arms open wide.

There's a new album out that I like to say has made my entire summer. It's Hillsong United's Across The Earth. 

I'm a recent convert to the fanfare surrounding this Australian worship band. But a convert, nonetheless.

This is my prayer tonight:

Take my life, I lay it down

At the cross, where I am found

All I have, I give to you, O God

Take my hands and make them clean

Keep my heart in purity

That I may walk in all you have for me

Here I stand, arms open wide

I am yours and you are mine

Take my moments and my days

Let each breath that I take

Be ever only for you, O God

Here I stand, arms open wide

I am yours and you are mine

My whole life is yours, I give it all

Surrender to your name

And forever I will pray:

Have your way. Have your way.

Here I stand, arms open wide

I am yours and you are mine

Arms Open Wide

high school.

I graduated from high school today.

The whole experience is still really surreal. I remember a senior telling me freshman year, "High school flies by." I didn't really believe her at the time. But now I do. In fact, I can barely remember being handed my diploma this morning!

That was a joke.

Or an attempt at one, anyway.

Not only was today special because I graduated, but because I got to share my heart with several hundred people. It was the coolest thing I've ever been able to do.

Really.

To stand up in front of a rather eclectic group of people and tell them about my God. Who could ask for anything else?

Since many - or should I say, most - of you were unable to participate in this event, I'm copying my speech below:

My fellow graduates, Mr. Crane, teachers, staff, family and friends, I’m standing before you today for one reason, and one reason only: the Almighty God. This God has captivated my heart. My story isn’t grand; I’m just a girl once stuck with a stale perception of Christianity who has finally come to grasp the depth and strength of her God! My hope is that you too, will come to see the glory of this mighty God, as I share my story.

One of my heroes, Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said:

Look up…you who are captivated by the events and changes on the surface of this earth…Look up, your redemption is drawing near. Something different than you see daily, something more important, something infinitely greater and more powerful is taking place. Become aware of it, be on guard, wait a short while longer, wait and something new will overtake you! God will come, Jesus will take possession of you and you will be redeemed people.

I’m just your average 18-year old girl. I love watching The Office and rolling my car windows down and blasting Taylor Swift music. I frequently come home past my curfew. And I still think that throwing toilet paper in friends’ trees is a great way to spend Friday nights.

But this God has taken possession of me. It took a while though. Growing up, my suburban life has afforded me nothing but comfort and blessings: I have been raised in a supportive family that loves the Lord. For so long I’ve felt like I’ve been hearing the same things over and over again. My faith has grown stagnant.

Coming to Maranatha, however, has revolutionized my faith. I’ve learned two life-changing lessons here:

The first is that we live in a crazy world. In the last year, my eyes have been opened up to its harsh realities: terrible things I never thought existed, like human trafficking—the third most lucrative illegal industry in our world today. People, our fellow human beings, have become mere commodities—right up there with drugs and weapons—to be traded and exploited. And I’ve been alive, for 18 years, thinking slavery was long gone—oblivious to it all. That could have been me. Why am I here in America, living in complete comfort, taking my freedom for granted while people are suffering? It’s just not right! I don’t deserve any of this, and I certainly can’t go on living as I always have knowing that people are dying for deliverance! I have to do something.

And just as my awareness of our world and my role in it has changed, so has my view of God.

That’s the second thing I’ve learned: Our God is so much more than felt boards and cheezy light blue sashes. He is the Creator of the universe. The Author of salvation. The Healer of hearts. The Overseer of the overcomers. The Lover of the lost. The Hope of the hopeless. The Father to the fatherless. The Servant of all. The Famous One. The Alpha. The Omega. He is everything. He is all we need.

This is our God, the One we serve! His heart breaks for the orphaned, the oppressed, the widowed. He longs to see justice reign. He emptied Himself for you and for me. We were made for a relationship with Him, and we are made alive in Him.

