matt bell words

I can admit it…I over pack.  I have the tendency to bring along way more than I need to.  I can’t help it.  Whether it’s a weeklong vacation or just a day trip, I always have these grand visions of us accomplishing way more than is humanly possible in the allotted time.  But what if there is a pool?  What if there is a baseball field?  What if we decide last minute to bushwhack 4 days into the jungle and I don’t have a machete? (This has never happened).  What if we end up remodeling a kitchen and I don’t have a wet tile saw? (Surprisingly, I’ve never remodeled a kitchen on vacation).  And so, I usually just end up squeezing a bunch of random stuff into every last nook of the van.  But when we break down on the side of the road and I can just simply reach for my flare gun, I guarantee I’ll be the one laughing.

If only this tendency of mine to over pack was limited to vacation travel.  If I’m honest, this is a pretty common theme for me.  I carry too much with me.  I always have.  I just don’t have the ability like some people I know to shake things easily.  It turns out things do not just “roll off of me.”  I guess this means I am, in fact, not rubber but glue.

While we’re being honest, my guess is there are a lot of people like me in this way.  Not in regards to vacation travel but in life.  A lot of us over pack.  I see it in the faces of people I walk by every day.  Without one exchange of words, it is clear.  They are carrying something.  And it’s heavy.  They are tired.  And for many, it hurts.  It’s all they can do to keep going.

Maybe it’s the weight of careless words spoken….

You are not good enough.

You are not talented enough.

I don’t like you.

Or the weight of what’s been done…

You have done too many things wrong.

You have hurt too many people.

No one can accept you.

This is the burden many of us bear.  We just can’t seem to set it down.  Regardless of where we’re going, you can be certain it’s on the packing list.

That is what makes Jesus’ invitation so surprising.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Bring your junk.  Crawl if you have to.  Just come.

Last winter, my family was at the airport after returning from a family vacation.  After securing the bags from the turnstile, my oldest was quick to grab one of the bags (the largest bag) I had placed by my side.  He grabbed the handle and began to pull.  Knowing he really just wanted to help, I proceeded to grab the remaining bags and we began the walk to the van.  He started out fine but soon began lagging further and further behind.  I could tell the suitcase was beginning to get the best of him.  Soon I had to stop and wait for him to catch up.

Cody…why don’t you let me carry that for you?

To which he replied,

No.  I can do it dad.

After several more minutes like this, I eventually took the bag from his hand.  Now to be honest, this was really just a selfish move on my part because I was trying to speed things along.  My son just wanted to help.  He wanted to do it himself.  He wasn’t ready to admit the bag was too heavy.

But the bag was too heavy.

As he released the bag, he gave a sigh of relief and ran to catch up with the group.  I guess sometimes you just can’t feel the burden you’ve been carrying until it’s gone.

Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Shortly after moving to Virginia, it became clear that I was going to need to pick up an extra job in addition to the internship I was doing at the church there.  So I did what every single one of us said we would never do- I became a substitute teacher.  I say this because we all know how subs were treated when we were in school and to put ourselves in that same situation would be like wearing a tuna-flavored swimsuit into a shark tank.  I remember one incident in high school when a student with a watch that doubled as a remote control kept changing the video that our substitute had set up for us to watch.  As you might imagine, this drove the substitute crazy because they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the VCR.  But because I needed the money and Virginia has low credentials for substitutes, there I was, filling out paperwork at the school administration building.  A few short days later, I was called for my first assignment; three days of in-school suspension detail at a local high school.

I was fortunate enough to avoid in-school suspension when I was a student.  I had my share of detentions but never crossed the line worthy of spending the entire day in a solitary classroom.  As the principal walked me into the stark white room, he explained my responsibilities.  “Keep them in their seats.  Get them to do their school work.  Don’t hurt anyone or get hurt by anyone.  Oh, and lunch is fifth period.”  I thought it a bit out of line to say but I wondered how I was supposed to miraculously create diligent workhorses out of misfits who had just been kicked out of class.  Did he really expect to walk in at the end of the day and find us telling algebra riddles (“Because seven eight nine!”) and crafting haikus about our favorite elements of nature?  As far as I could tell, all we had managed to do is put them all together in a room where, with their powers combined, they could wreak havoc on the substitute teacher.

