Have a Beautiful, Terrible Day! Kate Bowler
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Copyright © 2024 by Kate Bowler
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Published in the United States by Convergent Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, NewYork.
CONVERGENT BOOKS is a registered trademarkand the Convergent colophon is a trademarkof Penguin Random House LLC.
Scripture credits are located on this page.
HardbackISBN 9780593727676
EbookISBN 9780593727683 convergentbooks.com
Cover artwork: Jill DeHaan
Author photograph: Michaella Jelin
ep prh 6.2 146030355 c0 r0
01 wheneverythingis out ofcontrol 02 you’re not sleepingmuch 03 whenyou’re trappedinthe past 04 not your best self
05 whenit’s not fair (it really isn’t)
06 not drowninginother people’s problems 07 whenyou’re certainthat today willbe too much 08 to take what youneed
09 for findingyour truer selfagain
10 whenyoudon’t want to miss someone but youdo 11 to feelwonder again
12 whenyouneeda little motivationto change 13 whenyoudon’t feelfulfilledanymore 14 to stoptryingto fix everything
for a terrible day 16 whenyouneeda break 17 whenyouneedto forgive
18 whensomeone has done youharm
19 quietingananxious mind
20 for everyday funerals
21 for whatever is onthe calendar
22 for whenthings are fallingapart
23 a blessingfor a goodpause
24 whenyouhave screwedup
25 whenlife feels out ofcontrol
26 to enjoy the fullness ofthe day
27 you’re beingtoo productive
28 whenyouare inpain
29 whenyoujudge everyone
30 for marriedlove
31 whenlife feels incomplete
32 the painis too much
33 for learningto rest
34 for more love inyour life
35 for breakup,divorce,or heartbreak
36 whenyou’re holdingonto badhabits
37 make me a peacekeeper
38 your best life now
39 for a clutteredmind
Have a Beautiful, Terrible Lent!
40 for AshWednesday
41 to feela little more grateful
42 for livingwithout control
43 for that unsettledfeeling
44 to feelmore love
45 whenyour family disappoints you
46 findingGod’s presence
47 to keepmoving
48 for deeptiredness
49 God,leadme
50 love,love,love
51 waitingfor anythinggoodto happen
52 seeingGodeverywhere
53 well,I’mnot allthat great sometimes
54 for makingallthings beautiful
55 overwhelmed,stressed,overwhelmed,stressed
56 lettingyourselfbe known
57 lettinggo is painful
58 regret
59 not knowingthe next step
60 for trustingyour ownintuition
61 to see clearly
62 feelinganxious andcriticized
63 feelingmeh
64 for a very busy day
65 feelingGod’s love
66 for the painthat lingers
67 feelingtoo much,be back later
68 beingso close to pain,too close
69 whenyou’re awake inthe night
70 whenanxiety rises
71 honest faith
72 for a funeral
73 noticingbeauty
74 for PalmSunday (beginningofHoly Week)
75 compassion,sufferingalongside
76 youneedhelpinrealtime
77 goodnews is hardto find
78 whenwe say no to God
79 for GoodFriday
for Holy Saturday
for
for
for
for
Jesus’s
for
for
preface
These are terrible days. These are beautifuldays. Somehow bothrealities feelinseparable inour minds now.
We have the sense that somethingbadmight happen,andhas already happened. Whenwe readthe headlines,we do not shake our heads. We nod. Yes,we think. Ofcoursethat wouldhappen.
Our moods seemtight andjittery. We worry about groceries andschoolshootings andairborne viruses. We worry about kids andparents andfriends andwhether this,whatever this is,is allwe canexpect. We worry about the heart-stopping events we have already enduredandwhat willhappennext.
We worry about how we willget it alldone.
We worry about everythingthat cannever be undone.
“How are you?” people ask us.
“Anxious,” we might reply.
But whenthe sunbegins its nightly descent,instinctively,we cast our eyes to the horizon. We have the sense that somethinglovely willhappen,andhas already happened yesterday. We notice how the white glare ofthe sunbehind starchedclouds is poolinginto oranges anddeepreds,and our breathbegins to slow. We nod. Yes,we think. Thisisalso whathappens.
