Virtual Lives and Lost Worlds

Looking back, future generations might see the first decade of the twenty-first century as humanity's great omega point, the moment when physical reality grew so unbearable and physical existence so unfulfilling that we began abandoning the physical world.  We grew tired of quandaries and dilemmas and the tedium of what we perceived as an uninspired life.  The virtual world was a respite, a cool electronic reprieve devoid of problems that plagued the natural world, that weighed down our personal lives and known reality.  We plunged headfirst into cyberspace where we chatted, messaged and played, finding temporary fulfillment in the illusion of pretend, boldly experimenting with second lives.  Ecosystems were dying and our bodies were atrophying, memories were being discarded and moments were being lost, but our minds were alive.  We lived for the electronic epiphanies and virtual thrills of a purely cerebral realm.  We became buzzing hives of activity in a strange new world.

Meanwhile open spaces were vanishing, glaciers were melting, seasons were changing.  And when we least expected it, life and what it had become threw us an existential curveball; our virtual lives suddenly lost their shine.  We grew weary of the buzzing, beeping and chiming, the tweeting, texting, and poking; of sleeping with our iPhones and living in our self-absorbed electronic identities.  We started yearning for more, more than cyberspace could give.  Our Blackberry could not imitate the taste of the wild fruit that bears its name.  Our tweets could not duplicate one's joy and laughter.  Our social media sites could not replicate the warm embrace of another human being.  What we had experienced as children had become foreign to our own. The lessons of scrapes and cuts. The thrill of running through a forest.  The beauty of chasing butterflies. Nostalgic recollections of falling in love, flirtatious notes from a secret admirer, carved initials in a heart-shaped monogram in the bark of a tree, exhilarating feelings of hearts thumping and pounding.

We longed to roam free from our virtual lives and rediscover a world that was lost, a world we could remember.  But we found it difficult to go back.  We had been gone so long, had neglected so much.  The natural world as we remembered it had become a foreign place.  We forgot how to communicate face to face, causing relationships to feel stagnant and vacant, finding little in common.  Our lives were concentrically woven in an exquisite mirrored labyrinth that reflected our own self-guided fantasies and hopes, of which none made us content.  We suffered the consequences and learned the truth, discovering the cost of humanity's Faustian bargain with the virtual world; our lives seemed busy and occupied, yet were empty and unfulfilled.

We turned our backs on the real world for a few cheap thrills in cyberspace.  We could not recall all the empty tweets, only our empty hearts.  We had hundreds of cyber friends, few real friends.  When we needed someone, our online buddies could not hug or hold, speak or comfort.  They could chime, ring, and post empty words on a screen.  Roaming in a lost world, we yearned for our childhood memories and experiences; neighbors on porches, family movie nights, hide and seek, the joy of discovery.  We missed a sensory world of sights and sounds, of touch and feel; the icy coolness of a Slurpee on a hot and miserable day, licking lollipops and holding hands, soft hair gently blowing in the wind.  We craved the beauty in the simple, the alluring fresh fragrance after the first rain, the tranquility of quiet moonlit moments, the stillness of sunrises and sunsets.  We ached for experiences which heightened our awareness; a leisurely walk through narrow streets, a quiet lunch in a favorite restaurant, hand in hand strolls somewhere, enchanting road trips to nowhere.

Our story is far from over.  The ending is still being written.  There is time to realize that new beginnings start with one magic moment, the moment when one person wakes up and comes alive and begins to act quickly and swiftly to restore order and find life in the beauty, mystery, and grandeur of ordinary existence.  May this be the first day of the rest of your life in a rediscovered world.

"God If You're Real I Hope You Are Benevolent"

Those words were his last thought as he fell through the air, seconds from what he hoped would be his impending death.  As helicopters circled above and spectators watched below, successful attorney Robert Behlen leaped from the fifth floor ledge of a hospital in Oklahoma City.  Live television cameras captured this unbelievable scene for all the world to see.  Moments before rescue workers could reach him, he did the unthinkable and jumped.  As the screams and shrieks grew silent and the cameras focused on the deathly still human form, all who were watching believed they witnessed the horrifying passing of someone who was once a shining star, the tragic ending of a good life gone bad.  They were wrong.  Miraculously, Behlen survived. 