The first day was borderline torturous.  I sat at my desk at the front of the class (a truly strange experience if you never have before) and read a book I had thankfully brought along.  I would glance up from the page to give the allusion that I had total control of the room.  I was watching.  I didn’t know what I was going to do if things got out of hand, but you can believe I was watching.

Repeating this throughout the day, I began to realize something that I hadn’t expected.  These kids, as it turned out, were in fact just kids.  Most of them had never spent time in prison or had their face digitally blurred on an episode of COPS.  Behind the hardened exterior, they were a lot like the kids on the other side of these walls in the rooms with colorful posters and learning.

I realized another thing.  It became clear that most of these kids had already accepted this as their lot in life.  They knew very little was expected of them and that a seat would always be reserved for them in a solitary room somewhere.  They were expected to fail.  Worse yet, they expected to fail.  Were they in charge of their actions?  Sure.  But sometimes it helps to have someone in your corner that actually believes in you.  Someone who loves you enough to call you out from the place you’re in.  For most of them, however, they had crossed some invisible line where, not only was there nobody to believe in them, nobody was even surprised by their poor choices anymore.  They had gone too far.  This was now expected.

The question this experience leads me to is this- how do we change?  When we are made aware that there is something wrong in our life, how do we fix it?  Do we just wait it out by sitting in a stark white classroom somewhere and let the bad seed die of boredom?  Do we just try really hard and, if we fail again, go back to the start and try really really hard this time?  What will cause a person to see the error of their ways and change their course?

I think change is mostly relational.  Seriously.  Think about it.  If there is no one to believe in you, why in the world would you ever need to change?  Sure there are these great moments of self-realization when a person pulls themselves up out of the depths and makes great change because that’s what they knew they needed to do.  I would bet these are few and far between.  My guess would be that for every story like that, there are thousands of stories of failed New Year’s resolutions, defeating addictions and hopeless misery.

Sometimes it takes someone else to point something out for us to know it’s wrong.

It’s like the time I accidentally put on a Polo Skirt in the middle of Eddie Bauer.  I honestly thought it was just a really long shirt until I heard my brother-in-law saying “Umm Matt…you’re wearing a dress.”  In that moment, there was no mistaking something was wrong.  I’m sure I would have figured it out (or bought it), but it was sure nice to have someone there to point it out to me.

I don’t know about you, but I can only muster up so much motivation to change myself.  I am too good at justifying where I’m really at.  I have really become quite convincing when it comes to fooling myself into believing things are better than they are.  “You’re not that out of shape.”  “You weren’t that passive aggressive with them.”  “At least you’re still doing better than that guy.”

This kind of self-deception is difficult with the relationships in my life however.  I’m sure you would agree.  The best relationships in my life are the ones in which I have a real sense that the other person is “for me.”  They stand in my corner.  They love me enough to call me out of the place I’m in.  And when this kind of person does call me out, when they humbly yet boldly walk out on a limb with our relationship in hand, it is very hard to return the same.  They make me want to change.

Ultimately, they give us a better picture of ourselves.  And who doesn’t want that?

This is most certainly one of the characteristics of God that I appreciate the most.  Contrary to what is easy to believe, God does not ask us to come perfect.  Not even close.  But do not confuse that with complacency on his part to overlook the place we’re in.  You want to talk about walking out on a limb for the sake of the relationship.  His story tops all else.  And now, in Jesus, God stands in our corner to give us a better picture of ourselves.

I don’t know about you, but I sure like his picture a whole lot better.  And I love that he still thinks there is hope for me yet.  It’s enough to make me want to change.