Our moods thaw into awe. We marvelat goodmedicine,the inventionofcheese dip,andthe delightfulmischiefinour child’s eye no matter how oldthey are. We marvelat the intricacy offlowers andthe ingenuity ofcities built from steelandconcrete. We cannot believe how muchour parents candrive us bananas andour friends canmake us laughso hardthat we needto finda wallto support ourselves.
We findourselves surroundedby the daily miracles ofplanets turningandstars blinkingandpeople who hugus whenwe come throughthe door.
“How are you?” people ask us.
“Grateful,” we might reply.
We might feelawfulor wonderful,but we are runningout of those middle-of-the-roadfeelings…the more boring, humdrumfeelings ofbeingunfazedby the worldaroundus. We are no longer able to be carriedalongby the momentum ofordinary days unfoldinginto other ordinary days. Instead, we are liftedandcarriedby currents larger thanwe are,
takingus further andfaster thanwe wantedto go. There are highs andlows,soaringviews andstomach-clenchingdrops.
This is the new way ofbeinginthe world,the sense of unpredictably andprecipitously risingandfalling. We are made offeathers. We are made ofstone.
What Kind of Anxiety Is This?
Why do we feelfear prickingat the edges ofour minds? Why does it feelso normalto be so hypervigilant…so aware?
Well,there are a few varieties offear that might be usefulto name here: apocalyptic awareness,anxious awareness,and awareness ofpain. Andnone ofthese emotions willbe the sort ofthingwe bringupat parties,but we intuitively understandthemto be parts ofhow we experience worry.
Apocalyptic Awareness
The first,apocalyptic awareness,willnot be news to you. We feelafraidbecause—to name only a few factors—we are witnessingthe increasingfragility ofthe structures that hold upour lives. We are seeingallthe signs ofour weakening democracy,the erodingenvironment,racialinjustice,public mistrust ofcivic institutions,the rise ofmedicalbankruptcy, et cetera…I couldgo onandon. We feelafraidbecause the headlines break into our days like sledgehammers.
Whenwe start to feellike our worldis teeteringonthe edge ofthe abyss,we are livingwitha sense ofthe apocalypse. Apocalypticis a wonderfulwordbecause it feels the way it sounds: destructive,terrifying,catastrophic. But the word also means “that whichis revealed.”
(Side note: Theologically speaking,Christians have a long, richtraditionofthinkingandarguingandmakingpredictions about the way God’s creation—the earthandeverythingelse made by divine intent—comes to anend. E.g.,Jesus returningto earth,AND SOON. But I don’t mean apocalypticinthat narrow sense.)
It’s also the feelingwe get whenwe watcha documentary about risingsea levels andexperience a chill. We feellike we are staringover the edge oftime itself. Somethinghappens inour minds. We pick upthe thought andthenwant to dropit immediately because it is too impossible,too big,andtoo terrible to imagine. We worry that nothingwe do would matter anyway. Andyetweknow. Wesee.We can’t pullour eyes away.
Anxious Awareness
Some ofus—most ofus—wouldprobably say that we know less about downright terror andmore about anxiety. We wear it like a secondskin. What couldhappen? Willit happen? We findourselves guessingandsecond-guessing choices we have made. We lose more time stoppingand checkingour impulses thanwe couldpossibly describe,only
because we wouldhave to stopandcheck to think about it first. Other people seemto have a kindofnaturalbravado that propels themthroughlife (which,sorry for my loud judgments here,makes thembrave or stupidor wildly efficient). But that’s not us.
Our thoughts have anendlessness to them: Whatdoesthat personthink?WhatshouldIdo?WhatdidIdowrong?How canIkeepmyselfsafe?HowcanIkeepotherssafe?We don’t know how to protect ourselves fromthe feelingthat we are exposedsomehow,opento the elements. We understand vigilance intimately. We wouldbe nakedwithout it.
Painful Awareness
For some ofus,our relationshipwithfear is lockedinside our ownbodies anddaily experiences. Many ofus feelafraid because we are swimmingthroughphysicalandemotional pain—the kindofpainthat threatens to washus allaway. We are immersedinthe feelingofthe ongoingandnever-ending tragedy ofour circumstances. Other people seemto belong to another world—a worldwhere people think about dinner andchitchat about whether there willbe rainor snow later oninthe week. It turns out that there willalways be rainor snow later oninthe week,so they willkeeptalking. Meanwhile,we barely have language at all.
