Beer Analogies

One of my favorite hangs in Nashville is the deck of a craft beer establishment on 12th Avenue. It is a porch that has heard some of the best, and also some of the silliest, conversations. A deck that I have sat on with the dearest people I know. Beer, like coffee, brings people together in a powerful way, ya know?

The other night, my friend Kate and I were sitting with our Stiegl Radlers (seriously the greatest grapefruit explosion of your life) in the setting sun, talking life. Specifically, talking about what it looks like to let go of something. And the reality of a situation versus false hypotheses about a situation. Because, let's be real, how easy is it to act, react, and make decisions based off unfounded notions rather than actuality? I know I spend far too much time in a world of reality I have concocted largely out of nothing. It is safer and more comfortable to assume we are right; to put on blinders rather than to take a hard look at the facts. Because some facts are hard to swallow. Some facts make us look bad. Some facts don't just make us look bad, they reveal harsh truth about what we have done. Some facts hurt.

Somewhere in the middle of a Radler and potato wedges, we came up with the kind of analogy that can really only come from a beer hang. It's two boats, floating side by side. On the one hand is the boat with all the reality. The boat that isn't loaded down with fantasies and assumptions and biases. It's just a boat of facts. A boat of truth, if you will. A boat that moves quickly and confidently through the water.  The other boat rides a little lower in the water, because it carries a lot of baggage. A lot of what ifs, and but maybes, and lies and accusations and pain. It's also got a big armchair, for sitting and mulling over old wounds. This boat feels safe, but is actually dangerously close to capsizing all together.

Imagine, then, that the reality-boat floats alongside the other, and a rope is thrown and the two are connected. You, the passenger, jump from the dangerous armchair and the clutter onto the clean, pristine deck of reality. Phew. But the danger-boat is still attached. And you kind of want it that way. Because what happens if you lose all that baggage? All the things you've told yourself, false or partly true or all true (but twisted in a bitter light), that acted as a band-aid are on that other boat. To let it go completely feels impossible.

Here's what Kate and I decided. Ya gotta let that other boat loose. Full healing doesn't come until the baggage is set to sail. Forgiveness can't happen if you're still sitting on old wounds. There is just literally actually 100% nothing good that can come from hanging onto that sinking boat. I don't know if you've ever felt this way, but sometimes I think forgiveness will hurt worse than holding on to bitterness. I know cognitively that isn't the case, but my mind comes to that conclusion anyway and will not budge. It feels more dangerous to let go than it does to hang on to the baggage of the past.

But here's what I know now: Forgiveness and healing happen when you look at the situation, acknowledge is for what it is (reality and all), accept whatever hurt it brings, find the joy, and choose to move forward. Like my pal Oswald Chambers says, "Let the past sleep, but let it sleep in the sweet embrace of Christ, and let us go into the invincible future with Him."

I'm reminded of the song "Come Sail Away" by Styx.

Beer bonding is a beautiful thing.