. He placed it in front of me. "Try this."

I barely glanced at it before shaking my head. "I can’t play that."

"You haven’t even tried."

I sighed, feeling the pressure mount in my chest. "I just… I don’t know it. And I don’t want to mess up."

Mr. Ellis watched me for a moment before speaking. "Keith, do you love music?"

"Of course."

"Then tell me this—when was the last time you felt something when you played?"

I opened my mouth to answer but hesitated. I thought back to all the times I sat in this room, playing the same songs over and over. I told myself it was because I loved them, but now that I thought about it… maybe it was something else. A habit. A routine. Something I could control.

Mr. Ellis nodded, as if he could see the wheels turning in my head. "I think, somewhere along the way, you stopped playing for the love of music and started playing for the safety of what you already know."

I swallowed hard. "These songs… they remind me of when I started. Of when my grandfather gave me this guitar. Of when music felt… easier."

Mr. Ellis softened. "I get that. But music isn’t meant to stay the same. It grows with you. And if you keep playing the songs of the past, you might never hear the music that’s waiting for you now."

I stared down at my guitar, my fingers thoughtlessly tracing the strings.

"Just try," Mr. Ellis said, tapping the new sheet music. "Not because you have to. But because maybe, just maybe, there’s a new song inside of you that’s been waiting to be played."

I hesitated, then slowly set my fingers on the frets. I strummed once. The chord was unfamiliar, a little shaky, but there was something about it—something alive.

And for the first time in a long time, I played not from memory, but from possibility.

*Story is based on the following article written in 2024: ​https://www.rkcwrites.com/rkc-blogs/dont-let-the-emotions-of-your-past-write-the-songs-of-your-future