Don’t Hold Your Breath

Posted on March 5, 2015 by Sean T. Smith

Don’t hold your breath unless you’re under water, because while you’re waiting for the next thing, life is drowning you and all you end up doing is choking for air.

It’s the quiet that defines a man, not moments of fleeting wonder and raucous triumph, for the real glory lives in the little things we overlook and forget, the mundane and true. It’s in the Sunday sigh of a woman in love while the rain comes down outside and the moan of the wind and the lazy smiles and wrinkled sheets. Walks in the woods when the world is still and the air is sharp and right and the leaves are turning with bittersweet autumn, death and renewal and the promise of spring, possessed of a magnificence all its own.

The glory in life is found in the simple things. Changing diapers at two in the morning, dancing around the living room with your baby to sooth him back to sleep, walks to the bus stop at dawn, tying shoes and bed-time songs. The laughter over silly things and inside jokes, late-night trips to the hospital.There is glory there, There was. We often miss it along the way, for our eyes are on the wrong things, and then we ache for it when we remember to remember.

We’re constantly bombarded by images of success, and what it means to be happy. It’s the bigger house, the newer car, the promotion, the vacation, the next thing. We live in a world of instant gratification which seems largely bereft of true happiness and contentment. Our technology is miraculous and gives us the ability to talk to friends around the world with a few clicks, yet we are lonely, for the cell phones and ipads, video games and social media which provide this so called “connectivity” lead to a disconnect with our souls. It’s a hollow feeling.

It’s hard for Christians, who are exhorted to be “in” this world but not “of” it, for the lessons Jesus taught go completely against what the world continues to tell us. Christians are supposed to surrender to be victorious, lose in order to win, give to receive joy. It’s hard to keep our eyes fixed upon Jesus when the world comes crashing in, howling and loud, tempting and insidious.

The lasting, true glory is there, though, in a relationship with the Creator, and in those mundane moments, if we listen, he is whispering to us. I admit I’ve been holding my breath my whole life. It’s time to breathe.

Easy Faith?

Posted on December 30, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

On Christmas day I had a lively, though-provoking theological discussion with one of my best friends, a man who possesses a keen intellect and a good heart. He is an agnostic, I am a Christian, and this difference in belief leads to many late night debates. We respect one another, so there is no hint of rancor or accusation.

We discussed the nature of free will, which is something that always makes my head hurt. If all things work for God’s good, then how does sin affect outcomes? How does evil work for good? Mankind is doomed to sin because it is inherent to our nature. God knows we will sin, when we will do so, and how that works out for us in the end. In my extensive experience with sin, short term bliss leads to pain at some point. How does this serve the greater plan? I have no idea.

I told my friend “Everything happens for a reason, and sometimes the reason is that we make dumb choices.Yet even these bad decisions transform into good in the end. Maybe not for us, though. There are infinite choices, and a myriad of outcomes… some are better than others within our own lifetimes.”

My friend wasn’t buying it. “What about a greater scale, then? Let’s take Hitler, for example. How does Hitler’s existence work for the greater good? The death of six million of God’s chosen people, along with Americans, Russians, English, French, Japanese and Germans? Explain that to me, please.”

“Well,” I replied, stalling, “Hitler chose to be evil. He murdered millions, which was clearly contrary to the will of God. The suffering Hitler unleashed will reverberate for centuries. But on a grander scale than that, perhaps there was a reason we cannot perceive.”

“Nonsense.”

“Sometimes we miss the forest for the trees. We are too close to a thing to see the truth in it.”

“We’re not talking about trees. We’re talking about living, breathing people. Women and children. The truth is they died.”

“There were better possible outcomes,” I said, feeling the hollowness of the answer. “But in the end…”

“I wish I had your easy faith,” said my good friend.

“Easy faith?”

“It looks that way to me. You retreat into your faith when logic fails.” True.

Hebrews 11:1 says “faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Faith is the cornerstone of Christianity. Without it, nothing else matters. We trust because we must. Because without that leap of faith, the world feels gray and mean, drained of color and life. Faith itself defies logical thinking. Yet our propensity for faith is as great as our vulnerability to evil.

We are the race of Mozart, Shakespeare, Rembrandt and Einstein. Creativity flows through our veins, itself a kind of faith, a force which propels us to seek the truth beyond what we see before us. Faith is a reward in itself, for it makes the world a brighter place.

Faith is not easy.

Clashes of faith have been a bane of mankind’s existence, and I think God’s least favorite words are “Holy War.” Faith should not be a weapon, and when it is used as such, it makes the world darker and harder for those of us who cling to our beliefs in the face of hardship and doubt and the rampant evil in this place.

