On Monday, I had such a fun time getting to chat with Chris Fabry on his life radio program from Moody in Chicago. Actually, it has been a privilege throughout the summer to be able to chat with several terrific hosts about the topic of finding contentment in the midst of what seems to be relentless opportunities to compare. Comparison is one of those shruggable things that is easy to say, glad I don’t do that – feel bad for the folks that do. Which is really where I probably sat before delving into it. Comparison can take happy or sad situations and make them bad or worse. It sneaks its way into almost any given situation and does what T. Roosevelt so aptly put, robs us of joy. So on Chris’s show, he opened in the most unusual and compelling way. He transparently shared about ways comparison creeps into his life, then he invited
Among the many sickening, literally nauseating, stories in the news this week (i.e. #anotherboy), I found myself grieving over this from the New York Times: Tears literally rolled down my cheeks as my heart ached/aches for kids (like Kathryn DeWitt whose story is documented), for parents, for teachers, for counselors and all of us who are seemingly prisoners, shackled to never-satisfied societal standards. Though standards and expectations have always existed, there’s something about today’s landscape that tightens the vice grip. Finding no way to satisfy the elusive, unattainable mark to measure up, Kathryn finally “…researched whether the university returned tuition to parents of students who die by suicide, and began cutting herself to “prepare” for the pain.” Agony. It’s
“I’m not on social media or Facebook or anything,” a friend told me yesterday when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Both of us racing in for a quick-grab (that instantly became not-so-quick) stopped & paused to catch up. “So,” she continued, “it’s hard to relate to Sam (name-changed teen) as she processes and struggles with feeling left out or less-than.” “Oh,” I sighed. “I get it.” She told me how Sam had come home from camp – a week away from technology – and almost instantly started to struggle under the weight of her friends’ photo feeds. One pic-set in particular showed her friends’ selfie action at the pool. The hardest part for Sam, one of the pool-pic friends had only hours before declined getting
“When I was your age… (fill in the blank).” We’ve all said it. It usually involves some reference to hardship. I said it on a recent drive to my brother’s lake house. Mine went a little something like this: “When I was your age, my brothers and sister and I endured looong car trips every summer. And the air-conditioning was a bit lacking – no vents in the back seats of our blue station wagon. We would fight for a spot in hopes of just a few wisps of coolness to come our way.” I think my comment was spurred by someone being hot. Or could have been the motel we passed that reminded me of our family’s August car-trip-vacations. It was a scary motel, covered in dark wood siding. Each of It’s 10 rooms had tiny little window units and metal doors that led to the smoldering parking lot.