Sometimes, moments in life sneak up on you. Words are said that challenge and inspire you.  Thoughts that you have had for years, and fears you have long ago learned to embrace are rattled at their very core.

Most of the time, these moments are accompanied with an event of decent magnitude, or are created by the words of a friend or confidant.  Occasionally, however, they are unforeseen and most unexpected…and that makes them all the more special.

Several weeks ago, some friends and I decided to take advantage of a beautiful spring Tennessee evening by visiting a local park.  A picnic was prepared, company was enjoyed, and in the very essence of warm weather a frisbee was, of course, brought along.  

We had just begun tossing the frisbee when a group of several children saw us and asked if they could join. With a twinge of reluctant unspoken annoyance from all, we relented and they joined our group.  We all know how this goes, of course. The throws are mediocre at best, the catches are non-existent, and the game essentially looks like a blind man attempting to herd cats.  That night, though, it didn’t seem to matter.  Perhaps it was the pollen count, but something in the air made me feel alive and excited that these children wanted to be there with us.  They thought we were cool….and we all want to be cool.

We ran, we laughed, I gave one of them some pointers on his frisbee toss (which looked distinctly better afterward I might add), and a good time was had by all.  Most of my time was spent with the two smaller girls, who looked to be about 7 years old.  Their mothers watched while we played, constantly reassuring us that if they were bothering us we could let them know.  We insisted that they were fine, however, and the game went on for quite some time.

After a while, the mothers called to the children and told them it was time to leave.  Without hesitation, the youngest girl came bounding up to me and wrapped her tiny arms around my legs. With huge hazel eyes she looked and yelled “Thank you!!!!”  Fearing that her mother would mistake me for a pedophile, I laughed and patted her head and told her she was welcome.  As I said this, her mother walked over and placed one hand on my arm. 

At this point I was terrified, thinking that this was some sort of To Catch a Predator spinoff.  What happened next, however, couldn’t have been more unexpected.  She looked me straight in the eye and said “You are going to be an amazing husband and father someday.”

Almost immediately, tears came to my eyes and I muttered a feeble “thanks” while choking back emotion.  It was a simple statement, probably said out of relief from a mother who had been corralling children all day, but it spoke to my very core.

You see, this woman never could have known that everything in me desires to be a father, to have a family, to provide for someone.  She couldn’t have known that for years I have struggled with the fear that I wasn’t enough.  The only thing that she knew was I took a few moments out of my day to play frisbee with her kid. What she said, though, spoke life over me. It battled my fear head on, and stepped into the arena with my doubt and shame and fought valiantly. This unnamed woman in the park will never be forgotten by me, and she has no idea.

There are so many times throughout my life that I have innately felt that I should say something, or that I should do something, but haven’t done so because it seemed foolish or strange.  What I have forgotten, however, is that we so many times forget the power we have to speak life over others…whether we think we have the right to or not. 

The old adage, the one about sticks and stones? Yeah, well….that was a lie. Words forever shape us. Perhaps, I daresay, they shape us even more so than actions.  So, the next time you feel that nudge to say what is on your mind, my challenge to you would be to do it. Do it swiftly, before fear and doubt have time to catch up with your tongue. Whether it be a complete stranger or your best friend, those words may be far more powerful (and needed) than you could possibly think.

As is typical with my writing, the inspiration for this musing finds me late at night, after an evening filled with rich and inspiring conversation.

Recently, a few distinguished gentlemen and myself have been reading “Daring Greatly” by Brene Brown.  The book centers around two topics: shame and vulnerability.  Needless to say, it hasn’t exactly been light and carefree, but the challenges it has posed have been both valuable and needed.

The most recent chapter deals specifically with the ways in which men and women deal with shame, and what shame looks like for both sexes.  One of the points I agree with Brene on is the idea that, for me, shame looks like appearing weak.

Tonight, amidst our book discussion, we began to talk about the people we love and some of the things we wished we could say to them without our own selves getting in the way, or without the fear of being weak stooping us.  The challenge of saying these things to other men in our lives was especially difficult.

The idea of letter writing was suggested, and upon further discussion, agreed upon.  Something about writing down thoughts and having clarity (and the ability to edit) seemed fitting.

