I’m experimenting with a littler longer and personal format for a bit. Really honing in on what music, creativity, and spirituality means to me personally. I’m hoping to write at least one personal essay a month. We’ll see where this goes, but I’m grateful who all who journey with me. And yes, there will be more of the “3 Questions With…” series coming soon. -Kyle
“If I am not for myself, who will be? If I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when?” - Hillel
I.
Near the end of July I played a show with my band at Gas Hill Drinking Room in my hometown of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. It was one of the best shows I’ve ever played. It was also a Wednesday night show. Wednesday night shows usually come with at least two guarantees: low turnout and low pay.
That particular Wednesday lived up to its promise, at least in those two weird, quantifiable metrics (butts and money). Even well-known bands struggle on Wednesday nights. I knew that going in, so I really had nothing to lose. We headlined—taking the stage after 9:30pm—and by the time we were in the middle of the set, the crowd started to filter out.
The few that remained were some guys who used to be in my youth group.
Prior to the show I had introduced one of the guys to my bass player. He said I was his first “guitar teacher.” I had taught him how to change strings, how to play a few chords, and maybe even taught him a little about Jesus along the way. On most Wednesday afternoons I would pick these kids up from middle or high schools and let them hang out in the youth room and “do homework” before youth group on Wednesday nights. I’m not sure how much homework was done, but there was plenty of guitar to be played and laughs to be had. These are those “other duties as assigned” that I excelled at (and still do), the kinds of things that lead you to playing your best show ever.
“Best” is one of those subjective words. What does “best guitar player” or “best show” or “best house” or “best life” even mean? These superlatives all go back to the one doing the describing. Best for me is not best for you. Nor should it be. The show that Wednesday night was not the best payed, the best played, or the best attended. Mistakes were made. Best did not mean perfect or flawless.
Best meant real.
Best meant I was at home.
Best meant I was in the zone.
And it was my best show ever. The great thing about defining “best” to mean authentic, at ease, and free is that best isn’t a one and done thing. Best also isn’t some future reality to be achieved in some always one-step-ahead future dreamland that I never quite get to.
Best is now. At least it can be.
My pastor friend Mike Queen would often say “the best is yet to be.” His oft-repeated mantra would give people real hope. People attending dying churches, or dealing with terminal illnesses, or living with depression or anxiety. People who recently lost jobs or loved ones. People who couldn’t seem to catch a break. When things aren’t going as planned, you need the belief that things will get better. Without that kind of hope, I think we would all fall apart.
The best is yet to be.
Yet I kind of struggle with that word “yet.” The best is yet to be. Does that mean things will get better in some one-step-ahead future dreamland, or, does it mean the best could be possible now? It’s as if The Best is some friend waiting to be called or some stranger knocking at the door and waiting to be welcomed in. The Best is always there, but hangs out in the future because we are too busy to call or too scared to crack the door open and let hope in. The longer I’ve wrestled with that phrase the more I think the “yet” is meant to hold some tension. Yet stands at this threshold between the pain of the present and the possibility of the future.
The best is (yet) to be.
II.
The same night I played my best show ever, Jeff Jenkins was running the doors at Gas Hill. Jeff is a force of nature in the Winston-Salem music scene. His band, Codeseven, is one of my all time favorite bands. When I was playing in indie rock bands in my late teens and early 20s, every band looked up to them. We would go see them at the old Ziggy’s in Winston-Salem knowing they would blow us away every time.
They have started playing a few shows again. Last year I saw them play in Greensboro at a hardcore festival. They headlined, but a lot of the crowd had left after He Is Legend played and Codeseven was playing to a rather small crowd. Not quite Wednesday night bad, but definitely a Thursday night smattering. My friend Chad, also a big Codeseven fan, was standing in the front row beside me that night and described them as a “band’s band.” Musicians—especially those into the indie and hardcore scenes—love Codeseven because they sound like themselves. Certain bands transcend their genre through cultivating their own artistic vision. Codeseven is one of those bands.
All that is to say I look up to Jeff.
At the door following my “best set ever,” Jeff looked at me and said:
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
Don’t sell yourself short.
His words rang out as both a blessing and as a warning. The blessing: don't sell yourself short, for you have an offering or gift to share with the world. The warning: don’t sell yourself short, for you will only limit or diminish yourself.
Jeff’s words stuck with me for days after that. Truth is, I sell myself short all the time.
We all do.
We can sell ourselves short in many ways. For me, it’s taken this sort of false humility that I’ve been working on for years now. I really don’t know how to receive a compliment, I brush off any praise, and often I feel unworthy. I don’t think I’m the kind of person who deserves any praise, so I downplay my achievements, my journey, my resume, my gifts.
For example, I’ve been working on writing a bio for my music for about 10 years now. It sounds ridiculous to type that, but it’s true.
This is not okay — it’s selling yourself short.