We lose the ability to arrange andrearrange thoughts that couldmake sense ofwhat is happeningto us andwhy. We
wouldrun,but where wouldwe go? It’s happeninginside of us or to us.
We try crying,we try talking,we try silence. We try sleeping, we try screaming,we try tellinga friend. We eat ourselves sick. We starve ourselves empty. Nothingworks entirely. Everythingworks a little. The claustrophobia ofthis tragedy is suffocating. But thenduringthe stray moments,we forget. The normalcy we glimpse feels like a delusion. Whatismore realthanthispain?Whatistrueraboutmethanthis?
Living in the Beautiful, Terrible
Somethingyoushouldknow about me: I wrote this particular book now because I aminthe midst ofa dark seasonofpain. I have physicalpainthat ripples downmy back andpelvis,up anddownmy legs,andcrawls upmy neck. It feels coldand loud. It feels like lightningdeliveredintravenously,washing over me inwaves.
I almost never talk about it,because I findpaindifficult to describe andevenmore difficult to describe over andover againto people who love me andcannot helpme. (I amnot recommendingthis kindofinwardness,only confessingthat I haven’t figuredout another way.) So,rightly or wrongly,I don’t talk about pain,but I think about it ona thirty-second loop. Driving,scrubbingdishes,doinglaundry,talkingto friends,takingmeetings,answeringemail,talkingonthe phone. Some days the painis so deafeningthat I forget what roomI’min. People are talkingandI can’t quite make out the
words. I worry that the look onmy face willgive away how far I have driftedfromwhere they canreachme. I amlost to myself,givenover to a body that is deeply indifferent about what I put onthe calendar.
But I discoveredthat for roughly anhour first thinginthe morning,my brainwas bright andclear. So I wrote these blessings andreflections. It was allI coulddo. I couldn’t researchlong-termhistory books (as I amoftendoing). I couldn’t write long-formstories because that,friends,takes hours andhours andI hadonly a short burst before my ability to think detonated. But I couldsay:
God,whateveristrueaboutyouhadbetterbetruenow.
Today.
I couldnot wait untiltomorrow to have long,luxurious thoughts about the Christianpast andsome hypothetically wonderfulpersonI might become ifI couldonly get my act together. Instead,ifI wantedto pray or bless this day,I neededto be able to place my faithalongside my reality. And my reality is fear,pain,andfear ofpain.
Ifyouare anxious or worriedabout whether your life can also be beautiful,welcome. Me too. Thank youfor joiningme here. I can’t tellyouhow nice it is to have company when, otherwise,I wouldassume the socialmedia lie that everyone is livinga spectacular andeffortless life drinkinggreen smoothies somewhere,doingbeachfront yoga or noodling aroundEurope,is true.
What I want more thananythingis to bless youandme right now,andfeelthe truthofour realities without lettingreality itselfoverwhelmus. People oftensay,“FAITH NOT FEAR,” as iffaithfulpeople can’t be afraid. But we are afraidfor so many reasons,many ofthembothreasonable andrealistic. So let’s just settle that controversy now: we canbe faithful andafraidat the same time.
Awareness Is Your Gift
Let’s try talkingabout faithandfear inthe same breath. Oooohhh,this feels a little spicy but I’mgoingto argue it anyway. I want to suggest that beinga Christianencourages usto understandfear ina more intimate way.
Let me tellyoua story about roofs. Andabout why we know somethinggoodabout faithandfear andlove and Christianity,maybe because ofthem.
I was twenty-five. It was inthe cowboy days ofsubprime mortgage lending,anda bank was dumb enoughto give me, a graduate student inreligion,enoughmoney to purchase a bungalow inDurham,NorthCarolina. My husbandandI had recently movedto the UnitedStates fromCanada,so our credit scores were purely hypothetical,andthe hilariously smallstipendthat I receivedfor teaching,researching,and correctly pronouncingKierkegaard’s name to my classmates (no,look,it’s really more like Kierkegore) furnishedus with a lot ofstories inthe years to come about the time we got vitamindeficiencies andallthe skinonmy husband’s hands
inexplicably peeledoff. But we hada house we couldn’t afford,whichwas stilla treat,andthe previous owner had left a bright greenmini-golfcarpet inthe livingroom,andan entire Elvis Presley tribute roominwhat later became our guest room.
