Tag: Jeff pitts

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The Luggage of Life – New Year’s 2023

“It’s been the kind of year I’d be fine if I forgot, yeah 

But I’ll never forget it as long as I live and that’s saying a lot”

Ben Rector, The Best is Yet to Come

As the second hand continues to click a breath closer to the end of 2023 and the beginning of 2024, I find myself in a familiar position. My hands with fingers curled and soft clank of light of keys beneath them. Words start to stream on a white screen as again I try to make sense of the year that was in some hopes of hope for the year that will be. 

Maybe some famed poet such as Whitman, Hemingway, or Shakesphere eloquently described how to properly measure a year. Is it with moments or minutes? Do we measure it in months or mementos that we carry with us? Either way, the truth remains, we reflect, we look back, we remember. So this leads me to asking how will 2023 be remembered?

The recording artist Ben Rector in his New Years themed song “The Best is Yet to Come” opens with the line – “It’s been the kind of year I’d be fine if I forgot.” Well Ben, me too. Not that the year was forgetful or dull, in fact most certainly the opposite. It has been filled with swells of joy and crashing heartache and sorrow. It has been marked by memories and overrun by tidal waves of hardship. It has been full of whispers of thanksgiving and full of shouting at the heavens. In the past 364 and a half days, life has been filled. It has been filled with decisions, unexpected outcomes, pleasant and heartbreaking surprises. 

And I sit on a day the sun will set and rise on a new day, a new month, and a new year. If the Lord is willing, I will rise tomorrow to begin another revolution around the sun in a year we call 2024. And I get to be the captain of the ship of decisions – what do I take with me, what do I leave behind, what do I pick up along the journey of the year ahead?

In truth, the baggage of my life is well worn. It has seen the port of previous years. Marked and scuffed from being dragged in and out of season after season, there are probably some articles in that bag that need to not go with me. Per usual, I am overpacked for the “what ifs” of life. But maybe this year, I need to leave some things in life’s Goodwill pile and not pick them back up.

As I crack open the suitcase of my concerns, I begin to dig deep in the luggage of my life. I swim through the things I carry, I finally put my hands on insecurity. Insecurity was once a high end piece of fashion that dressed my outer self to protect my inner brokenness. It is as colorful as the tail of a peacock. It is bold, vibrant, hiding all my hurts and fears. When it was new it was beautiful, flashy, and stood out. Now it is just worn, fatigued, with holes where hurts bleed through. It can no longer act as a shell of protection of the honest emotions that seep out the seams. It is time to leave it behind. 

My hands sort and sift as my heart and eyes look in the luggage of life, I find a pair of childhood shoes. Black canvas with white soles. From first glance, they appear to be classic Converse Chuck Taylor’s. Upon further inspection, there is no name brand on them. The soles are worn with holes. Shoelaces covered in the dust of childhood baseball fields. The dusty footprints left behind I would sweep away with my foot out a shame I felt for my off brand, poor kid shoes. 

My mind and heart with the shame of feeling impoverished. These shoes that are now 10 sizes too small remain in the bag of my mind perpetually reminding me that there is not enough. Shoes I walked in but a shame I feel I have walked out my whole adult life. It was a moment, momento of nearly 40 years previous. It is an echo of a moment of years past that I packed in my life’s luggage to serve as a reminder that no matter how much you get, there is never enough. 

The shoes on my feet may be marked by designer brands, be fashion forward, but that poor kid dressed with off brand Chuck’s has lived on my life’s luggage. Carried into year and after year. Reminding me I am just a poor kid and we do not have enough. 

As I set those raggedy childhood sneakers aside, the words of the apostle Paul try to find a home in my heart. His declaration of finding the secret of being content. Whether there was a lot or a little, in times of abundance, times of struggle, he and I can do all things through Christ who is our strength. In short, I have enough. The difficulty is putting aside those shoes that no longer fit, and in truth for years haven’t and walking in what God has for me in this season. It starts with laying aside the shame of the kid who thought he didn’t have enough. 