After some time, he opened his eyes and saw a kaleidoscope of grays, like a winter sky, threatening and heavy.  He blinked and looked again.  Strobing flashes of black and white, pulsating and blinding.  He attempted to move.  Nothing.  He made an effort to sit up.  No response.  Then the pain hit him with the power and force of a volcanic eruption.  He felt sharp, stabbing points of torture everywhere.  Panic exploded inside of him.  He was still alive.  Fear and trepidation overcame him as his mind started racing.  "I should be dead ... this can't be ... I am an atheist ...."  A thunderstorm of confusion was raging inside his head and his last thought after he jumped came rushing back, "God if you are real, I hope you are benevolent."  Then he passed out.

Robert Behlen was one of the most successful Civil Attorneys in Oklahoma City.  He was a skilled litigator who attracted large cases.  His firm was highly regarded and brought in millions of dollars annually.  He had no material wants or needs.  He was living his dreams, practicing law, raising his three sons.  During a complex and stressful trial he experienced chest pains. He was rushed to the hospital.   It was discovered that his right lung had collapsed and he was immediately hospitalized.  To alleviate his physical pain he was given morphine as he recovered.  Upon release he was prescribed Oxycontin.  He became addicted and could not break free.  When his prescription expired, he was told that heroin had the same effect.  He was hooked after the first injection.  His law practice continued to flourish and grow.  So did his craving for heroin.  Eventually his habit was costing hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.  As a result of years of addiction, something had to give.  His finances did.  More than a decade of heroin use pillaged his life savings and retirement funds.  Eventually his habit's cost exceeded his annual income.  The lack of finances did not end his cravings.  It only intensified his need.  So one night push came to shove.  In an act of desperation, he robbed a pharmacy at gunpoint, demanding all its Oxycontin and Demerol.  And this act led him to county jail, a federal indictment, two suicide attempts, and a five-year federal prison sentence. 

I met Robert at the Federal Correctional Institution here in Austin, Texas.  He is one of my co-workers in the Law Library.  Without a doubt, he is one of the most intellectually gifted individuals I have ever known.  He possesses a brilliant mind, a vast and expansive vocabulary, and an astonishing memory.  He can recite passages from hundreds of novels and recall lines and scenes from films unlike anyone I have ever met.  Due to my years spent in the ministry and his professed atheism, we have had countless conversations about the existence of God.  His inquisitive mind and great intellect have led to challenging questions I have had to ponder and research for days, sometimes weeks, before I could give a rational and intelligent response.  Our debates of apologetics have created an environment of openness and transparency about our personal lives.

Recently, we discussed his future and upcoming release from prison.  During our conversation I sensed he had a tendency to see the road ahead through a filter of doubt and worry, smudged by age and the stains of a squandered life, a felony conviction, and the shame of his suicide attempt becoming a media circus.  After listening to his thoughts, I felt compelled to share these words with him: "Bob your past is not your future.  Allow your story of recovery and overcoming to be an inspiration to millions.  Let your new freedom empower you.  Don't cower away and hide from your failures.  Embrace the shame and the pain, causing you to reach new heights, pushing you to rise above the ruins of your past.  Use your education and intellect, your story and all its exposure to assist and help others, lifting them from the muck and mire of personal failure.  Whether you want to believe it or not, there is a God who loves you and still has a plan for your life.  A great plan."  That last comment caused him to roll his eyes and left him with a very puzzled look on his face.  I continued, ''Your addiction to heroin was fueled by more than morphine and Oxycontin; it was more than the fleeting emotional highs and euphoric feelings.  What really fueled your addiction was your inner emptiness.  Deep within you were disconnected.  In your daily life you connected with a career, found meaning in your family, discovered and attained financial success.  Yet you were still empty, you longed for something more.  That longing is the story of humanity.  And it can only be filled by experiencing God's love and forgiveness.  God is the source of all life and fulfillment.  He can breathe life into what you see as a flatlined future.  There is a life awaiting you that is bigger than anything you can dream or imagine.  There is a reason you are still alive and have been given a wide berth in death.  You have survived two suicide attempts and an addiction that should have killed you a long time ago.  Seize what God has for you because it is very real."  Then I asked him this question, "If you were truly an atheist, why would your last thought as you jumped to your hopeful death be, "God, if you’re real, I hope you are benevolent?"