And because of that, I owe Him everything. I want my life to about Him. Christianity isn’t about comfort. I don’t want to live a “normal” life. There’s no meaning in anything I do, unless it’s for God, His glory, or His Kingdom—because He’s the source of life. I cast everything else aside because the desire of my heart is to bring Him praise; I want to reflect Him and His heart for justice.

In Isaiah, the voice of the Lord cries out, “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” And Isaiah responds, “Here I am. Send me!” And even as this awkward, inadequate teenager, I feel myself saying the same thing: “God, use me! Send me, Lord!”

But where do I start? I can’t drop out of high school, move across the world, and just begin breaking people’s chains. I can’t change the world by myself. But I can do my part. God can use each and every one of us! He has gifted us beyond measure, and if we use our talents, if we all do our part, if we all take up our cross and follow him, this world can change.

Let this God take hold of you. Let Him guide you and your choices. Let Him redefine your idea of success. Let Him break your heart for what breaks His. Let His power fill you in your weakness, and give you strength to do things for His Kingdom. Let him change you.

Because of what I’ve learned here, at Maranatha, which means “the Lord cometh”, this God has come into my life. He has invaded my heart. He has changed me, and I won’t ever be the same. I’m not perfect, by any means. But His grace sustains me, and I can stand here and say that I have chosen to give my life, my whole life, to honor Him.

And I hope and pray you will dare to join me in this adventure. I challenge you with this: Abandon the need to be normal. Forsake the tendency to take control of life. Let love tear down the walls that divide us. Don’t make success a goal. Rest with the assurance that God will provide. Seek after His heart. Follow His calling.

We must use our talents, our gifts, our strengths to contribute to something greater than ourselves, to make a difference in this world that is so hungry and thirsty for hope. We can’t let apathy hold us back, fear keep us from trying, or hardship prevent us from finishing. We ought to live a life worthy of the calling we have received, a life in honor of the Most High, the one true God, the Savior King!

So look up…you who are captivated by the events and changes on the surface of this earth…Look up, your redemption is drawing near. Something different than you see daily, something more important, something infinitely greater and more powerful is taking place. Become aware of it, be on guard, wait a short while longer, wait and something new will overtake you! God will come, Jesus will take possession of you and you will be redeemed people.

crap.

This world is full of crap—and not just the I-had-a-bad-day, a-cop-pulled-me-over-and-gave-me-a-ticket crap (which happened to me the other day), but real crap. Deep hurt. Brutal pain. Hopeless agony. Utter despair.

I’ve been blessed to enjoy a rather peaceful existence. The extent of my pain has been loss of friendships and scholastic rejection. At times, I wish I suffered more. I feel like my lack of life-altering trials discredits the advice, consolation, and encouragement I offer others who are hurting. I’ve wondered if more hardships might enable me to better identify and comfort those who are struggling.

But I’ve realized my lack of struggles are in no way an indication of my inability to nurture, shepherd, and help those who are suffering. God can still use me.

So many of my friends are in dark places right now. The devil is trying to grab hold of them, isolate them, make them feel scared, warp their perception of reality. Some feel a constant presence of darkness all around them, some are confused, and some just tire of trials.

As they relate to me their problems, part of me is afraid to answer, part of me doesn’t know what to say.

I don’t want to sound like a cheesy Hallmark greeting card, reassuring them that “God’s got a plan” or that "everything will heal with time." Because while that’s true, let’s be honest: no one wants to hear that in the height of their pain.

I don’t want to sound condemning, have them think I am judging them or minimizing their pain and struggle because I have yet to undergo what they are feeling.

I have no idea what this is like. I have no idea what to say.

As I stumble for the right words to say, I ask, “Do you want to know what I think?”

After receiving any range of affirmative responses: a nod, a grunt, a “sure”, or an “OK”,

I say, “I think it’s the devil.”

Silence.

