I spend a lot more time than I am proud of feeling sentimental, or more specifically, regretful.  I think about things in my life that have come and past.  I wish I had done things differently, miss the way they used to be, or just get overwhelmed by the feelings of melancholy.

One of the lines that keeps bringing me back to John Mark McMillan’s song “How He Loves” is “I don’t have time to maintain these regrets”.  McMillan nails the problem on the head.  Regrets require maintenance.  And I don’t have the time and energy to let them take up that much time in my life.

However, I am incurably sentimental.  And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.  Perhaps the key is learning to be thankful for the me I used to be.  For instance:

Growing up I was the awkward comic book loving kid without many friends, but he learned what a good friend books could be.

From Middle School throughout college I spent most of my time dedicated to choir. I had a lot of fun, and I learned that blending and harmony are neccesary for successful relationships.

Much of my identity is rooted in my experiences in the Church of Christ and at Harding University.  I learned to love Jesus, to take my Bible seriously, and be skeptical of religious institutions.  The shortcomings of the Churches of Christ-their inability to transition into the twentyfirst century, and their abandonment of all other believers-has made me intensely aware of the need for a missional movement that re-presents the Christ’s Church to the west.   And I’m thankful for that.

Much of my life has been spent wrestling with depression. Yet that has taught me that I must learn to look beyond my momentary myopia.

I’m thankful for my punk rock days, because I’ve learned that outspoken cynicism is just prophecy without hope of resurrection.

I’m thankful for my megachurch days, because they showed me that there are good people, who choose to follow Jesus in a different way than I do.

The past, or maybe even current, me is the me of “isolation,” who is learning who he is when he doesn’t have much to take pride in.

When I look at this list, I don’t see me so much as scenes in a montage, in the story that gotten from there to here. These are the me I used to be.  And without them, I’d never become the me I will someday be.

Well faithful readers (Mom), believe it or not, I am still alive, thinking, and committed to writing more than a 140 characters at a time.  Over the past month I spent a week traveling Chicago and getting to know the folks over at Ecclesia Network, preaching at Vox Veniae, launching a new website for PlantR and catching up on laundry.

With that behind me, I’ll be launching back into some regular rhythms of writing, continuing some blogging traditions I have developed over the last few years.  I’ll post everyday this week with 7 Things I’m Thankful For.  I’d appreciate your interaction and feedback.  Let me know what you’re thankful for.  Around the corner is the Advent, the beginning of the Christian New Year.  I hope to post every Monday a few words of reflection on the text from the Lectionary that week.  Enjoy this preview:

7 Things I’m Thankful For

1.  The Me I Used to Be
2.  Retail
3.  Air Conditioning
4.  MAGL
5.  A Multitude of Voices
6.  Isolation
7.  The Not Yet

While I’m being cliche, let me add that I’m happy for families. I have a pretty great family. They taught me to love Jesus, care about lost people and love learning.  My family’s not perfect, but I when I look at the struggles of others and the benefits I’ve received, I can’t imagine being raised anywhere else.

In my experience, Jesus never spoke truer words than these:

“I tell you the truth,” Jesus replied, “no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—and with them, persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life.”

Though I never set out to leave my family, I have been doing my best to follow God’s leading, first to college in Arkansas, then internship in Georgia, and now various opportunities to serve him in Texas.  In my travels, I’ve found homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children, fields and persecutions.

I started singing with some guys in High School, spending weekends staying up all night practicing and playing Goldeneye, and their families took me in.  One day in college I looked around at the people I spent every single day in choir with, and it suddenly occurred to me that I could stop trying to be cool and make friends, because, when I wasn’t looking, these people had become my family.  I remember I started making Facebook friends, and one young lady marked me as “family.”  I can’t tell you how many couches I’ve surfed or floors I’ve called a bed.

There’s one guy who calls me almost every week, and we laugh and rant and hold each other accountable.  There’s a few others that go out of their way regularly to check on me from across the country.  There are families who have let me share their holidays with them.  Then there are small groups from churches, with whom I’ve eaten, watched my favorite TV shows, cried when I’m broken hearted, and played hours of telephone pictionary.

And although I haven’t experienced anything like the persecution of my brothers and sisters in India and elsewhere, it hasn’t been easy.  But I know for a fact that my family, or any of the others I’ve obtained while chasing the dreams God has given me, have been there and will be there when those persecutions arise.  And for that, I’m thankful.

I’m currently reading through Lamentations, an ancient Jewish book about mourning over the loss of one’s country.  Lamentations doesn’t exist in a vacuum.  A key tenet of the ancient Israelites is complaining.

Sometimes it’s ridiculous, like whining about how they would rather go back into slavery only moments after the Israelites had been miraculously rescued from Egypt.  Other times, it makes a lot of sense, like the laments of Job after losing his family, livelihood and health.  Sometimes, the Bible can be unbelievably emo, like in darkest text of the Bible, Psalm 31, where the poet notes “the darkness is my closest friend.”

Jeremiah has two key features that convince me that the Bible is a unique book of supernatural origins.  First is prophecy-that is, negative prophecy against the main characters, the Israelites.  Second is the laments themselves, seemingly unresolved cries to God, mourning for what he has allowed to  happen.  Living in a world where history is written by the winners, these factors show that the Bible is more than just a self-justifying religious text, but a unique collection of conversations on the heartbreaking reality of life.

I am thankful for the lamentations of my faith, because I have my own heartbreaks and complaints.  I have days I just feel emo, and disasters I just can’t reconcile.  Lamentations give me the permission to lay these before God, the peace that he knows I feel, and the humility to wait for him to explain it to me.

This summer, I finally had the chance to live out a long held dream of mine: to travel.  If you’ve read the blog, you know all about me smuggling Bibles, living with orphans, and getting mugged.  I had so many experiences that I still find myself sorting them out months later.

I know it’s cliche, but nothing changes your outlook on the world like travel.  The joy I experienced living with malnourished orphans in India makes me think twice when I complain about being hungry.  Being attacked by children in a place where the economic struggles are so intertwined with American politics that they are impossible to separate gives me pause when I consider the impact of our country’s actions abroad.  There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think fondly of ancient stone roads in France or lush mountains in East Africa.

Travel didn’t fix anything for me.  I spent much of the trip worrying about all the same things I usually worry about.  I came home and had all the same struggles I always have.  But it did make the world seem a little bigger, and my reality seem a little smaller.  I have an appreciation for things I didn’t know existed and things I have.  I have this crazy sense of attachment to anyone the places I’ve traveled (“you’re from India? I’ve been there!”) and camaraderie with those who have traveled as well.  Most importantly, it’s given me the courage to strike out, try new things, talk to different kinds of people, and take risks that would have been out of the question.

When people say to me “I wish I could travel!” my response is always the same: you can.  Anybody can.  You just have to do it.  And when you do it, you’ll never be the same.