As the clock chases closer to midnight, I continue to sort through the bag of my life. Tucked in the top pocket is a handful of heartbreak. Like shattered pieces of glass from a kaleidoscope of mirrors, I hold them in my hand. Despite all the pieces, it will never be put back together. My jagged reflection staring back off the broken pieces almost speaks to me of how I have felt as if I was unworthy of being whole, that I would always have to be broken. 

Dumping out the pieces on the once shiny insecurities and the worn out shoes of shame, I watch as each piece reflects back a man who is learning he is worthy of being loved. As I lay the shattered pieces of life to the side, I remind myself that I don’t have to live broken. 

Rearranging the pieces of life and love that I will take with me into 2024, I make sure my bag is only half packed leaving room to acquire new articles of life on this circle around the sun. I am leaving room for new friends, new adventures, and new experiences. Taking with me the wisdom of years gone by that I do not have to lug around the luggage of my past. I can simply unpack them and leave them behind. 

In the distance “may old acquaintances be forgot” is being sung and I am going to kiss my wife at the strike of midnight with the luggage of life a little lighter walking into the new year.
 

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Miracles Still Happen

**These words were written 4 days after Avery’s accident.

May 4th, 2023

In typical fashion I find myself escaping with words on a page. I have tried to have them on my tongue, but the emotions just keep coming from my eyes as words escape my speech. 

It is day 4 (I think), she’s asleep in a chair. We are waiting for a room on the floor to finally leave the ICU. It has been both Heaven and Hell. It has been anguish wrapped in the miracles of God’s glory. It is a far cry from the scene of Monday afternoon. 

We say phrases like “life is fragile” and “days are short”, but the delicacy of days and life somehow collide in the space of seeing your child in danger. Somewhere between the urgent call and 15 minutes it took to get there, my mind ran a million different directions. When I arrived my imaginations were replaced by reality. My baby girl trapped in a car screaming. It was like a scene from a movie. Car parts scattered everywhere. Flashing lights from an assortment of emergency vehicles. Me, a desperate parent, running toward the wreckage. A police officer doing his job reassured me they were doing everything possible. I stood helpless watching, waiting.

Time stops, rewinds, and speeds by all in a blink. Every instant is frozen in my brain. Her screams to get her out haunt me. The mangled mess of the vehicle sitting still in the middle of the road. The blink of flashing red, blue, and white lights burned deep in my memory. All at the same time are the past moments of what had led us there. The first time I held her after she was born. The day before when I squeezed her close and kissed the top of her head as finished Sunday lunch at Tres. The last year where we had worked hard in therapy to recover some broken pieces of our relationship from previous trauma. And time in that same moment takes wings and flies fast and far away.

I watched as the EMS vehicle sped away. My daughter in the back with her last words to me “daddy come with me”. I briefly stepped out and they were gone. As I gathered myself and pieces of life that came out of the car, I drove off with uncertainty. Holding tight to my belief that God does miracles and the simple words of a man I had never met tell me she was going to be okay. In this moment, this was the definition of faith – attempting to have hope and certainty in what was so unknown. 

From the twisted metal of the vehicle is the message of a miracle. God’s protective hand. I do not want to make a mess of theology. Yet, the word for the Holy Spirit in the Greek language is wind or air. Every air bag deployed in the car. They did their job.  Yet, even with top technology, it is hard to explain how protected Avery was. My best description is the “pneuma” of God – the air, the wind, the breath – surrounded her. Am I saying there was a Heavenly air-bag that deployed? With one look at the vehicle, I am not sure there is any other explanation. The Holy Spirit of God was in that car with her. And I will say with certainty that is how she survived.

We will have to navigate a period of recovery. Her body will hurt. The places where surgery was done will take time to heal. But today, she’s alive. Today, she will hobble a few steps with a walker. In a few days she will navigate life on crutches. In six weeks, she will fully walk on two legs again. Despite difficult days lying ahead, today I rejoice for the deployment of something miraculous in that vehicle on Monday. Miracles still happen.

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A Door God Shut

Shut doors

“The door that closed kept us from entering a room, but what now lies before us is the rest of reality.”
Parker Palmer

A door God closed

It was a fairly normal morning. 5 AM alarm buzzed and played some tingling chimes. I put the coffee on to brew. Exercised for my body and my brain. Picked up my Bible and journal like I do nearly every morning. As pen found paper, the I fought back frustration of circumstantial situations and a door God shut.

