I finally had the meltdown I knew was coming. I could feel it all week. Two nights in a row of wholly interrupted sleep, suspicious blemishes peppering the bottom half of my peaked face, one trigger away from holding my seven-month-old accountable for all her bitching. 

Ryan found me sitting with poor posture on the edge of this couch, perhaps in the sort of stoned stupor that another stupid Sunday has on a person. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”

For dinner? He must have thought. 

“There are so many decisions and the outcome for any one of them is an impending threat to our real lives. You know? I’m fearful. Is it a selfish thing to have kids, I mean economically? Our electricity plan is expiring and I have to pick a new one but what in God’s name is a kilowatt. I also need to steam her broccoli at some point but I have half a mind to put sheets on the futon and pick up an Afghan from DFW tonight.”

He held onto me as I cried for peace between a restless mind and paralyzed body. 

There have been times, he said to me in one way or another, when my bucket’s been empty and I don’t have anymore water to throw at anymore fires and I have to make the active choice to disengage from all the brokenness bigger than me. And that’s hard, right? Because a lot of people will say that that’s a privileged position or that I’m part of the problem or that I can’t bury my head in the sand forever, but the truth of it is, I want to function well in my immediate roles — husband, father, brother, friend — and I can’t do that when I say yes all the time to a yelling world. 

And he’s right. But he’s right for *him* because only *he* can know what’s his to take and what’s not. My capacity is not less or more or better or worse than his, but it surely is different and unique to who I am. For instance, it is not healthy for me to disengage, but what then will I say no to in order to make room? 

Suzanne Stabile has three helpful questions that I’ve been using as companion to a prayer for discernment: 

1. What’s mine to do and what’s not mine to do?

2. Whats mine to say and what’s not mine to say?

3. What’s mine to care about and what’s not mine to care about? 

What’s beautiful about this is is that no two answers to any of these questions will be the same, because we each come to them with our own worldview and experience, our own intention and vocation and conviction, which is how we’re wonderfully capable of covering the bases. What’s hard about this is that a yelling world says, “All that’s cute, but it’s not enough.”

If you’re not participating, if you’re not speaking out, if you’re not resting right, if you’re not donating, if you’re not staying in your lane, if you’re not spreading awareness, if you’re not doing what’s right in front of you, if you’re not taking matters into your own hands, if you’re not letting go and letting God then what are you even doing? 

What I’m doing doesn’t concern you, because a measure of faithfulness for one man is not a measure of faithfulness for them all. 

I know that heaviness cripples and it’s loud, but I pray for stillness as you untangle the web of what is yours. And to quote Nadia Bolz-Weber, “When all I can do is stop during the day and place my hand on my heart and hold all the heavy realities up to you, may it count as prayer.”

We went into the city early, just the two of us. Picked up fresh tomato and orzo pasta from the little corner market to hold us over ‘til dinner. Donated three mountains of clothes that have the audacity. May God bless some girl somewhere and her small hips and her new denim shorts.

We weaved through a stuffy tangle of antique books and dresses and weird, Christmas treasures. Diagnosed each other with low blood sugar levels to justify bending into a shared cocktail Lady and the Tramp style. Made ourselves sick over our favorite plate of Tex-Mex on a patio with industrial fans. And we laughed. We, like, really laughed.  

Our bodies hurt by 7pm. We shed our shoes on the car ride home and joked about feet as dogs barking. Yawns volleyed across the center console, and we realized that we’re older than we used to be, that we’re so used to being young. Used to worn-out habits. Used to who we were before. Used to jamming into pants that don’t fit us anymore. Used to keeping peace, making empty deals that we’ll rescind. Used burying the hatchet (in a clearly marked space) should we ever need him again. 

We could stoke four-hundred reasons why I fell for you back then, but the truth is, you’re *you* now, my older, better friend. Do you not perceive it? Do you dwell? Do you belabor what’s been? A gorgeous stream there in the wasteland, it springs up for the kids. May we toast our endless glasses to a regenerative love. May we gather all our buckets. May we drink from them. Amen.