I challenged the others to not wait to write what they felt, to do it before the moment had passed, or before it was too late.

You see, I have a person to whom I would love to write a letter to which would outline my feelings of love, appreciation, and remorse. This person was my best friend for the greater part of my life, knew me in ways that I didn’t even want to know myself, and loved me endlessly. 

This person, however, left this world several years ago, and I never truly got to tell them how I felt. The night that he died, I held his hand and watched him take his last breath while my mind replayed a lifetime of memories and words unsaid.

Until tonight, though, the magnitude of that reality had never settled upon me. Now, I sit here, wishing with my entire being that I had that chance that too long ago passed along with him. It is, quite simply put, too late.

Or is it?  It is, I suppose, too late for him to read the letter, or for him to know the exact words that my heart has formulated over time. But perhaps these words still need to be said, to leave my heart and enter that space that I know so many in this world still hold for him. So, I am going to write a letter to him….to Corey Adam Daniels…to my cousin who was so much more….to the person whose death has shaped me into who I am today.

I don’t share this to be morbid, or to elicit sympathy from anyone.  The pain of his death has faded over the years, despite my initial fears that it never would.  I share this because I never want anyone to hold back words that should be said because they fear rejection, ridicule, or looking foolish.  Trust me when I say that the pain of having never said them outweighs any of these things.

Writing this letter, however long it may take me to do so, will be a painful process, just as most necessary processes in life are. While I won’t share the letter here, I pray that we each have the courage to show up in our relationships authentically and boldly.  May we never let fear be stronger than love, and may we always be reminded that life is truly too short to be lived with caution.

And more importantly, even when it may seem otherwise, may we know that it is never too late to say what needs to be said, even if it is only for ourselves.

I suppose I should begin this with somewhat of a disclaimer. I typically don’t delve into lengthy personal matters via blog, but I felt that this experience is one that may resonate with others and I felt the need to share.

Before I begin, let me give a bit of history. Growing up, I was an incredibly sensitive child. If you know me at all today, this wouldn’t necessarily surprise you. Being from a small, very rural, somewhat emotionally challenged town however meant that I didn’t necessarily always fit in. While the other boys were learning to butcher their most recently slaughtered wild creature, I was making myself busy climbing trees and dreaming of changing the world.

From the start, this created a very interesting dynamic between my father and myself. While my dad loved me greatly, and never failed to express that, we didn’t connect in a lot of ways. My dad is a true outdoorsman. Hunting, fishing, guns, chewing tobacco, classic rock….the whole nine yards. I was on the academic team. I performed in children’s opera. I liked to read and paint. I cried anytime I saw a dead animal. I was….different. Despite my dad being proud of me, I always thought that I wasn’t the son he had imagined he would have.

As a result of this “truth” I had formed in my mind, all i wanted to do was to fit in. I wanted to be able to shoot things and have no remorse and never cry and just be like everyone else; but I wasn’t. More than that, I couldn’t do it. My fierce conviction to be myself, along with a huge streak of stubbornness, completely prevented me from doing so. Needless to say, my dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye.

Fast forward to today. My father has softened in his old age, and has grown into a kind, understanding, and emotionally healthy person. I have gained a better sense of myself, grown more confident, and developed a greater love for the outdoors and stereotypically masculine pastimes. One of these activities I have always enjoyed, but have more recently been interested in, is shooting. I know that some people will be offended by the idea that I like guns, and that I own one…but this is my story so I don’t care (and there’s that.)

A couple of weeks ago I was back in Kentucky, and i went shooting with my dad. I had just gotten set up and fired my first shot when something strange happened-the clip which holds the ammo fell out of the gun. Assuming I had released it accidentally, I slid it back into place and fired again, only to have the same thing happen. My dad, being the ridiculously observant person he is, immediately noticed.

We went round and round about what was happening, about how he didn’t know what I was doing wrong, and I became increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to just do it correctly. In my mind, I kept thinking that I couldn’t believe I was so inadequate that I couldn’t even shoot a gun correctly. I had done this hundreds of times, but here I stood-suddenly transported to my childhood when all I wanted to do was impress him. My hands were shaking, and it was as though the confident person I daily am was replaced by the pale, chubby, childhood version of me. The truths I have learned about myself were drowned out by fear and insecurity, and I just wanted to run away.

