Present Over Perfect

years isn’t necessarily brave. What you’re doing—what
you’re building—I think that’s brave.”
His words stayed with me after he left, after I tucked the
boys in, after I walked through our little house, turning off
lights, picking up toys, closing drapes.
He was right, I realized. Brave doesn’t always involve
grand gestures.
Sometimes brave looks more like staying when you want
to leave, telling the truth when all you want to do is change
the subject.
Sometimes obedience means climbing a mountain.
Sometimes obedience means staying home. Sometimes
brave looks like building something big and shiny.
Sometimes it means dismantling a machine that threatened
to overshadow much more important things.
We’re addicted to big and sweeping and photo-ready—
crossing oceans, changing it all, starting new things, dreams
and visions and challenges, marathons and flights and
ascending tall peaks.
But the rush to scramble up onto platforms, to cross
oceans, to be heard and seen and known sometimes comes
at a cost, and sometimes the most beautiful things we do are
invisible, unsexy.
We love broad strokes, cross-country moves, kickstarter
campaigns. But brave these days is a lot quieter, at least for
me. Brave is staying put when I’m addicted to rushing,
forgiving myself when I want that familiar frisson of shame
that I’ve become so used to using as a motivator. Brave is