For the past few weeks I’ve been living on a 45-foot tour bus promoting a movie. I’ve never experienced anything like it. There are ten of us living in a confined space, rolling across the country. It is a different city every day. I am the “tour manager,” which is a fancy way of saying that I work on getting us media, point the driver in the right direction, keep the bus stocked with food, and everyone else on schedule. It’s a lonely life, this traveling. Life out of a dufflebag is far from glamorous. We travel through the night and it’s rarely comfortable. I miss my family. I miss my house. I even miss my dog. Still, I accepted this challenge. It was my decision some time ago to not settle for the mundane. I traded in the cubicle for something else–whatever “else” turned out to be. Life, I decided, is a story to be lived, a taste too good not to sample.

I had hoped to find something to write about during this brief chapter in my story. I thought for sure that a situation or a person would emerge—that something would stand out. Where was the God moment? When would I be touched and inspired? With each new day, with each new city, I felt nothing. Each person, each conversation blurred into the last. Something great to write about? I could barely find a reason to get up in the morning. This wasn’t an adventure at all. This was a job and not a very good one.

Then, after an embarrassingly emotional conversation with my friend, Karyn, I realized that the reason nothing was coming to me—the reason I was uninspired was because I was so focused on how bad this was for me, that I left no room for anything else. I even had to admit that I completely stopped talking to God. It turns out, things go bad when you don’t include the man who put you where you are.

One of the cities we visited, we donated the money we raised to a special little girl who came to my attention. In January, Phoebe Fair was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of brain cancer. She faces a tough battle for the next year of her life at least. One night, Phoebe’s mother Amey was sleeping in the chair next to her hospital bed when she heard her daughter’s little voice, “Mommy I’m a mean girl,” she thought she heard her sweet daughter say. “No Phoebe, you’re a nice girl!” she replied. “No Mommy, I’m a MIRACLE!” Phoebe said. “I’m a MIRACLE.” Amey burst into tears. She was sure her 2-year old didn’t even know what that meant. She was also sure, it came from God.

Today, a mother is praying for her little girl’s recovery. Today, a little girl fights for her life. Today, someone faces something much more serious than an unpleasant and uncomfortable bus trip. I am ashamed that I so easily fell off track. I am grateful that my friend Karyn pointed me back in the right direction.

Today, I am blessed.

Ruth was my grandmother’s cousin. As far as relatives go, it doesn’t get much more distant than that. I barely knew her. Since she was old and lived alone, I mowed her lawn as a favor to Grandma. A heavy set woman, Ruth would slowly make her way down the steps of her modest trailer to give me a glass of not-so-cold water in an amber-colored plastic cup with no ice. She’d make small talk about the humid weather or something. I would half-listen. I was young and busy, far too cool to give her much time. In fact, as she talked, I’d wonder why old ladies smell like bad perfume and moth balls.

When Ruth died, it seems a family line died with her. There was no one else; no children, no grandchildren, no widower, only incredibly distant branches on a family tree, distant like me. A few days after her death, her house was cleaned out and everything was given away, donated, or tossed out, including pictures of Ruth’s life. At first glance, this seems quite sad.

I thought about Ruth when my wife was going through some old pictures recently. The small pile on the table looked similar to the cigar box in Ruth’s house; black and white photos mixed with those washed out, not-so-crisp colored ones. Polly studied each one, speculating out loud who was who and where they were when the shots were taken. There was an old letter too. The handwriting was difficult to make out, but it was addressed to her mother who passed away many years ago.

People in photos. Frozen in time. When I look at their faces, it doesn’t matter if it’s my late friend Al, Grandma’s cousin Ruth, or some random person whose hand-written letter now resides in my closet sixty years after it was written. What I see is hope. What I feel is an overwhelming belief that these people, while currently beyond our view, aren’t done. My heart tells me that a reunion is coming—that still photos, while comforting now, will not be needed when time has no meaning.

Tears of sadness are temporarily renting space in our hearts. One day, a love so great will push them aside, replacing them with something I won’t pretend to understand or attempt to describe. A reunion is coming.

This is my snapshot of faith.

The most beautiful voice ever heard on this planet has been silenced. And it happened long before Whitney Houston’s tragic death. Anyone who heard her in recent years, anyone who saw her in recent days, knows. She was a shell of her former self. I feel like I’ve seen this movie before. Young talent rises to fame, makes a huge impact on the world, peaks, makes bad choices, fails to maintain an expected level of success, begins to decline, public turns on them, famous person turns on themselves. Death.

Here’s the truth: we don’t know them. We didn’t know her.

Oh, we feel like we do. We watched Whitney grow up. We saw her on MTV and at the movies. We heard her on the radio. We saw this stunningly gorgeous women grace magazine covers. We watched as she wowed the world with a rendition of the National Anthem so stirring that it hit the pop charts. But we didn’t know her and frankly, we don’t really know anyone but ourselves. Worse than that, we fail to understand the power of the enemy that sought her destruction—the same enemy that seeks our own.

At the funeral service held inside the New Jersey church where Whitney perfected her voice, her friend and co-star of the film, The Bodyguard, Kevin Costner took the podium. In a moving tribute, he revealed that Whitney Houston didn’t always feel like a superstar; that she didn’t always feel good enough, pretty enough, or talented enough. He said that if he could talk to her now, he would tell her that as she’s being escorted by an army of angels to sing before God, not to worry. That she’ll be good enough.