We have several flower gardens at our home.  In the right season, they produce some really extraordinary flowers that fill our yard with a beautiful array of colors.  My wife gets all the credit there.  I really don’t do much to help with them.  Well, I don’t step on them.  I guess that helps.  But as far as the planting and maintenance goes, she is in charge.  I’ve been known to mulch, but I do not weed.  I can’t stand it.  Seriously.  I think I would rather eat the weeds with a nice vinaigrette than remove them with that two-pronged thing.  It’s possible I may have been involved in some undisclosed childhood weed incident that my parents aren’t talking about yet.  I’m looking into it.

Regardless, with all gardens there are weeds.  I didn’t make up the rules but that’s the way it is.  As sure as death and taxes, there are weeds.  And contrary to popular belief, they don’t just go away.  I may not be a “botanist” or a “horticulturist” or any other kind of “ist” but I know enough to know that if I see a weed and don’t do anything about it, it’s not going away.  Most likely it will actually keep growing and be even bigger the next time I walk past and do nothing.  Over time, it sinks its roots down deep into the ground.  It may even bud some flowers.  After a while you just become accustomed to seeing it there.  Ignored long enough, it may just be the only thing left.

I would never describe myself as an angry person.  I am fairly quiet and when really bothered by something or someone, I am much more likely to internalize than to express my anger outwardly. Unless I’m driving.  That’s a whole other story.  I learned to drive in New Jersey.  My mom taught me the driving philosophy that “everyone else on the road is an idiot.”  Sorry.  She doesn’t specifically mean you.  That is unless you were the red Jeep Cherokee with Pennsylvania plates that cut me off earlier.  In that case you may take it personally.  But besides the boldness that comes with auto lock doors and a gas pedal, I really would be surprised if someone described me as “angry.”  A lot of us would agree.  Honestly though, I think it may be because our definition of anger is a bit off.

It’s easy to identify “the angry guy.”  He’s the one that is raising his voice above the rest, face bright red and shouting things that make no sense because the velocity and volume at which they are projecting from his mouth is greater than the velocity of reason and rationality travelling from the brain to the mouth.  We would be right to say this guy just “verbally exploded” on his victim.  It does not take a therapist to diagnose that this guy is angry.  He is.  Really angry.

But what about the guy that doesn’t turn red and spit verbal shards of glass?  What about people like me who, when angered, just take the offense deep within themselves and soak it in?  What about people like me who take in hurt so deeply that we must build walls to avoid getting hurt again?  While “angry guy” embarrassingly spews everything out, he probably feels much better and is a lot less angry when all is said and done.  But people like me though, the people who go deep with our anger, we don’t feel better.  We just wait it out.  Sometimes for a really long time.

Some of us are still waiting.

At the risk of sounding like a greeting card, I believe our hearts are like gardens.  I don’t think this is too far of a stretch because in one of his stories, Jesus described the heart as soil that a farmer is scattering seed upon.  Just like a garden, when the heart is right, it is extraordinarily beautiful.  Just like a garden, when the heart is right, people can’t help but notice and want to be around.  And, just like all gardens, weeds have a way of creeping in.  Something happens to you and you are angered…you become angry.  A weed begins to shoot from the ground.  It’s usually not hard to identify.  “Whoa…that’s not a flower.”  At this point, you are faced with a decision…”do I deal with it or just walk past, hoping it will go away on its own?”  This weed is threatening the beauty and growth of the garden.  In the same way that I really hate weeding, I even more hate dealing with anger.  It’s so much easier just to live with whatever or whoever angered me in the first place and pretend like it’s not there.  Seems easier at least.  I often decide just to let the weed grow.  Maybe it won’t be noticeable.  Heck, it may even flower and bring some attention.  What happens next though is anything but beautiful.  The weed begins to sink its roots down deep into the soil of the heart.  These are the roots of bitterness.  Someone once said that bitterness is the poison we drink hoping it kills someone else.  It is the voice that reminds us why we are angry in the first place and why we should stay angry.  The roots begin to tangle their way through the rest of the garden, shooting up throughout and choking out the flowers.  Soon, the weeds take a beautiful heart and turn it very ugly.  The heart is consumed.  The garden is ruined.