A few years ago I was meeting with a therapist and I had the hardest time even admitting I was smart. Me with a master’s degree and reading books and devouring art and stories and film and music and ideas and the natural world like my life depended on it. I could not admit I was smart. I could namedrop dozens of geniuses I looked up to, but could not own my own genius. Through tears I finally admitted this truth that those around me already knew for so long.
This is not “humility” — it’s selling yourself short.
The word humble comes from the Latin word for “earth” or “ground” or “soil.” It shows up in the agricultural word humus. True humility is to be grounded and rooted in one’s self, one’s very being. Pride is pretending you are more than you are. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun, pride is getting too far above one’s self, getting too big for one’s britches. However, I would much prefer a prideful Icarus who tried something big—disastrous as it may be—than an Icarus who no one ever heard about because he sold himself short by not dreaming of flying.
Icarus’ problem wasn’t flying, it was flying too high.
Many of our religious traditions have spent thousands of years, writing vast tomes decrying the wrongs of pride and yet have spent so very little energy on decrying the wrongs of selling one’s self short. You are fearfully and wonderfully made, yes, but lest you get too prideful and try to fly too high, don’t forget you are a wretch and a worm too.
And we slowly forget our dreams of flying.
Selling yourself short—the inverse of pride—is pretending you are less than you are. Selling one’s self short means not being fully human. Humility—in the grounded sense—is knowing who you are and living from that place. Humility is to own one’s gifts and one’s shortcomings. Pride flies too high; selling yourself short doesn’t fly at all. To sell yourself short is to curse your own soul, your own humanity.
III.
For much of my adult life I’ve dealt with “minor” depression. It’s almost a cliche for us introspective, creative, spiritual, artistic types. I really don't know if you get depression because you FEEL EVERYTHING SO DEEPLY or if you FEEL EVERYTHING SO DEEPLY because you have depression. All I know is I FEEL EVERYTHING SO DEEPLY. I’ve had four or so major episodes or seasons of the blues, but most days it’s just something I deal with. I say this is “minor” depression precisely because it is mostly manageable, but it still takes a lot of hard work and is a major part of my life.
I’ve had an office job for the past year or so and apparently checking the “do you have depression?” box during an annual wellness survey means they consider this a disability. If you go into my human resources profile there is a box checked that I have a disability. I had never thought about it that way. Disability is always someone else until it is you. Depression certainly is disabling though.
One of the most frustrating things about having even “minor” depression is how much work it takes to manage your mood in a positive way. It takes a lot of work to be your best self for others, especially those you love. I sleep well. I exercise. I eat healthy. I don’t abuse substances. I take medication. I take vitamin D (I have a vitamin D deficiency which also contributes to low mood). I immerse myself in as much light and nature as possible. I play music. I sing. I write. I cook. I grow things. I spend time with friends and family. I tell jokes. I work on improving my inner dialogue. I pray. I play. I show up. I do the work.
The word depression literally means “pressed down.” If you have had depression you’ll know that’s exactly how it feels. It’s like walking around with a giant invisible thumb pressing you down. It takes a lot of strength to press one’s self back up—even with the support of those you love and who love you. Lately, I’ve realized that for so long I’ve thought I have to be my best self for others. I have to hold it all together so it doesn’t affect others in my life. This is both good and important, but something is still missing. I have not been my best self for myself or even been a very good friend to myself for a long time.
Like so many of us, I’ve picked up false notions of humility from the world around me while not really listening to the grounding within me. There’s a cacophony of voices always telling us we’re not enough. Our whole marketing industry exists to make us feel bad about ourselves and then sell us something to make us feel less bad about ourselves. I’m done listening to them. I’ve told myself I couldn’t fly too many times. I’ve told myself I didn’t deserve to. I’ve told myself it was humility a thousand times over and I’m tired of lying.
In truth, I haven’t believed the story I’ve been telling myself for a very, very long time.
One of the great gifts of life is that we can make changes. We have far more choice than we often give ourselves credit for. This is a beautiful power of the human spirit. So I made a promise to myself this month. I’m making a change. After a particularly acute season of feeling buried underground, I determined to crawl myself out. I added a 90-day, all-day event in my google calendar from October 1st through December 31st called “Life Begins.” It’s a very simple, existential move that I highly recommend. As of this writing I’m 15 days into my new life. (December 31 is not a firm deadline, only the end of this first experiment.)
Now each day I’m sharing something. It could be a song, a story, a video, or a longer personal essay like this. It could be a simple word of encouragement or conversation, but I’m being intentional about it. I’m seeking to live out a set of questions posed by Hillel: “If I am not for myself, who will be? If I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when?” I’m not selling myself short any longer. And neither should you. The best is (yet) to be.
Is this life perfect?
No.
Is it easy?
No.
Is it the best?
Yes and it’s still yet to be.
Much love,
Kyle
May God give you the grace to never sell yourself short; Grace to risk something big for something good; and Grace to remember the world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love. -William Sloane Coffin