Following are two links to the live news coverage of events mentioned above.  I am sure you will find it riveting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnZG6MDozI4  (drugstore robbery)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FKWKncFaAI    (jump from fifth floor ledge)

Beaches

Lessons of life and love, of wonder and surprise, of gain and loss are learned on the water’s edge.  At land's end, perspective shifts from an enclosed inland sense of security to a sensory adventure on the horizon.  Standing on any frontier of sand, as far as the eye can see, an endless expanse of blue and turquoise and aqua, of sun and warmth, stretching and stretching to the infinity of the ocean's edge, making us aware of the dual sense of awe and angst, teaching us that life is more than shorelines.

Wonder dawns on the beach.  Beaches show us there is something miraculous about life.  They awaken us, rousing our hopes and dreams, stimulating our energy, enabling us to see past ourselves, beyond safety, understanding there is a world that extends further than our self-made securities, reminding us that life is meant to be lived.  On a beach we feel revived.  It can speak to luxury, a hotel room with an ocean view.  It can speak to romance, a warm embrace and moonlit kiss.  It can speak to intimacy, a blanket and the love of your life.  It can speak to discovery, a walk of contemplations.  The beach makes us younger, more fearless, more open, more courageous.  Dive for that Frisbee.  Ride that wave.  Swim to that spot.  Beaches put us outside ourselves.  Magical moments are lived and experienced, reminding us that we are no longer home and bound by typical routine, but rather we are standing somewhere inspirational and all its discoveries await us.

My travels have taken me to shorelines throughout the world.  I have encountered beaches on the edge of all four oceans, the planet's three largest seas, and a multitude of islands found in various spots all over our globe.  I have stood on the most beautiful beaches in the world.  No matter where I have been, standing there, facing the vast span of liquid blue, gazing into an endless horizon, the feelings are always the same.  The beach evokes this in me, it awakens something inside of me.

If we did not have beaches, we would have to invent them, for the best therapy in the world is beach therapy.  Children understand this more than anyone else.  Is there any place on earth a child is happier than at the beach?  They bury themselves in sand.  Dig holes and trenches.  Hunt for seashells.  Attempt to outrun waves.  And they always build sand castles.

Building a sand castle is a lot like living your life.  Both require a healthy balance of good sense and perpetual risk to have any worth.  Build it too close to the water, and the castle will get washed away before you can finally enjoy it.  Build it too far from the water, and there is no danger involved, no excitement, no fun.  Some castle builders create an elaborate filigree of towers, spires, and minarets.  Their creations are astounding and magnificent.  Not mine.  I have never been an artist.  My sand castles are more like fortified bunkers.  Deep trenches, thick walls, moats to protect against the enemy.  As children, we play games and create fantasies.  We temporarily live within these self-made illusions.  Especially at the beach.  For me the ocean was not just the ocean.  It was wave after wave of attacking armies, barbarians at the gate.  I would build impenetrable walls to guard my kingdom from the rage of the ocean sent to attack with its waves of water.  The moats and deep trenches protected my kingdom, my castle, my people, and of course my princess.  I was the noble king defending my empire with every grain of sand within reach.

This scene from the days of childhood is similar to everyday life.  There are certain barbarians with whom we all must deal; unkind people at work, neighbors who are difficult, or some big, ugly, indefinable thing lurking somewhere in the back of our minds.  Oceans of life send attacking waves of obstacles, difficulties, and problems to penetrate our kingdom, attempting to plunder and loot life's joys and blessings.

On our last family vacation to Hawaii, my three daughters and I engaged ourselves in building sand castles.  We spent hours on Waikiki Beach digging deep into the sand to fortify our position.  Each girl was assigned a job.  Abby built the north and south walls, then placed the castle's flags.  Shayne was responsible for the east and west walls, along with scooping up ocean water to strengthen the walls.  Shelby, with her little blue bucket and red shovel in hand, helped Daddy dig the trenches and was responsible to inform us of approaching waves.  Her high-pitched shrieks and dancing feet - covered in baby-pink aqua shoes - gave us adequate warning of attacking waves.  We always knew when the barbarians were coming.  After hours of building, the sun finally set.  The girls were excited our kingdom survived.  Throughout the night, they made periodic dashes to our hotel room balcony and glanced down at the beach to see if our empire was still standing.  The next morning, they were up bright and early, filled with anticipation, hoping our castle had withstood the assaults of the barbarians' night attacks, praying the sea did not reclaim our creation.