My friend is right, though. I do retreat into my faith. I remember the connection I have felt with the creator, moments that I cannot explain in any other way. I’ve seen miracles. I’ve watched the sun rise over the Rocky Mountains, felt the kiss of joy on an endless blue ocean, and witnessed my sons born into this world. Faith is a singing feeling in my chest, a smile in my soul, and when it is strong, it is glorious.

I stumble and fall too often and my steps are not sure, my path unclear, and I lose my way in the forest. The truth surrounds me though, and just because I cannot see a thing does not make it less real. When the darkness presses in upon me, it is then I need my faith the most. Perhaps for me, having faith is indeed easier than living bereft of hope.

“We’ve got this.” Misplaced Faith in the Government

Posted on October 8, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I grew up believing that the government of the United States pretty much had things under control. We prevailed in World War II, put a man on the moon, did not engage in a shooting war with the Soviet Union and managed not to blow up the planet. Sure, there were some missteps, but overall, when I listened to Ronald Regan on the evening news, I felt confidant that the our leaders had things under control. After 9-11, I had the prickly feeling in the back of my head that I was wrong. Now, more than a decade later, events prove that when the government says “we’ve got this,” we should take that with a hearty grain of salt.

In the area of Northeast Florida where I live, gated neighborhoods have sprung up like weeds. Some have security guards out front, while others use automated gates. These gates make people feel safe behind their walls, and they pay hundreds of dollars per month in HOA fees to feel that way. It’s absurd, though, an illusion of security rather than the real thing. On any given day, in these sprawling McMansion neighborhoods, hundreds of construction workers, lawn crews, and house staff waltz through the gates. Many of these are undocumented workers, some, no doubt convicted felons. It amuses me. The United States is like one of these gated neighborhoods. We desperately want to believe in our own security and supremacy, and that when the government spokesman gets on the news and offers his assurances that there is nothing to worry about, he’s telling the truth.

We’ve learned that the FBI warned about the potential threat presented by the 9-11 terrorists. The government clearly did not have that under control. We went to war in Iraq because we believed that Saddam possessed weapons of mass destruction. Whoops. (Now that the region has been destabilized by more than a decade of fighting, ISIL is an evil menace that makes Saddam look like a cute puppy.) We’ve yet to respond properly to that threat, in my humble opinion. I hope our leaders figure this one out before the enemy breaches the gates, because evil knocking, and it’s hungry.

When Katrina leveled New Orleans, it took days before FEMA arrived and any kind of order took place. We saw the bodies in the streets. The government didn’t have that under control. Not by a long shot.

Our embassies have been bombed and attacked around the world, despite warnings, costing American lives. One hand seldom knows what the other is doing, it seems.

A crazy guy with hundreds of rounds of ammunition, firearms, and knives in his car gets past the gates at the White house, and makes it all the way inside before he is finally subdued. Are you kidding me? The alarm had been muted because it annoyed the staff. The Secret Service clearly did not have that handled.

Ebola is now here in the United States, and the CDC is telling us not to worry about that. Yet we find that this guy in Texas was sent home by the hospital even after he told them he’d just come back from Africa. After he was diagnosed, local officials entered his apartment without wearing the proper protective gear. The U.S. has been staggeringly slow to respond to the crisis, and bungled the first known case on our own soil. So when I’m told not to worry, I laugh.

I’m not going to stay up at night wringing my hands. I love the United States, and we are a great nation, a great people, and there is a reason that the world still turns to us for help in time of need. But when they say, “we’ve got this,” I don’t believe it any more, not even for a minute.

“We hoped that clear heads would prevail. We were wrong.”

Prayers from the cave…

Posted on September 30, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I recently spent two weeks in Nashville, where I spent time with old friends, played music, and caught up on the years we’ve missed. I attended a function hosted by my publisher, and got to meet many fellow authors, and I made some new friends. It was a wonderful time, a period of self reflection, hope, and sentimentality all at once, and I learned a tremendous amount. The most important part of the trip, though, happened on the way home, somewhere between Valdosta Georgia and the Florida state line.

I’ve struggled for the last year or so with my faith. It’s almost funny, because one of the central conflicts in my first two books revolves around the battle between faith and doubt as darkness closes in. My own internal war ended up mirroring some of the strife I’ve put my characters through; my characters dealt with this better than I did personally, and when I wrote those books, I believed I’d put that particular struggle behind me. I was wrong. I’ve been embattled on a variety of fronts for the last year, and it took a hard toll upon my soul until it reached a point where I began to question that which I knew to be true. I wondered where God was, and I went so far as to question the validity of His promises, to wonder about His goodness. Heresy, I know, and wrong-headed, but I don’t think I’m alone in this kind of battlefield. Somehow, I’d managed to succumb to a sense of hopelessness, and I’d put myself in a cave.

A man bereft of hope is like body without bones; there is nothing to hold him upright and together. I’d become that guy, without really knowing it, without seeing a way out. And when that happens, the instinct is to retreat, to become defensive and withdrawn, to cast blame and doubt around with careless abandon. We isolate ourselves, which only makes things worse.I felt very much like an Object of Wrath, ignoring in my own mind the second part of that very important verse in Ephesians.

