I receive comfort, so I’m called to extend that comfort to others.

All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. — 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

My emotional state flows in a different pattern than the Fibro pain. This week hasn’t been bad, pain-wise. Emotionally, I’m a bit of a mess. I lost my mind last night over something insignificant, the second night in a row that’s happened.

When there’s pain, you push the emotional impact downstream so you can do what you need to. That bill always comes due. And then you wonder why your head is so far up your butt, you can see out of your mouth.

In that context, the verses above are both a comfort and a high standard. I don’t know why God ordained or allowed this for me (and by extension, all the others with chronic conditions). But I know what I’m supposed to do.

I know what it is to grind on when your body feels angry and hollow. I know what it is to get out of bed in the morning and long for the moment when I can return there at night. I know what it’s like to smile through pain because you don’t want to grimace and curse in front of people.

Because I understand that circumstance, I’m called to extend the same kind of grace I want for myself. I’m not awful at it–a lot has changed since the beginning of the year. I finally accepted this condition as part of me and asked what I’m supposed to do about it.

But I could be better at it.

I’m not perfect because I’m washed in the blood of the savior. I’m the same guy with the same weaknesses. I’m not some fearsome divine warrior, taking a fallen world by storm in the name of Jesusuh. I’m a guy whose body hurts much of the time, who’s typically wiped out in the evening, and who struggles to keep it together. There’s nothing mighty about that.

I just have divine support. In the darkest, most painful moments, I take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone. I rely on that comfort. It’s part of what helps me through.

So my charge is to extend that comfort out to others. To say I know it’s hard and it sucks. To tell people who struggle that what they’re doing is amazing. To do my best to not let it spill over and lose it–and then to show myself a hint of grace when I do.

It’s a high bar, a wonderful aspirational goal that I’ll never fully attain.

At the end of the day, maybe the reason God doesn’t directly intervene is so we can help each other out. So we can give and receive comfort and think better of each other. We’re in this together. We can kick each other in the head to attain material wealth and power that someone else will assume when we’re gone. Or we can help each other out so others feel a hint of the comfort we sometimes find.

The latter is the one that adds value.

Grace and the chronically ill

I felt like a loser yesterday.

It’s not uncommon when the Fibro asserts itself in me. I’m an exceptionally capable person. I take a lot of pride in working at something until I find a way. When I set my mind to that, I’m really, really good at that particular skillset.

Violations of pride are painful.

When I can’t, it’s hard to direct my anger appropriately. I can’t aim it at others because they didn’t cause my struggle. I can’t aim it at God because He’s God. Job didn’t shake his fist at God and still got an earful. I’ve screwed up enough stuff already. I don’t need to give God extra.

That leaves me as the target for my anger. It’s easy to be a critic, but on the subject of my shortcomings, who would be better at it than me?

When I first had a leadership position, I was all about a high standard, no matter what. I didn’t listen to circumstance. I didn’t ask people what their impediments were and try to work creatively to get around them. I demanded performance and felt like anything less was unacceptable. In short, the people I supposedly led wouldn’t follow me across the street for free ice cream.

I’ve worked at that, guided by some excellent examples. I listen now. And when someone falls short, my first question is whether things are okay. You can’t help people get better–which is what leaders do–if you don’t understand their limitations.

I’ve worked hard at being a leader. I put thought and purpose into my leadership actions. I’m actually pretty good at leading others. I’ve never gotten better at leading myself.

Someone who looks for reasons to brand a person as a loser isn’t a leader. They’re a judgmental, self-absorbed, fear-filled person who’d struggle to lead a sharp pair of scissors through a wet paper bag.

Yet too many chronically ill people don’t lead themselves any better than I do.

Any mindset where second place is first loser is toxic. Any mindset that doesn’t allow you to come up short even when you’ve done your best is ultimately harmful. If you can’t lead other people from a position of condemnation, you’d do a horrible job leading yourself that way.

It’s easy to fall down the rathole of condemnation. It’s even easier when you’re frazzled and frustrated and everything seems to be turning into a steaming pile. Most of the chronically ill people I encounter online performed well before sickness.

Good leaders have days where everything (including them) is a steaming pile. They lead with grace to get through it.

We tend to be demanding with ourselves while we show grace to others (or try our best). That’s awesome for a stoic philosopher, but not so great when you’re running uphill while your body hurts and your mind’s locked up.

If we’re serious about showing grace to others, we need to be just as serious about extending that grace to ourselves. About not listening to the condemning voice that leads with words like unacceptable, lazy, insufficient, and loser.

Tony Horton, the P90X guy, doesn’t lead with faith. But he could be speaking Jesus’s words during PlyoX, the hardest P90X cardio working. One of the people in that video is actor Erik Stolhanske, who played Rabbit in Super Troopers. He also has a prosthetic leg. When Tony told them one of the forthcoming moves, Stolhanske said, “I’ll do my best.”

His right leg is prosthetic. He can’t do what the rest do. He’s a bad ass to be in the game, though.

“Did you hear that?” Tony Horton said. “He said he’s going to do his best. And that’s always enough.”

That’s the kind of grace we need to show ourselves, particularly this time of year when it’s easy to allow our schedules to be the final arbiter of what we do–and when we rest.

Teddy Roosevelt said to do what you can, with what you have, where you are.

If it’s good enough for the guy Teddy bears are named after, it’s good enough for us.