“He’s trying to isolate you, trap you, make you feel hopeless, make you feel scared and alone. There’s this battle above us between God and Satan. And Satan’s trying to get as many people as he can to be on his side. He’s trying to beat God. But God is so much stronger. His power triumphs over Satan’s. In fact, he’s so powerful, that just uttering his name will send Satan running. So there is hope: our hope is in God. We can rely on him. He’ll overpower Satan. He’ll fight for us.”

Silence.

The epic battle between good and evil is present in every scenario. God is good. Satan is evil. The pain and the agony we may feel aren’t from God. They’re from Satan. Yet he doesn’t have power over us. God is triumphant. And there’s hope in that.

I’ve felt his love, and I want them to. I believe his majesty resides in me, and I want them to. I can’t necessarily be their rock, but I can point them towards mine. But how do I take them there? How do I show them that?

I’m not sure I can. I can’t be their hope. I can't take their pain away. But I can introduce them to mine. I can take them to someone who can.

I don’t need to have walked through the fire to do that; I can help foster restoration in those who hurt without experiencing their pain.

Right now, I think I can serve as one who reminds them over and over again that they are worth something. They are something worth fighting for. They are important. They matter.

I’ve realized that a lot of personal struggle is intensified by a skewed perception of one’s self-worth. It’s sad that after all this Sunday school and Christian education, kids are still missing the point (which makes me wonder about the church's "Children's Ministry"...) that they are a child of the king, an heir of grace, a beautiful, magnificent creation. Their identity is not contingent on the inconsistency of their life and shifting circumstances, but on the unwavering constancy of our relentless God.

Someone told me recently, “Sometimes you confuse me. I don’t deserve your help.” My heart leaped at this paradoxical compliment. The beauty of God’s kingdom is confusing: it turns our world upside-down. Our world has no conception of God’s freedom, grace, and mercy: people are intent on getting what they deserve. But God, in his righteousness, has "lavished his love upon us", sent his only Son to die for us. We don’t deserve it. We haven’t done anything worthy of receiving it. But he gives it to us anyway. Freely. It doesn’t make sense.

And now, I’m told that I’m not making sense. But how cool is that? To be God’s. To follow him. To desire to reflect him. And to not make sense in this world. Because of that.

As I think about my life, my strengths, my weaknesses, and my circumstances, I feel like these might be the people I’m supposed to minister to: the ones in pain, the ones in agony, the ones stuck in a pit of hopelessness. I’ve never experienced true, deep suffering. I can’t always relate to people. I don’t always know what to say. But our God is mighty. And he can use anyone as the tool or the avenue through which he reveals his heart to one of his beloved, a lost soul, one thirsting for hope. And in that, here’s what I’ve learned:

This crap isn’t the end. There is hope. We are worth something. God’s grace is freely given. I can be a light.

And

“The LORD will fight for you; you need only be still.”

Exodus 14:14

the exchange.

Last night felt like the biggest night of my life. The event and movement I've been planning for almost a year now came to life. I was humbled and simply in awe of what happened. I can't really even put it into words.

Tears came to my eyes as friend after friend ran up to me with the profile of the child they just sponsored through Compassion. It was so overwhelming to see people caring, my friends, my teenage friends giving of their small allotment of money to help people in need, children with no hope.

It was beautiful. This is how the world should be.

I don't have much else to say, so I guess I'll just paste the little speech I gave:

To be honest, I didn’t want to do this event two weeks ago. I was tired. Plans weren’t going through. I didn’t feel like we could do these issues justice if we sloppily slapped something together. I didn’t feel like I could keep my sanity and go through with planning this. And I kinda figured that if God wasn’t pulling through, since things weren’t working out, he might just not want us to do it at all.

I agonized over throwing it all away. It pained me to think that this movement I started, this mission I feel drawn towards, this work I’ve invested myself in might be thrown away. But I really didn’t think I could do it. And looking back, I failed to see one thing:

“No act of love, no matter how small, is ever wasted, is ever meaningless.”

As I stumbled in my confusion, Mr. Hough sent me an email, reminding me of the greatness, and love of our God.