The writer of the book of Hebrews in Scripture says it this way; “Watch out that no poisonous root of bitterness grows up to trouble you, corrupting many.”

It seems like the choice is ours…kill the weeds or kill the garden.

From a distance, it seems like there really is no choice to be made – you have to kill the weeds.  That’s what makes sense and yet, a lot of times, we don’t.  Many of us don’t deal with it because we think it is something that can be left that way.  It can’t.  I’ve tried.  Several years back, I was forced to deal with a lot of anger and bitterness.  To put it mildly, I was a mess of weeds.  It’s amazing how self-deceiving we can be.  I thought I was okay.  I thought because I didn’t yell, I wasn’t angry.  But the weeds were there and showed up in small ways.  I trusted with caution.  I loved with hesitation.  I had the relational capacity of a skeptic, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I was just so guarded.  So…distant.  My heart was anything but beautiful to be around.

I remember the day I killed the weeds.

It was after hearing my teaching pastor talk about forgiveness.  He said that forgiveness is seeing the debt someone owes you and being willing to say “I’m not collecting.”  That hit me deeply because that was my deal- I was still waiting to collect.  I wasn’t plotting revenge through a series of menacing deeds but I held onto the debt the same.  I just wanted it to be even.  I wanted the scales of justice to balance out.  I wanted my name cleared.  I was waiting for a letter, an email, a phone call saying “I made a terrible mistake.  I was wrong.”  I would have settled for an “I’m sorry.”

In that moment, as those words rang both painful and hopeful in my ears, I made a decision- a decision that was as much simple as it felt impossible.  I stopped collecting.  Seriously.  I’m not just saying that.  In the midst of a bitterness that was choking the life right out of me, I stopped collecting.  I felt the weeds that had been coursing through my heart die right then and there.  I felt the cold roots of bitterness ripped from the earth.  Through strength that was not my own, I completely freed my debtors.  And that day, I myself was freed.

I no longer wait for that phone call.  Would it be nice?  Sure, but I don’t need it.  They don’t need it.  They’re already forgiven.

Am I forever delivered from the temptation to go deep with my anger?  Certainly not.  I still really struggle with this.  A lot.  But through this one victory, in the moment that I ripped the weeds from the hard soil, it revealed a freedom I had forgotten…a better way of living.  Simply put, things began to green up again.  Though by no means easy, this gives me hope that the hard work of forgiveness really is worth it.

Kill the weeds or kill the garden.

I found the box in my brother’s attic. I guess somewhere along the way I just assumed it found its way to a garbage can somewhere (possibly a rightful response to leaving my stuff at my brother’s house). I just wasn’t expecting to find it.  I’m not certain why I had gone up there in the first place. Regardless of the motive, I found it tucked back deep within the eave where the roof slopes rapidly into the floor.  It required a stealthy army crawl along the plywood flooring to avoid the roofing nails protruding through the sheathing above my head but the cost of dusty clothes seemed worth the price. There it was. A white bankers box with the handwritten scribble “My junk.” (How gentle I was in describing my possessions back then.) Though I had packed this box some eight years earlier, I still knew the gist of what I would find. “The gist” it turns out, is not preparation enough. As I swiftly removed the lid, it all hit me. No, not “contents under pressure.”  Nostalgia. Though this was most certainly not a memory box since memory boxes are for girls, it was filled to the brim with memories. Trophies from sports. Programs from various ceremonies and events. Newspaper clippings detailing accomplishments. Class pictures of friends.  A mug from prom etched with the phrase “I will remember you” along with a plastic crown (regal, I know). Countless other memories, some too embarrassing to mention, in this non-“memory box” box labeled “My junk.”