Things that had been outside my control had spun a way I was not expecting. So leaning into my Heavenly Father via written word, I verbalized my lack of understanding. Somehow through the years, I have found the safest place to speak is in silent words printed on a page in a spiral bound book of paper. As I asked the Lord why this particular door seem closed, locked, and dead bolted shut, I felt the whisper of heaven in my heart say “Shut doors do not mean I have shut you out.”

Let me clarify, I have never heard the audible voice of any person of the holy trinity. No booming voices from heaven have broke the sound barrier. No sweet songs of angels singing over me. Yet, I believe God still speaks. On this particular wet fall morning, I needed him to and he did. I think all of us feel this way at some point. We stand beating a door with bloodied knuckles anxiously asking God to open it up. In our human perspective we see the secured door as God shutting us out from something we feel we want, maybe even deserve. When in truth, there may be nothing behind the door meant for us anyway. Yet, when the door refuses to swing open, we are hurt, upset, even discouraged.

Closed doors are often distractions from the open blessing God does have for us. I wonder how many times I have been standing at the wrong door looking for God to open it. When all along God was just trying to redirect me to another door that he did have.

I am working hard on some things in me, they do not come easy. I am trying to see closed doors as blessings not barriers. I am trying to learn to quit knocking on doors God has no intention on ever opening. And I am simply trying to listen better because the closed door that I think I want to enter in, may just be a way of God redirecting my steps to door I need to go through.

When we “knock, knock” God already knows who’s there. He does not have to ask. He opens the door. Welcomes us in and says I have been waiting on you. Just find the right door.

Broken and getting okay

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Why I Started The Collectives Co. Podcast

Why I Started The Collectives Co. Podcast

“Criticism is cheap. Anybody can criticize. Creating something of value is significantly more difficult.”
~Brene Brown

I remember the morning. It was a cold February day in Tennessee. I was sort of frustrated with Jesus, which had been a pattern of the season. In my morning devotional, I did something I rarely did. I asked the Lord to specifically bring me to mind of someone.

This is not a normal prayer practice, nor one I think is a pattern for repeating every day. That morning, that day, I needed a reminder that God had things for me to do still.

Buzz. Buzz

I keep the ringer off on my phone, but the double buzz indicated a text. It was from my friend Rob Fultz, Campus Pastor at Lee University. The text simply said “I need to talk to you about something.” 90% of the time, those words are never followed by a conversation of anything good. Yet, with Rob, the ever on an adventure of life, there was no telling where they were headed.

Later that afternoon, we sat in his office sipping black coffee slowly as is an important layer of our friendship, when he told me he had a dream. Rob does not speak lightly when it comes to the things of the Lord, so when Rob tells a dream, it is either ridiculously funny or Jesus interrupted his sleep. It was that latter that night. He goes on to say “when I woke up, the Lord brought you to my mind.”

That day lead to a conversation about life and directions. One we had already had several times. This one was more pointed. In truth, our first endeavor on a partnership was to co-write a book. After weeks of grinding out outlines, sample pages, and big thoughts, what we quickly realized is the one question that bound our hearts together we could not answer. That question was — “why are the leaving?”

The implied “they” was college students and young adults. The “leaving” was the church and faith. Which lead to a bigger question, “will they come back?” Without great answers to great big questions, what we quickly realized is the need to engage in conversations that can help us answer those questions.

That was the birthing pains of The Collectives Co. Our lack lead us to a search to discover what we did not know. The search was cause for invitation to bring others into the conversation.

The Collectives Co Podcast

So this Summer and early Fall, we sat down, zoomed in, and talked with key leaders, young adults in the space, pastors, thought leaders, and anyone willing to have a conversation with us about this topic. What we wanted was to create something of value for anyone who listens. Create a tool and resource for those who care for and minister to Gen Z and Millennials.

Our hope is that if you are a leader, a parent, a grandparent, a pastor, or a just person who cares for the next generation, you will find these conversations helpful. So that you can join us at the table.

#bethecollectives

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