Of course the ocean always wins.  You just accept this with sand castles.  You may have lost the battle, but you won the war.  You walk away from the beach with your little kingdom destroyed, but with your big kingdom, the kingdom of life, intact.  And the drawbacks of the place - sunburn, wet clothes, sand where we do not want it - are overshadowed by its delights.  We might be more comfortable at home, but we would lose a little consciousness.  We would be a little less alive.

Somalia

Deep inside the border, guns were firing and bullets were spraying in numerous

directions.  At times they were within a few feet of my body and yet at times they were a world away.  This was determined by the frame of mind I chose to be in.  Considering the situation in which I found myself, I was holding up pretty well.  It's amazing what crosses your mind when you reach the point in your life where you admit to yourself, it could all end today.

Before I set out for this country, I had a premonition something like this would

happen.  All reports I had read about Somalia encouraged what I experienced.  So you go to a land of war and famine with certain pictures in the back of your mind.  You expect the worst and the reality of the situation is far more disastrous than what you first envisioned.

I was traveling by convoy from Baidoa to Mogadishu.  In the process we would

cross tension areas.  However, we were told things would be relatively safe.  We had our own hired protection.  Plenty of young men brandishing Soviet and U.S. weapons. Our convoy consisted of three passenger vehicles, two transport vehicles carrying supplies, and three protection vehicles loaded with freelance soldiers, hired to protect relief and United Nations workers.  Things went smoothly for about two hours.  And then all hell broke loose.

It happened so fast, making it hard to recall the events.  First, there were two

vehicles ahead blocking the road.  I assumed there would be trouble, but I never

anticipated or imagined what happened next.  When our hired hands saw the vehicles, they immediately began to fire their weapons.  And sure enough, the opposition fired back.  It was strange for me to be in an environment where no one negotiated through conversation.   Negotiating in this country came down to who had the best weapons and most ammunition.  Fortunately we did on this day.

After about forty-five minutes, the firing ceased.  Our enemy grabbed their

wounded, threw them into their vehicles and sped off.  We did the same.  And that was it.  Just like that.  To me it was mind-boggling.  To the Somalis traveling with us, it was normal.  And to the U.N. and relief workers that had been in the country for some time, it was somewhere in the middle of the two extremes.  “Welcome to Somalia,” they told me.  After sitting in stunned silence for a few moments, I finally asked for an explanation to what was just experienced.  Most could not answer.  For they really did not know.  They just dismissed it as life in Somalia.

Somalia is unlike any place I have ever been.  One cannot even understand or comprehend the horrendous situation without being there.  Maybe a page out of my journal can paint the picture more accurately.

Driving through Mogadishu's streets is a nightmare.  Every building is bombarded and

bullet ridden.  Women wrapped in black shawls walk toward feeding centers, hoping to find food for themselves and their babies.  Holding their heads, children are crying while fighting for food. Under a palm tree I see skeletal bodies lying unconscious.   On every street I see glass- eyed people with heads too big for their bodies.  All along the roadside, people are standing watching the sun, shielding their eyes and brushing flies from their faces.  Armed teenagers are visible everywhere.  All around the villages and towns, many of these young men are dying.  Most could not tell you what they are fighting for.

Every few hundred yards or so, I see dead bodies.  There are no wrappings or coverings,

they lay there as if they were asleep.  I am told that a truck comes by every morning picking up the bodies of the previous night's dead.  They are then wrapped in food sacks which held rice donated by the United States and then transferred to Somali grave diggers who will drive truckloads of bodies to makeshift cemeteries out in the bush.  Usually the numbers add up to over 1200 a day throughout Somalia.  I feel paralyzed by the horror I am witnessing.   I cannot write any more.

One lesson I learned in Somalia is this:  big government action will not bring

lasting change.  Neither can we rely on the United Nations to serve as a moral enforcer or a solver of the problems this world is faced with.  In most of these situations they seem powerless.  And as this world expands, population explodes, we will inevitably be faced with more Somalia type situations.   As I write, there are screams coming from all over this stained planet. Human advancement and better technology do not silence the cries. Technology cannot change hearts, heal wounds, and wipe away tears.  Neither can human advancement.  And big government and billions of dollars will not produce

lasting change. I have found only one thing that can transform a broken and

bruised world.  Only one.  Compassion.  Nothing else.  And compassion is conspicuous by its absence in many of our lives. This is evident by our actions and what we choose as priorities. The insatiable desire to focus on ourselves causes us to become immune. Numb. Sidetracked. Blind.