I don’t know what you remember about high school. I sometimes remember more than I would like to, thanks in part to boxes full of stuff I can’t bring myself to throw out. I remember freezing cold football games and long musical rehearsals, the solitude of study hall and the freedom of leaving campus for lunch with my friends.  I remember countless books and tests and A’s and F’s.  I remember having my heart broken.  I remember losing fifty dollars that I did not have gambling in a friend’s basement.  I remember face planting on a sopping wet golf course in the Poconos on Prom weekend.  I remember laughing really hard.  Sometimes for days.  I also remember hurting deeply, sometimes for longer.

For most of us I think the high school years are some of the most confusing. We want so much to be something, to be someone, that we attach ourselves to anything that promises identity. We join teams so we can be a part of something. We study hard so we can get into somewhere. We make friends so we can belong with someone. Belong. We want so desperately just to belong.  Mixed with this confusion was an overwhelming sense of fear.

What if I’m not a part of something?

What if I don’t get into somewhere?

What if I don’t belong anywhere?

I remember the fear of not belonging being enough to make an insecure high school student desperate, and desperation is an ugly beast.  That beast told me that true belonging would be fully realized if I would just be what everyone wanted me to be.  I wasn’t so sure, but the ugly beast assured me it knew best.  So I became like a Mr. Potato Head, adding to myself whatever would make me look more human among my peers, minus Mrs. Potato Head’s parts because there has to be a line somewhere.

It’s actually quite surprising what can happen for you when you let the ugly beast guide you.  At first you may actually be caught off guard by the words you hear coming out of your own mouth – because you don’t really feel that way about that person and you know mom would not approve of the use of that word, whether as an adjective or a noun.  It gets easier and easier, however, as people start moving towards you to see what you might say next, because you’re funny, and they like that.  They really like that.  And inch by inch, you have earned your way in.  You now belong.  Well someone belongs…but it’s not really you.

So, on that winter day deep within a frosty attic, a stark reality was brought to light.  All of these things I was, I no longer am. Sure there is something to be said about these experiences making me into who I am, but I don’t mean it like that.  I’m talking about the way in which a fearful and confused high school boy utterly clung to these things as proof that he was something.  I can no longer cling to them.  No one in my world cares if I was a lead role in a musical.  No one loves me because I was prom king.  I can no longer find belonging in that.  My world just doesn’t spin that way.  It’s like the college student that still hangs out in the high school parking lot in his letterman jacket.  At some point, the jacket must come off.  These things that I found myself in got lost somewhere along the way between the Christmas decorations and my dad’s collection of Popular Mechanic magazines.  In the midst of gold-sprayed plastic and yellowing papers with curled edges, I somehow ended up in a banker’s box in the attic.

And the irony of it all?  Some ten years later, it still feels really good to lift that lid sometimes.  Maybe not physically like the bankers box in the attic, but you know what I mean.  Someone starts talking about football or whatever your thing was and your mind begins thinking how to work in the fact that you were the starting QB for your high school football team or the first who-who for the varsity what-what (extra points if you could not only work it into the conversation, but lead them to ask more).  You catch a glimpse of interest and admiration in their tone and, honestly, it’s compelling.  So you tell a little more (and exaggerate just a little) and pretty soon, the warm rays of approval are shining down upon your skin.  And that’s when you feel it.  Belonging.  In that moment, you belong.

I mean to take nothing away from you.  I love remembering the past (half the reason I can’t throw the box away).  There is nothing like sitting around with old friends laughing about the time someone said something to someone at that somewhere.  It just brings a smile to my face thinking about it.  Certainly we can visit those moments, those days when life was different than it is now…but we cannot live there.  I guess what I’m saying is this- if I am not growing…if I am not letting new people and experiences into my life…if I am not setting the past aside and living in this present reality…and I mean really present…than I might as well be in a trophy case in the school gym or in a yearbook on the bookshelf or in a white banker’s box deep within my brother’s attic.