Sensing that something wasn’t working, and seeing that I was getting upset, my dad decided to try the gun himself. His steady hand aimed the pistol at the target, and he fired a shot…and the clip fell out. My father slid it back in, and fired another round only to get the same result. Shaking his head, he turned to me and said a sentence that impacted me more than he ever may know.

“It’s not you, it’s the gun.” He then looked me in the eye, and pulled me tightly to his camouflage clad chest and simply said “I’m sorry, son.”

I had to fight back tears, as I was suddenly overcome with the realization of how much those words meant to me in that moment. It wasn’t me. I wasn’t inadequate. I wasn’t screwing it up. It wasn’t my fault. It was a simple interaction, nothing extraordinary to most people, but to me it helped to erase years of self-doubt and self-hatred. It was my father saying that it never had been me, and that he knew that now and so should I.

My dad put the gun down, loaded up another one, and handed it to me. He told me to try it again, and to not be nervous. So I calmed my shaking hands, took my aim, and fired-hitting exactly on my target.

That day will stay with me for years to come, along with the reminder that we will all, at times, miss our target. We will get frustrated, insecure, and nervous. Before we do that, however, perhaps we should take the time to realize that it may not be our fault. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the gun.

I recently had the opportunity to help a dear friend of mine create something. It was unplanned, and the task itself was nothing monumental outside of the realms of Pinterest, but it was a day I shall remember for some time.

This day was full of things that all manly days should be: power tools, tape measures, carpentry endeavors, spitting and grunting. As we worked, a few stray snowflakes swirled around our bearded faces. Had we only killed our own dinner, the day would have been one for the record books and our man points would have been maxed out for at least a year.

About midway through the project we had to move location to finish up. As we loaded our work into the back of the truck, my friend looked at me and said “Well, it isn’t perfect.”

“Nothing that is beautiful is” I said, without hesitating.

I had never said that phrase before, or even really thought it, but the deep truth in my response has echoed in my mind since that day.

You see, whether or not it was my own creation or divine intervention, that statement is true. In my life, I am surrounded by the most beautiful and amazing people in the entire world-I’m quite sure of it. These people are all vastly different, and have unique ways of changing me and the world as a whole. This menagerie of souls makes this life worth living.

Most importantly, though, is they all have one thing in common: they are imperfect. They are flawed, broken, sometimes selfish and deceitful. They are alarmingly human. This commonality doesn’t detract from their beauty, however. It makes it more astounding.

When we have the ability to be human without placing unrealistic expectations of perfection on ourselves, we can live life in a way that cultivates change and freedom.

So, here’s to those who are human, to those who make mistakes, to those who know this life is all we have and won’t waste one second of it, and to those who are beautiful.

Perfection, as nice as it sounds, should never be sacrificed for authenticity.

Stay beautiful, friends.

Hello, my name is Miles Huff, and I am smack dab in the middle of a full blown crisis of identity.  You will notice that I don’t say identity crisis, but rather crisis of identity. My reasoning is this: there is no question about who I am, for it took me roughly 27 years to (finally) articulate a definition of this person that I am becoming every day. Now that I have been able to define that, there is no way that I shall ever question my own identity again or listen to others should they do so.

Regardless, the crisis of identity I am currently in the midst of is more so directly related to the idea of calling or vocation.  For those of you who happen to read this and haven’t been informed, my professional life has taken a turn that, while purposeful, is quite the opposite of the course I have been charting for the past several years.  I have taken a position outside of counseling, a field which I have had a fiery and hate filled affair with for quite some time. I have officially entered the realm of corporate hierarchies, business causal attire, name badges, and parking garages.  

I have gone from being a leader of an amazing team of talented counselors, to a very small fish in quite a large pond.  I walked away from a community in which my reputation (in both good and bad ways) preceded me, and where I could count on knowing more than one person in any given social situation. Gone are the days of dealing with broken families and defiant teenagers.  On-call issues, court appearances, mental health status exams, diagnosing….all things of the very recent and vivid past.