There was a shedinthe backyardwithallkinds ofpromise a simple peakedstructure,two floors high,andlinedwith thick white oak. It hadbeena carpenter’s workshopfor the owner who hadbuilt the mainhouse andwho hadeven botheredto line the edges ofthe property withelegant masonry quarriedfromthe same bluishgray stone that made my school,Duke University,look like Duke University. But the problemwiththe shedwas the crater where the roofhad sunk so low that termites andwet woodwere threateningto pullthe whole thingdown. We triedto propit upas best we could—beams here,brackets there—but the only real solutionwouldbe a religious one.
I have always believedthat one ofthe great arguments for beingpart ofa collectivist Christiantradition—three cheers for Mennonites,Hutterites,Amish,andAnabaptists ofall kinds—is their willingness to do voluntary,gruelingmanual labor andcallit love. Andwe wouldneeda lot oflove. So our Mennonite family drove the thirty-sevenhours fromtheir prairie homes inCanada andtook residence inthe Kingof Rock andRoll’s MemorialRoom(as we hadbegunto callthe guest room). They usedreciprocatingsaws for most ofthe day untiltheir biceps burnedandnot muchofthe original buildingwas left. Thenthey measurednew woodandwe bought a nailgun,andsometimes,at night,I wouldwake up
to findmy husbandflickingme inthe headinhis sleep because his hand,the nailgun,hada lot ofwork left to do.
That year the star ofthe Christmas letter was the shed,with a few addenda to make clear that it shouldlast another twenty-five years before it cavedinagainonaccount ofthe limitedwarranty onthe shingles. I thought about this often whenI wouldsit inthe yard,watchingthe same people show upto buildme a fence because I hadrecently receiveda suddenStage IVcancer diagnosis andthere was nothingelse to do. I wonderedabout the shed,whichwouldalmost certainly outlive me now,andhow allmy plans (oh,my lovely plans) hadbeenstrippeddownto the studs.
Ifyouaskedme before the cancer,before the years of treatment andstacks ofmedicalbills,I wouldhave toldyou almost nothingabout fear or anxiety or the headlines ofthe newspaper. I wouldhave toldyou,one way or another,that I don’t needto be terribly afraidbecause Iamasurething. I’magreatbet.Lookatme,quietingfearwithmytidy individualismandmystore-boughtsolutions.Fear is for people,other people,who can’t ensure their ownfuture.
Humanlives really do seemlike very sensible projects when youinitially addthemup. Agoldenanniversary is fifty years andpossibly two kids andthree furnaces. Aretirement home for your parents is at least another monthly mortgage payment for a decade,but youcanprobably budget correctly ifyouimagine finally payingoff your student loans. Andthen takingout another. We addandsubtract for radiators and replacement cars andwhenthe dishwasher vomits allthe
soapy,dirty water onto the hardwoodfloor (but only when we are onvacation). We don’t feellucky,but we are.
What I hadnot learnedfrommy shedcavingininthe first place was what Simone de Beauvoir calls our “facticity.” All ofour freedoms—our choices andour ridiculous attempts to planour lives—are constrainedby so many unchangeable details. I was borninthis particular year to those parents in this town. This medicationexists andthat treatment doesn’t, but now it seems that allalongI hadthese cancer cells inmy colon,spreadingto my liver,andscatteredinmy abdomen because ofa genetic blueprint writtenlongago.
This existentialstate is,to borrow a termfromMartin Heidegger,the thrownnessofhumanlife. As we wake to the sufferingofthis worldandour ownexistence,we find ourselves hurtlingthroughtime. We reachout for something, anything,to steady us,but we are like astronauts untethered. That is a particular kindofgrief—the awareness that we are not drivers ofour circumstances,not anymore. We are unwillingpassengers.