It was through my experience in Somalia that I learned the true meaning of

compassion.  Through all the suffering and horror, I realized compassion is not

sympathy.  Neither is it pity.  And it's more than a desire to help.  Much more.

Compassion is action.  It's responding to needs without hesitation or emotional stirring. It's simply seeing each person on this planet as a person of worth and value, regardless of their situation.  Compassion is a gut-wrenching sense of the needs of others that motivates us to action.

Somalia caused me to feel some of the deepest pain and heartache I have ever felt. It also caused me to feel joy.  Compassion is what linked these opposites.  Pain and heartache were felt because of the horrendous suffering of people.  Joy was experienced because of a light in the middle of that dark hell.  This light was an old man. His story caused me to feel something I have not felt in a long time.  His example taught me a powerful lesson:  through compassion  . . .   pain will become the bridge to a new joy.  

Hassan Mursa is sixty-four years of age.  His life has not been one of great

excitement.    Most of it has been spent in a small village in central Somalia.   For the last five decades he has been a shepherd and farmer.   Over the last fifty years, almost everyday has been the same - wake up at the break of dawn, watch a few animals, plow a little land, search for food and water, and retire to a dirt floor when the sun sets.

Hassan had a large family.  This was his pride and joy.  He loved playing with his sixteen grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.  One of his greatest thrills had been teaching his children and grandchildren how to hunt.   He was looking forward to passing down the teachings to his third generation offspring.  But then Somalia was devastated by its current crisis.  As a result, his great grandchildren would have to wait. Survival was now the main priority for the family.  Quickly, most of Hassan's male children found themselves joining the army of their respective clan.  Older grandchildren soon followed.  And off to war they went.  None returned.

Eventually, food could no longer be found in and around the village.  Slowly death crept in.  It never left.  Within four months, seventy percent of the village died.  All were victims of hunger and disease.  Hassan was now the only adult male alive in the village.  He knew something had to be done.  So early one morning he gathered all the remaining survivors in the village and informed them it was time to leave.  They could no longer wait for husbands and sons to return from war.  Time had run out.  It was either leave or die.  And so the exodus began.  Over sixty people began to walk into an uncertain future following a weak and frail sixty-four year old man.

After three days of walking, fourteen had died.  In this group lay two of the five

great grandchildren.  Two days later another sixteen were captured by death.  Hassan's three daughters were among the victims.  But on he went.  His large family of thirty-seven had now dwindled down to eight.  Three-grandchildren, two-great grandchildren, two daughters-in-law, and himself.

Along the way, Hassan saw bodies everywhere.  Death was striking whom it pleased. Villages were abandoned. Carcasses lay strewn along roadsides.  Vehicles were destroyed.  Towns were blown up.  Somalia looked like Armageddon.  Hassan hated what he saw.  How could his own people turn against each other and destroy their own country?  This question haunted him.  Yet, Hassan never lost hope.    Onward he pressed.  

During his journey, Hassan found others wandering aimlessly in search of help.  Mostly women and children.  All were members of opposing clans.  In other words, they were the enemy.  Hassan despised these people.  After all, their families were partly responsible for killing his.  He could gladly ignore them and leave them to die.  The thought of taking this particular form of vengeance brought to light what ruled Hassan's heart.  And at that point, Hassan became appalled by the hatred he saw in his own heart.  He was trapped by the very evil he despised.  Even if he found a feeding center and survived, what freedom could he ever find when his soul was imprisoned by murderous hate?  He now understood where the real war in Somalia was being waged . . .  in the heart.     

So Hassan battled his own soul and fought off his personal feelings.  And what he did as a result was courageous.  Recognizing where the real war was, he moved forward to bring peace and healing.   He took the enemy in and allowed them to join his group.  In the midst of trying to ensure his own survival and the survival of remaining family members, compassion took over.  He saw others worse off than himself.  A trickle of light was now shining brightly in a very dark situation.  There was hope for Somalia.  Compassion was the source of this hope.