The same goes for you. By grace, you have been granted a pardon. By grace, all that is wrong is made right. By grace, you are good enough. There’s nothing you can do to add to it. There’s nothing you can do to diminish it. As Jesus said, “It is done.”

No, we didn’t know Whitney Houston. We didn’t know her heart. But we do know ourselves. And we know what we believe.

We know that if we accept the gift of grace given to us, it is then that we truly discover the greatest love of all.

I am fascinated by perceptions; how they are formed, how they change, and how off the mark they usually are. This guy is probably great at tuning up a Harley, but he’s likely not very smart, right? That is, until you discover that he’s a heart surgeon.

Perceptions can drive us to do things we never had to do, say things we never had to say, even feel things we never had to feel. Think about that. If I perceive that you’re angry with me, I’d feel horrible. I might act nervous around you. I might do something stupid like send you a harsh email or angrily confront you. Suddenly, I find that you were never angry at me at all. In fact, you were just having a bad day or something. What a waste of stress!

One summer, I was sitting around the campfire with my friend, Fred. We were reminiscing about our younger days and I said to him, “God, I was so jealous of you after high school when you went to the University of Michigan.” (I began my career in radio right after graduation rather than going away to school). “There you were in Ann Arbor,” I continued, “The big man on campus, having fun, making friends, going to parties, and there I was in a stupid little radio station making crappy money.” He laughed and replied, “That’s funny. I was at school, overwhelmed, under pressure, not really knowing what I wanted to do with my life. I was jealous of you because you were already pursuing your dream.”

Sometimes our perceptions have nothing to do with reality.

We should be more careful. We should examine our perceptions and leave the door open to the possibility that they are totally off.

I’m friends with a beautiful woman. Not just pretty…pageant pretty. After a few months of working with her, I formed the perception that any girl would kill to be her. Any man would kill to be with her. I envied her beauty and wondered what that must be like. I would have bet the house that her life was amazing. Not long after, I found that behind that killer smile there was heartache. She struggled with her body image. She often over ate and then starved herself. Her husband wasn’t a good man and he cheated on her. When she found out, she went through a divorce. For a long time she felt ugly and alone. Flawless, it turns out, isn’t always flawless.

I’m not sure what the answer is, but I suspect that if we see each other, really see each other, it could make all the difference.

This guy I know is doing something really cool. He’s calling it “100 Cups in 100 days.” In the course of 100 days, he’s going to sit down for a cup of coffee with 100 different people. He is inviting friends, acquaintances, even strangers to share their stories, their struggles, even their pain. He wants to learn from their experiences. He wants to help or encourage. He wants to go beyond perceptions. I’m accepting his invitation, although if I drink coffee I’ll throw up.

Whether it’s something as drastic as 100 meetings or one simple phone call, maybe it’s time we work harder to connect. Perceptions are formed quickly based on very little knowledge. Reality takes time to discover. Isn’t it time?

Maybe your doctor rides a Harley on the weekends. And maybe he can save your life.

100 Cups in 100 Days http://kennysilva.net/100-cups-in-100-days/

My wife and I were having breakfast with an old friend in our hometown recently. We hadn’t seen Todd in a long time—too long. As we were catching up he asked, “You guys aren’t perfect right? Because no one is….but just reading your Facebook posts, you sure seem to have fun with life. You sure seem healthy and happy. It’s really inspiring.” It was a nice compliment. And it got me thinking about that fine line. You know the one—the line between what is real and what is not.

“Sunday morning we dress up, spray up, and get all made up, but we’re not always on the up and up.” ~ Allen Jackson

I love Facebook for making people laugh, talking sports, music, movies, and TV shows. I like to share exciting or fun things going on at home or with my work. I try not to be negative. It’s just a choice and I’m glad my friend noticed. What I don’t want, however, is to suggest that everything is blemish-free.

What I don’t want is to deny that life is hard, that it often comes with huge disappointments, setbacks, heartache, and personal failures. I’m not interested in putting on a facade. Life is better when it’s real.

The most exhausting thing you can do is to be inauthentic.
~ Anne Morrow Lindberg

Perhaps this goes back to my last blog and the importance of seeing one another, really seeing one another. I don’t think we can help each other or be helped ourselves unless we’re honest about what we face. Some of us are almost paralyzed by fear. Some suffer from depression. There is financial worry, job loss, loneliness, and broken relationships. Real stuff. Real hurt.

I got a note totally out of the blue one day from an old friend. In it, she described her recent battle with alcoholism. This note caught me off guard. I was scared for her. I thought of her family and everything in her life that was threatened if she doesn’t win this battle. Once I got over the shock, I re-read her note and it occurred to me that although she didn’t have to, she was being real. And by being real about a serious problem in her life, she was well on the way to recovery. Not only that, but while drinking was a failure, confronting it and admitting it was heroic.

When the time is right, be real with someone. Offer yourself up for them to be real with you. See each other, really.

There’s nothing wrong with getting dressed up, sprayed up and made up, as long as we remain on the up and up.