So, driving through the hills of Alabama, the long stretches of construction south of Atlanta along I-75, I had plenty of time to think. Mostly, I listened to music on Spotify, and I reflected on the new friends I’d made and the old friends I’d reconnected with. Right around Valdosta, my phone died, and the music ended. I couldn’t find anything to listen to, so I hit the “seek” button on the truck radio, and I heard Dr. David Jerimiah begin to speak.

It was a sermon titled Praying From the Cave, based around Psalm 142. David (the king, not the preacher) was in a cave, running from Saul. He was depressed, isolated to the point that other men did not care if he lived or died. Yet within that dark place, David cried out to God, thanking him and praising him, laying his burdens at God’s feet, recognizing his own pain, and turning to God for refuge.

About ten minutes into the sermon, something happened.

I’ve had times where I felt God’s presence, singing in church with hand held high, a joyful noise on my lips and a connection to the Creator, like an electric thrum of peace and rightness. I’ve been touched by a sermon or a verse, and felt convicted, nudged, and I’ve had verses jump out at me as though they were highlighted in bright yellow.

This thing that happened somewhere in Georgia was different; God hit me in the head with a ball bat. I was driving down the road with tears on my face, broken. Facing myself and my doubt, my mistakes and delusions and bitterness. God slayed me, and I was shattered. I prayed then, and I could almost see a darkness, like ashes swirling in the wind, leaving from my chest. It sounds nuts, but there was a palpable, physical sensation of great weight being lifted, immediately followed by hope and joy.

I thought I’d cried out to God before, and I’ve been on my knees. But there was something in me left then, some element of reserve or doubt or perhaps pride which prevented the profound kind of healing I so desperately craved. I understood that God had been right there with me all along. That no matter what happens, I’m still a part of his plan, and that even though it may not seem so at the time, in the end, all things do work for His good. I’d forgotten that my hope lies with Jesus, and everything else is really the small stuff. I’d neglected certain things and ignored certain truths. These things were made clear to me in an instant. I’ve got some work to do, but I’m not alone, and I never was.

Somewhere in Georgia, I reconnected with my best friend, the most important friend I’ll ever have; he was beside me all along.

Ephesians 2:3-5

“We were by nature objects of wrath. Because of his great love for us, but God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive in Christ even when we were dead in transgressions. It is by grace you have been saved.”

Psalm 142:6-8

“Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need; rescue me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me. Set me free from my prison, that I may raise your name. Then the righteous will gather around me because of your goodness to me.”

To Simply Be… A writer looks at fifty

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I’ve struggled for decades to be happy. It’s a character flaw, and while sometimes I believe this makes me a better writer, I think at the end of the day, at the end of a lifetime, it means I’ve missed much, moments of contentment when I could simply be. I’ve been poor, and raged against the poverty, and let chances slip away. I’ve been fairly well off, and then there was always something else… the desire to have children, the yearning for recognition and success at another level. Always living with the feeling I’m missing some vital piece, which if I could obtain, would make me whole at last, make me smile down deep in my soul.

Maybe with the recognition of it, I can change on a fundamental level, but this flaw runs deep. I am blessed with wonderful children, and when I walked home alone from the bus stop a few minutes ago, the sun bright and the air cool, missing my boys already, I began to reflect on this thing within me. How it will feel in the not so distant future to be me.

When the swing set is silent and rusted and I am grey, when the patter of little feet no longer graces my life and the light in my eyes grows dim and I have those memories and pictures, what is it I will recall? How will I feel on those mornings, drinking a cup of coffee at my desk and staring at a computer screen and bleeding onto the page, remembering the things I should have paid better attention to in those fleeting moments, the things that matter. Trying to get the memory right.

My five year old coming to me with a Bernstein Bears book for his bed time story, happy and shining with pure love for me, a love I can never deserve because it is so true. Holding my baby, his head in the palm of my had because he is no longer than my forearm, dancing around the living room at three o’clock in the morning with him to sooth him back to sleep while Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons plays on the radio, and I am sleep deprived and worried about getting to work on time the next morning, but still dancing, still infused with a sense of wonder at this life I hold in my hands. My boys, the oldest ten now, decked out in army gear, complete with helmets, load bearing vests, holsters and assault rifles, running around the house shooting the attacking Russian zombie horde. In a year or two, he’ll be too old for that, and I miss it already.

Walking through the woods as a family, a tiny hand in mine, questions about the trees and wildlife, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy of Live Oaks and Spanish Moss and the air fresh and cool and golden. Such joy, such fleeting perfection.