Finally, after twelve days of searching, Hassan and his group of forty arrived at a

Red Cross feeding station.   After walking over one hundred miles on nothing but hope, there was a chance for survival.  Of the original villagers, only thirteen made it. Of the enemy picked up along the way, twenty-seven survived.  And of Hassan’s family, only three remained; a granddaughter, a great grandson and himself.  In the process of losing most of his family and friends, Hassan Mursa reached out to others in need. Compassion was displayed.  And lives on the brink of death now had a second chance. Pain had indeed become the bridge to a new joy for at least forty people.  Compassion built that bridge.  

Sitting here, reflecting on the courage of one man's compassion, I think I know

what Hassan's new joy is.  Remember the great grandson, the only one to survive.  He is going to learn to hunt.  The one he calls grandpa is going to teach him.  In the process, I have a feeling the great grandson is going to learn a little more than hunting. He will learn how to build bridges.  May we learn to build them as well.

Let’s not become calloused people. Reach out to those less fortunate.  Build a bridge.  You just might feel something you have not felt in a long time.  And in the process  . . .  in someone's world  . . .  pain will become the bridge to a

new joy.

Leaving

I took off and left for a place where no one was waiting for me to arrive.   No friends, no family, no familiar surroundings.   For a short time, I was leaving all this behind.   I would live in a realm where truth was hidden, where it would be harder to pin down.  This would be a place beyond security and the well-defined shadows of life which have shaded me from looking deep within to examine what really occupied the cornerstone of my heart.

This particular journey was something I wanted to do for years.  There was a bizarre fascination with the place I was headed.  Probably an obsession.  At first, I could not tell you why.  I simply found myself consumed with thoughts of Beirut, Lebanon.  Perhaps it was the mysteries that lay hidden deep within this particular nation.  It could have been the danger and terror that got the best of my curiosity . . .  the stories and lives of the American hostages, the unnecessary killings, the obliteration of a nation and city for no apparent reason.  All these particular thoughts created a driving force in my heart, haunting me with the question "Why?" 

After reading every book I could get my hands on, I still had no real answers to satisfy my questions in regards to the fighting, killings, and wars this country and city were plagued with.  Eventually, I felt I needed to travel to Beirut in order to learn more and finally obtain valid answers to my questions. Something which could only be found in Beirut.   So I pursued the possibility of entering Lebanon.  After months of research, letter writing, and making contacts, I received a visa to enter Lebanon.  

No one can impart belief to another.  Truth yes.  Doctrine yes.  History yes.  But not belief.  Belief is something we must find for ourselves.  It is a personal possession.  A life lived in conformity to accepted beliefs always makes it debatable whether a choice has ever really been made in regards to those beliefs.   In most cases, belief is something which was handed down, not chosen by a gut wrenching search with one's own soul, mind, and heart. Most of us have been shaped by our environment.  We are defined by it.  Our beliefs have been handed down and taken root in our heart without ever making a personal choice in regards to them.  And this was the main reason for my leaving  . . .  to find, to search, to know what was mine and what was handed down, to make it real.

All of us are creatures in search of something new, something genuine, something fulfilling.  Most of us find ourselves driven by some unknown force inside.  It's something that causes us to long for something real and something new.  Yet most never experience this newness and realness because they are afraid to leave.  This fear grips a heart with unshakeable force because the truth which lies inside has never been possessed.  It has lain dormant in the halls of theory and knowledge.

It is said that leaving is "Sweet Sorrow."   Sorrow because leaving signals the end of an era, a time that can be no more.  Sweet because it puts you on the threshold of something new, something that cannot be unless something is left behind.   Mixed emotions characterize leaving at its best.  And so it was with me.  Landing in Beirut was accompanied by emotions that were diametrically opposed.  Fear and faith, worry and assurance, trust and doubt, joy and sadness, pleasure and pain.  I am sure these same feelings envelop every aspect of leaving.  In the terminal, my mind wanders and I envision what I am feeling.