This, my dear friends, has resulted in my present state: the aforementioned crisis of identity.  I have very suddenly shifted my direction in life, and it feels so……surreal.  I suddenly have free time. I am no longer responsible for making rather large decisions that would affect many others.  I am no longer the boss. The flood of emotions I have experienced the past couple of weeks has been overwhelming, to say the least, and seems to be catching up with me tonight.

Rather than allow this to send me into an existential tailspin, however, I have reminded myself of something these past few days.  Before making this decision, many sleepless nights of tears and prayer passed before I felt comfortable moving forward.   It was on one of those very nights that I realized what my true calling in life is (aside from being devilishly good looking of course).

My sole purpose in this life is to do one thing for the world: to give hope.  Throughout my entire life, every decision, every moment, even my choice in educational path, every single thing has been fueled by this purpose without me even truly realizing it at the time.  

My previous jobs have each provided a very direct and somewhat instantaneous opportunity to see that come to fruition.  It would seem that my new career path may not offer that as directly. Insurance isn’t exactly your stereotypical “helping” profession.  But, you see, THAT is the exciting part, and the single thing that makes this crisis of identity joyful. 

This new chapter of life that I am entering will require more of me.  I must commit to seeking out opportunities to give hope to others at work rather than waiting for them to enter my office in a state of panic.  My own mental health will improve, and therefore my responsibility to use this newly acquired free time wisely is more important than ever.  My challenge will be to find ways to make this corporate rat race a beautiful, challenging, and hopeful place. I must choose to not be solely motivated by promotions and material opportunities. 

This is all so new, so fresh, so terrifying, so uncharted…..and so thrilling. Therefore, I welcome this crisis as I have none before- with open arms, and an even more open heart. 

My purpose, regardless of my vocation, is to give hope….and that is what I shall do.

Living alone has its benefits. For example, I can sing in the shower, dance around the house to embarrassing pop songs in my underwear, or leave my laundry in the dryer for days on end and nobody would notice, unless you count my dogs (and they don’t really seem to mind). The experience of living alone has been one that I have actually enjoyed immensely, to I think everyone’s surprise.

However, there is one aspect of living alone that I am still becoming accustomed to. You see, when you live alone, you find out a lot of things about yourself. As most people know, I have spent the better part of my 27 years of life consistently examining others, and myself, every moment of every day. It is my job, my passion, and my purpose. What living alone has done, more than anything, is force me to take an even deeper look within my mind and spirit, and what I have found hasn’t always been easy to swallow.

The harsh reality is this: I am flawed. I am broken, selfish, and terrified. There are parts of myself that I have hated for my entire life, and until recently, chose to push them away from the forefront of my mind hoping that they would simply go away. Needless to say, it has not exactly been the most efficient way to cope. I have a feeling that I am not the only one who uses this method, though, so that makes me feel somewhat better I suppose.

However, the other thing that living alone has done is cause me to live my life with much more intention than I have ever lived before. I am keenly aware of how I spend my money, time, and waking hours on a daily basis. With that sense of intent and purpose, I have also learned how to more effectively deal with those aspects of self that I have not been too fond of in the past. Rather than being a bystander watching my life go by, I have chosen to take on a leading role and stepped into the limelight….and I am loving every single second of it.

What I have also discovered in the past few months is that while all of the things I mentioned are true, and that I am truly a flawed individual, my life is a beautifully written story, and I daily fall in love with the characters more and more. I am surrounded by people who consistently choose to be intentional with their lives and their resources, and who are committed to leaving a mark on this world so distinct that it cannot be ignored. More than that, I have friends who are brave enough to love me for who I am, and to challenge me continually to do the same. It is a gift that I am not even remotely deserving of, but have no choice but to accept with the utmost gratitude.

I have this nice, trendy magnet on my fridge that I got a while back, and tend to ignore most days. Today, though, in the midst of processing all of this information, it caught my attention. The quote by Mary Anne Radmacher is simple, but such a needed reminder for me.

“Live with intention. Walk to the edge. Listen hard. Practice wellness. Play with abandon. Laugh. Choose with no regret. Appreciate your friends. Continue to learn. Do what you love. Live as if this is all there is.”

This goes out to my friends and family, and all those committed to walking to the edge with me…may we, daily, be reminded to live as if this is all there is.