Willing to Be Carried
Americanculture values choice above all. People who choose are masters oftheir owndestiny. They are the greatest ofall mythicalcreatures: self-made. By contrast,people with fewer choices—less independence,more dependence—might beginto feelthe stingofa distinct kindofshame. We might wonder ifour awareness ofour limitations is a signofour
failures. After all,we have failedto render ourselves invincible andcarry our ownweight. We stumbledanddid not always recover; we took andcouldnot always give.
Evenat my most durable,I shouldhave seenthat it took so many people to buildmy life,propit up,andmaintainit. But once I was sick,I came to realize that a failure to live life on my ownis not a failure at all.
The hardtruthis that the most basic aspect ofour humanity is not our determination,our talents,or whatever we accomplishedduringlast year’s resolutions. We are united by our fragility. We allneedshelter because we are soft and mushy andirritable inthe elements—andwe willneedso muchmore thana bank loanbecause,sooner or later,we are left exposed. Time andchance,says the author of Ecclesiastes,happento us all.
Honestly,none ofus canaffordthe lives we already have. We set out to buildour owndreams,slay our owndragons,and pay our owntaxes,andfindthat we tripover our healthand our marriages andthe way our inboxes suck us into the void. We were promisedthat Americanindividualismanda multibillion-dollar self-helpindustry wouldset us onour feet. WhenNorthAmericans look for answers to our dependence, we oftenturnto the easy promises ofthe gospelofself-help: “Try harder!” “Change your mindset.” “Youare your greatest hope.” So we bought cheappaperbacks ina frenzy to finda cure for beinghuman.
But soonour ownlimitations—andthe weakness ofour institutions—showedus the absurdity ofthis kindof
individualism. (It was the atomismthat Frenchsociologist Alexis de Tocqueville,that early astute observer ofAmerican culture,warnedus about.) Our dreams turnedout to be built fromtoothpicks,eachpersonproppedupto standentirely alone.
We understandinstinctively that we cannot winthis game of solitaire. Our churches andbook clubs,bible studies, farmers’markets,andour carpools andsports teams offer little reminders that we shouldneedeachother,borrow and lendmoney,babysit andrunanerrand,argue anddebate.
“Absolute independence is a false ideal,” arguedthe sociologist Robert Bellah,whose deepunderstandingofthe inventionofthe modernselfrarely missedthe mark. “It delivers not the autonomy it promises but loneliness and vulnerability instead.”
But we usually see this only whenwe have sunk to the very bottom. Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber describedhow she understoodthe truthofinterdependence most fully whenshe beganpracticingthe uncomfortable honesty demandedby Alcoholics Anonymous.
“Recovery is hardto do onyour own,” she observed. “You have to do it witha groupofother people who are messedup inthe same way but have foundsome light intheir darkness. Sittinginthose rooms intwelve-stepmeetings,there’s a particular kindofhope that only comes frombeinginthe midst ofpeople who have really suffered—sufferedat their ownhand—who canbe completely andtotally honest about that.”
Her groupnicknamedthis sort ofcommunity “The Rowing Club.” They wouldhave to take turns pullingonthe oar. At times,eachwouldhave to be willingto be carried.
A Delightfully Christian Word: Precarity
There is anabsolutely spot-onwordto describe this way of beinginthe world,its fragility,its dependence. AndI would be delightedifyoubeganto use it inyour daily life and especially at work events. That wordisprecarity.
The Englishwordprecaritymeans a state ofdangerous uncertainty,but its Latinroot tells us a gooddealmore about its Christiancharacter. The termcomes fromprecariousor “obtainedby entreaty or prayer”—a state where we cannot achieve things by ourselves. We must rely onsomeone else, Godor neighbor.
So insteadofsayingthat we are self-masteringwinners, beautifulcyborgs who cansomehow rule our worlds by our owndetermination,we canadmit truths that are muchmore realistic. How are we? Dependent. How are we doing? Fine untilwe needhelp(whichwillbe inroughly two or three minutes).
This understandingoffers us a more comfortable relationship betweenour faithandour fear. Our fear is anawareness of the worldandour place init. Andwhat are we? Fragile.