Standing in silence, I feel my heart pounding.  A picture flashes through my mind.  A young man is sitting in the passenger seat of a car.  His mom is in the driver's seat.  As they arrive at the airport, there is an awkward quietness.  People who have known each other for years are now finding it extremely difficult to come up with words.  Quickly, the son grabs his bags and begins his walk to the terminal.  Mom is not ready for him to go.  She scampers after him and waits for him at the edge of the ticket counter.  After checking in, the son and mom stroll slowly toward the gate.  The conversation settles around the past.  The times which once were.  The growing up years.  The first real romance.  The athletic accomplishments.  Each new sentence begins with "Remember."  There is no hint of what the future holds.  No conversation in refers to the future.  Only the past.  Yes, on this day, the past will be the main topic. And then it's time to go.  The flight is boarding.  The son, crying softly, grabs mom, hugs her, kisses her, and tells her he loves her.  Mom does the same.  He then boards his flight and ventures out on his own for the first time.  He is saying good-bye to a time that will be no more.  He is leaving.  And it hurts.  But now he will discover what is his.

I remember reading Boris Becker's feelings that he jotted in his journal after winning Wimbledon in 1985 at the age of seventeen.  One would think that this young man would be feeling as though he was on top of the world.  Surely he would be experiencing incredible feelings of adulation and joy.  A tremendous high.  On this day you would believe that Boris Becker was the happiest and most content person in the world.  After all he won the most prestigious crown in tennis.  But Boris writes in his journal that he was feeling empty and depressed after winning.  I know why he felt this way.  Not more than thirty minutes after receiving the coveted trophy, the crowd goes home.  The Stadium is silent.  The competition is over.  There remains nothing to be conquered.  It has been accomplished.  And so you wind up alone in the locker room taking a shower.  Then you grab your bag and head out the door for the last time.  You are leaving a moment in history.  And this moment will never be replayed.  Boris Becker was depressed and empty because he was leaving.  Leaving the moment, the experience, the event.  Leaving always hurts.

There is pain that always comes with leaving.  No matter what you leave it hurts. Whether it's a dream, a place, a person, a time in your life, it hurts to leave.  Leaving is hard.  Especially one aspect of leaving.  The cruelest part of leaving.  The part where you have to go.  You have run out of time.  The last minutes.  The end.  I wondered, “Why is it so hard to leave?”

The last minutes are so hard because of the fear of unanswered questions.  Can we find the same kind of fulfillment the thing being left once brought?  Can we reach the same depth of relationship with new people in our lives?  Will we ever experience romance again? Can we make it in a new environment? These questions are a few of the hundreds that plague an individual who is about to leave.  In many cases, the pain and fear that leaving brings causes multitudes of individuals to stay shackled in a prison of security.  This prison never allows people to discover who they are, and it hinders them from taking ownership of their lives to discover brand new vistas and horizons.

When I look back on my life I see many things left behind.    At one point there were certain views and opinions I would have died for.  They were needed at a certain stage in life.  They caused growth for a time.  Then I reached a day where they began to hinder.  They had to be left or they would have crippled. It was hard to leave.  Extremely hard.  But it had to be done or it would have brought stagnation and mediocrity to my life.   My leaving for Beirut followed along this same pattern.  It was either leave and discover something new or lock myself in a prison cell of doubt and wondering, chained by security.  So I chose to leave.  And it was in Beirut where I discovered  . . .   the hardest thing to leave is who we are.

Most of us want to move on and leave the securities that no longer satisfy our longings.  But we also fear the cold reality of living without them.  It's hard to leave our comfort zones.    From the time we came into this world we kicked and screamed when we left the warm and safe environment.  Back then it was our mother's womb.  Today we create and build our own wombs.  Anything can be a womb in one's life.  Our mothers' bodies were rude to us.  They forced us out.  Should we find ourselves in another womb later in life, we are the ones left to do the pushing.  And if we would grow, follow the path to someplace new, higher, better; we will have to become more heartless with ourselves.   We will have to leave.  If we are not careful, the cord that gave us life for a season could very well choke the life out of us if we do not cut it and leave.  This would leave nothing but a corpse.

Lebanon taught me much about myself.   I realized that many times I am not honest with myself.  It's easy for me to get up in front of a group of people and exercise a great amount of faith and energy for a period of time.  At times there is a desire within to have a certain reputation among those who really do not know me.  I write and lecture about trust, faith, obedience and risk and yet am plagued many times by my own shortcomings in these areas.  In many cases, what I was writing was something I learned but never owned.  I believed it in theory, but my heart was not possessed with it.  Head knowledge belief.  Something passed down.  Never owned.  Until now  .  .  . after I left.