My baby girl is 13. Thirteen.

Two years to driver’s permit.

Five years to graduation.

Zero minutes until dad has a full-on panic attack (does anyone…have…a paper…bag?).

I’m already saying those silly things your parents said when you were a kid.

Where did the time go?

How did you grow up so fast?

Why do you cost so much? (Your parents may have never said that one, but trust me, they thought it).

So today, we’re grabbing a moment. Stopping time for a few days. Making a memory we’ve been planning since the last time February had a 9th.

We’ve promised each of our kids a special trip for their 13th birthday. (Shhhhh….she thinks it’s next week). But little does she know, we’re interrupting 2nd period with a little Liza Minneli. Seriously, we’re playing this song over the intercom in her school room before we kidnap her and head to the airport for a long weekend in New York City.

Our lives are littered with these little stamps in time.

Some painful.

Some beautiful.

All shaping.

I believe the next three days will be permanently etched in Emma’s no-longer-pre-teen mind (alongside all those Justin Bieber lyrics), as we celebrate a huge milestone in her life exploring one of the coolest cities on earth.

The trip isn’t the magic. The time, the conversation, the laughter, the shared experience. That’s the magic. A root she’ll hopefully be able to draw deeply from on those days that may not be quite so bright.

Do you have any time stamps like that in your life?

Oh, and happy birthday baby girl! Now that you’re a true teenager, take it easy on mom and dad. OK? I’m asking you nicely (and publicly).

Separation sucks. Goodbyes always feel foreign. Like they’re not part of how we were originally designed.

(I’m sure you have a few relatives that challenge that line of thinking, but roll with me here).

When goodbye is necessary, I’ve always found it much easier to be the one leaving instead of the one being left.

The one staying behind is forced to live amongst the constant reminders of what was. The one leaving is at least going somewhere. Moving toward something new.

When our house miraculously and unexpectedly sold last week, our family was a bit shaken (although my daughter actually said, “dad, I think you’re the only one freaking out about this,” but alas).

I was out of town, but my wife wisely realized the best thing to do was to start looking at other houses. To begin focusing on the adventure ahead, instead of just mourning the memories we are leaving behind.

That was a good move. It stirred the imagination.

Imagination is the birthplace of hope. The playground of life. As we dream forward, we realize that the scary unknown is actually quite a miraculous journey worth embracing.

Are you focusing on what you’re leaving or where you’re going?

I hear voices in my head. Seriously.

Four of them.

(Although I occasionally get a 5th that sounds strangely like Flo from those Progressive ads).

But if you’re thinking I could use some meds, grab your own prescription bottle. I bet they’re talking to you, too.

Me – This voice tells me what I impulsively want (like that 4th slice of pizza).

Obligation – This voice whispers what I should want (like a Prius).

Proponents – These voices affirm my natural desires (my homies).

Detractors – These voices think I’m an idiot (we’ll just call them the condescending jerks).

On any given day, at any given moment, all these voices are vying for my attention. Arguing for my loyalty. Pleading their case. Screaming to be heard.

But the One Voice I desperately need to hear won’t ever make a scene.

It’s still.

It’s soft.

And it’s the only One that matters.

But The Voice refuses to fight with my other internal house guests. I have to stop long enough to listen. I have to let it become the loudest.

How many voices are in your head? Are you listening to The One that really matters?

Dead, dormant, or perhaps cryogenically frozen. That would probably be the best description for a very special part of me:

Songwriting.

I’ve been in Colorado Springs since Sunday night. Spent Monday in the home of one of our City Community Church overseers and his wife. Tuesday with our partners at Mission of Mercy.

But the next two days are personal. I’m here to find something I lost.

Between 2001 and 2008 songwriting was a normal outflow of my life. My buddy Nathan and I wrote songs. A lot of them. A few were even worth keeping around. Over time, a culture of songwriting actually began to emerge amongst our church community. It was a beautiful era.

But a series of painful transitions and new responsibilities have left my piano mostly untouched for the last few years. It just hasn’t felt right. So when Jared Anderson sent me a personal invite to a two-day songwriting collaborative, I immediately told him no. Didn’t even have to think about it.

“I’m a pastor now, not a musician. Those days are behind me.”

Translation:

“I don’t want to face that pain. Please leave the giant millstone tied securely to that gift.”

That was an unfortunate form of self-protection. Songwriting goes far beyond recording albums and working with record labels. It’s an unmatched form of human expression. Glenn Packiam would even call it a spiritual discipline. One I allowed to be stolen from me.

I’m here to get it back.

Today starts two days of collaborative songwriting sessions with 25 other writers from around the country. I feel incredibly vulnerable. Anxious. Rusty. And I can’t wait to see what happens.

Has pain stolen a piece of your identity? Is there a gift buried deep inside that you’ve simply stopped expressing?

Go get it back.

Have you quit yet? You want to, right? But you prepaid for that first month, so you gotta stick it out at least a few more weeks before you can quietly bury that impulsive resolution in its February graveyard.

I know. I’ve been there, too (a lot). Why do we torture ourselves with these annual empty promises of self-improvement? (Isn’t the credit card bill from Christmas enough shame to bear the first month of the year)? Why do we set ourselves up to fail?

Because our deficiencies are obvious. We want to change. To be better. Healthy. Whole. Secure. Happy. Connected.

So every 1/1 we toss a little confetti in the air, drop a crystal ball, and pray the annual re-emergence of Ryan Seacrest will finally give us enough inspiration to change. Then we bow to the idol of “should.”

I should lose a few pounds.

I should save for retirement.

I should spend more time with my kids.

I should be more open and vulnerable.

I should go to church more often.

All good things. All noble goals. All immediately classified unsustainable by the broken motivation called I should. Our efforts change, but who we are rarely does.

Here’s what I know:

IDENTITY: You were intentionally created by God (I don’t care if your parents meant it or not), meticulously woven together in your mother’s womb, each day of your life written before one of them came to be (Psalm 139). You were made with unimaginable creative potential for the express purpose of bringing honor and glory to the Creator. To be the aroma and expression of His love and life in this world.

But…

SIN: Your forefather (and mother) had a fruit fetish. A desire to go their own way. And they saddled you with a massive burden called sin (don’t be too mad, if Adam & Eve hadn’t done it, you’d have gladly done it on your own). You were born into it, and you wear it like a 100 pound weight around your neck.

And…

WOUNDS: If that wasn’t bad enough, other sinful people have taken whacks at you. Abused you. Abandoned you. A parent. A friend. An ex-husband. Fill in the blank. You’re bleeding out. You’re missing a limb. You believe lies about yourself and about God.

And amidst this weight of sin and wounds of this life, you once again make your annual attempts to fix yourself. You can barely stand up straight, and yet you think you can resolve your way to transformation.

Here’s the Good News: Jesus already finished for you what you couldn’t even begin for yourself. (Galatians 3:2-4)

He came to take your sin. To heal your wounds. To remove you from the brutal prison of failed self-improvement called I should. To help you become who He always intended for you to be.

I highly suggest you start there.