There is a wonderful,saintly Catholic womanyoushouldget to know ifyouhaven’t already; her name is Dorothy Day. She livedinNew York City inthe slums withpeople who couldn’t affordadequate foodandshelter. One day she receiveda letter froma priest fromthe CaribbeanislandofMartinique describinghis ownwork withthe poor,andthe letter was quite pointedabout what it wouldmeanfor allthose ofus wantingstable roofs.
He wrote: “Here we want precarity ineverythingexcept the church.” Inother words,we talk a goodgame about wanting to be people who love what Godloves untilit requires that we beginto accept anxiety andfear as part ofthe life of faith. The priest went onto say that recently the place where they were handingout foodwas nearly collapsingandthey hadtriedto propit upwithseveralsupplementalpoles. But it wouldlast maybe only two or three more years. “Someday it willfallonour heads andthat willbe funny,” he saiddrily. But he couldn’t bringhimselfto stopfeedingpeople inthe breadlines inorder to be another kindofchurch,the kind that was “always building,enlarging,andembellishing.” We have no right to,he concluded. No right,I suppose he meant, to demandsecurity affordedto no one else.
As Christians we must nodour heads andshrugour shoulders whenwe’re told,inno uncertainterms,that there are no lifetime warranties.
Our Delicate Selves
There is a tremendous opportunity here,now,for us to developlanguage andfoster community aroundempathy, courage,andhope inthe midst ofthis fear ofour own vulnerability. Our neighbors are expressinganachingdesire to feelless alone,needinglanguage for the painthey’ve experienced,searchingfor meaningandsomeone to tell themthe truth. They are hungry for honesty inthe age of shellackedsocialmedia influencers. They are desperate for a thicker kindofhope that canwithstandtheir circumstances andemboldenthemto preachthe truthofour resurrected Lord,whose future kingdomwillhave no tears andno pain andno Instagramat all.
We have a few goodclues that we are allowedto hope for this kindofinterreliance here,now. There’s a strange story inthe gospelofLuke about friends who bringone oftheir ownto see Jesus. Their RowingClub was a mandown,so they carriedhimto where Jesus was preachinginthe hope that he couldbe healedfromhis paralysis. But the crowds were thick andthe friends couldn’t get throughthe door,so they hada dangerous idea andclimbedonto the roofand beganto dismantle it. Thenthey loweredtheir friend throughthe tiles ona stretcher into the middle ofthe bewilderedthrong. Andthen,andthen,andthen,a miracle happened. (Andifyouhaven’t readthe story,it’s inLuke 5 andthe surprise endingis lovely. The paralyzedmangets up andwalks. Go readit andpretendI didn’t spoilit already.)
It is a miracle whenwe let ourselves,indesperation,be loweredinto the unknown. Whenwe let ourselves cry or screamor evenwhisper that we fear our ownundoing. We willhave almost nothinginour controlexcept the knowledge
ofour fragility,andwe willwatchsomeone else wear themselves out runningto the pharmacist or cleaningthe bathrooms andsandinga plank ofwoodfor yet another Anabaptist formoflove.
It is a miracle whenwe see the precarity ofothers andwe decide to carry the weight oftheir stretchers insteadof worryingabout the groceries. Godbless allthe people who botheredwithmy complaints andworriedabout my heartbreak. The saints are those who press pause onlouder concerns because they have decidedto remember what they wouldrather forget: our independence is a sham.
Andit wouldbe the greatest miracle ofallto be the paralyzedmanwho gets off the stretcher. Who hears Jesus’s voice returningus to ourselves. We are healed. We are whole. We came throughthe roofbut we walkedout the door. Hallelujah.
IfI amvery lucky,the shingles willlast andthe chemotherapy willholdandthe painwillquiet andlove will continue to do most ofthe work. I willgo back to being someone who tallies upthe inconvenient expiry dates of large appliances andcount birthdays andnew years to set the clock ofmy mortality. I willbe like the homeowner an hour after Jesus andthe crowdhave left,my floor littered withbrokentiles andcrumbledplaster.
AndI willlook up,throughthe gapinghole,to the blue,blue sky right fromwhere I stand,no longer surprisedby the fundamentalChristiantruththat the roofalways,always caves in.