Christmas morning, together with grandparents, all still with us now, the excitement electric in the air to see what Santa brought, toys and paper flying all over the floor beneath the tree, laughter sweet music. But was exhausted, stressed about money, tired of long days working in the cold and the rain, and I did not let that music in me the way I should have, not in a way that fills the soul. Looking back on it, it fills me and brings tears to my eyes, but when it was happening, I did not appreciate it enough.

There will always be another thing. A better job, a nicer car, keeping the lights on, selling more books, writing a masterpiece, drama with jerks, stormy weather, and bad traffic. Somewhere along the way, even the joy of writing itself has been dampened by the need to promote, to sell, to succeed. I resolve to do my part, but I am sure I can’t do it alone.

I’ve got a God-shaped hole, and the only way to find true, lasting happiness is to fill that with Him. Unless I do that, the world will forever be bereft of its proper color, faded and less vibrant.

When I look back years from now, I want to remember things as they were, not as I wish they had been. I’ve still got a chance at happiness, and it’s time I start living.

Angry with God….

Posted on May 15, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

One of my favorite movie scenes is from Forest Gump, when Lt. Dan rages from the crow’s nest of his shrimp boat in the middle of a hurricane, shaking his fist at the heavens. Feeling betrayed by God, the universe, and life comes naturally to us, I think. It certainly does for me.

A central tenet of Christianity is the acceptance of God’s supremacy, and that in the end “all things work according to the good.” When looking at hurricanes, genocides, and war, it is impossible for me to understand how these can be good. I can’t wrap my head around it, because it seems unjust. I grapple with these things on an intellectual level, but in the end I retreat into a leap of faith, admitting that a power as vast as God must be, there is no possible way I can understand the infinite permutations of destiny, the colorful threads connecting a universe larger than my puny mind can comprehend. When it’s personal, though, is when it becomes dangerous for me. My faith is not strong enough.

I recognize the futility of it. I understand there is no arguing with God, and that nothing good can possibly come of the attempt. And still I’m guilty of it. I look around at things, and I say to myself, “that’s not fair. Why?” It is ultimately a selfish emotion, at its root, even if it is couched in compassion. What I’m truly saying is “Why Me?” Which is absurd, human, and a bit pathetic.

I had a discussion recently with a Godly man, a much wiser one than I. I told him I was feeling rankled with God. ” Yes, I’ve made some big mistakes, made some dumb decisions, I said. I’m trying hard to rely on God, and I’m not seeing any improvements. In fact, things are getting worse.”

“I see,” he said, nodding his head. “So you’re angry with God because of things you did, and now you’re upset because He’s not fixing things as quickly as you like? Did I get that right.”

I had to sheepishly agree with him, and recognizing that made me feel a bit better. There are consequences. Perhaps it’s not God’s role to make those go away.

I’m working at focusing on the good, seeking out the light, and infusing my life with a greater sense of gratitude, for anger is a poison in our veins, a killing toxin. A life bereft of hope is tragic and lonely. I’m lowering my fist.

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Hope: Light in the Darkness

Posted on January 12, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

When the world gets close and mean and hard, hope is what gets us through. Without hope, we succumb to depression, have the urge to curl up and crawl into an even darker hole. If we can’t envision a way out, then we stay and die, either slowly and metaphorically in a life of quiet desperation, or in an ultimate surrender to the abyss. Darkness will win if we let it.

We battle the darkness with hope, and the struggle becomes most important when it is the most intense. When the rough patch appears to be endless and all we see are hard times ahead, that is when we must stand up and fight the hardest. A man without hope is already dead.

There is no easy solution, no silver bullet. The path will be different for each person, but there are some things that will be universal. To feel hope, we must acknowledge it and seek it out. By focusing on what is good and true light rather than the evil and dark. Desperation and depression can have a gravity all their own, can pull in our will to survive and ability to smile with the force of a black hole, sucking all that is decent from our world. But if we battle the darkness, we can overcome it.

Connectivity is vital. We must feel connected to the people and the world around us. If we focus more on the real love we feel for others, and for the love reflected back upon us, we are less likely to feel isolated, alone, abandoned. Committing a random act of kindness for another helps, too. I stopped the other day on the interstate and helped a family whose car had broken down. It turned my bleak mood around.

Faith moves mountains. I believe in God, and I lean on Him. But for those who do not believe in a higher power, faith in loved ones, faith in humanity, faith in self are better than believing in nothing. When I find my faith faltering, I know I’m losing hope and darkness is winning. I try to regain my faith through prayer, interaction with others, and time outdoors. A walk in the woods or a stroll by the ocean can help me to feel restored.

Life is hard, too short, and often not fair. But it can be beautiful, too. I try to remember that when things get the hardest. I often don’t take my own advice, because knowing a thing and acting upon it are two very different things. But in the end, light is more powerful than darkness; light can always penetrate, defeat, and banish it. I am doing my best to look for it, and to be a light myself, lest the darkness consume me.