I remember just sitting in my room, in sobbing tears as I read his words over and over:

“No act of love, no matter how small, is ever wasted, is ever meaningless.”

This is worth it.

So I’m here, we’re here, and this is happening. And I’m just in complete awe. I’ve been broken, I’ve been pulled from every angle. I’ve cried just about all the tears I thought I had. I’ve said all the prayers I consider humanly possible.

But through it all, I realize that love is why we’re here. The truth, the freedom, the assurance, the peace, the grace, the abundance of life we experience in love. A love for people. A desire to see their lives transformed. That’s why we’re here.

We started this event last year to reverse the exploitation of people in our world. I learned that over 27 million individuals are enslaved each year—that’s over 3 times the population of Los Angeles! I was in shock. I couldn’t even fathom how slavery still existed—and I’ve lived 18 years completely oblivious to it all!

And this year, we’ve tacked on the issue of homelessness, something so prevalent right here in our own city. I drive by homeless people on my way to and from school, and most days I just pass them by.

But the statistics are so staggering: there are 1,165 people who are homeless on a given day in Pasadena. That’s like an entire school! 254,000 men, women and children experience homelessness in Los Angeles County during some part of the year, which is almost 1.5% of the total population of Los Angeles. Not to mention, nearly twice the amount of all homeless people in New York and Chicago combined!

Who am I to just keep driving by them?

They’re people too. A couple weeks ago I was doing some service with my church, and for part of the day we met with this homeless lady named Cindy. We listened to her share her story, and I was just struck by how normal she was. Lots of times, I think I just assume that homeless people are a little nutty, and if I give them money, they’ll just go spend it on drugs.

But when I met Cindy that all changed. She put a face to the issue. Here was a woman struggling to get by, honestly. Here was a woman who had a completely normal life, but poor decision after poor decision brought her to the streets. What hit me the most was the amount of discrimination homeless people face. It’s crazy to think that when politicians say they’re going to clean up the streets, they really mean they’re just kicking homeless people off the streets. Where are they supposed to go? Shelters are often so full! What are they supposed to do when cities make it illegal for people to sleep horizontally in public places? How are they supposed to get a job, when they don’t have a place to wash up? Who’s going to help them? Who’s going to challenge the law enforcement, who’s going to stand up for them?

I am. I will. This discrimination, is wrong. And it needs to stop.

This past year, I’ve prayed and sung that God would break my heart for what breaks his. And I think that’s happened: my heart breaks for people like Cindy, for little girls stuck in the sex trade in Thailand, for families endlessly toiling in rice mills in India to pay off an age-old debt.

As I look at my life, I want it to have meaning, to have purpose, to have impact. I want to live and die for something higher, something other than myself. I want to lead people into experiencing what I have, into the knowledge I know. I want to love people, love people till it hurts. I want to encourage people, in their weakest, darkest moments. I want to advocate justice, reminding people of the way this world should be. I want to be a light, a reflection, a living sacrifice for my God, in everything I do. I want to live in complete surrender to him, abandoning all else for his glory.

I don’t want to reach the end of the road and find I’ve lived this life in vain, lived for my own ambitions. I don’t want to breathe my last breath, wondering what else I could have done. I don’t want to leave this world, regretting the choices I made. I don’t want to be normal, seeking and storing up for myself treasures on earth. I don’t want to lose sight of what’s important, forgetting the overwhelming love of my God, forgetting to be his hands and feet, forgetting that I’m the one he’s invited to finish the good work he’s begun.

I don’t want people to live in pain. I don’t want people to feel inadequate. I don’t want people to be exploited in their weakness. I don’t want people to be forgotten, their talents unappreciated. I don’t want people to despair, live with no hope. I don’t want people to go through life without knowing about this God. I don’t want injustice to wreck any more lives. I don’t want corruption to reign supreme any longer.

Something needs to be done. Pleasure is too high a priority, while people are in peril and pain permeates. The lost need to know and experience the overwhelming love of our gracious God. They need to know there’s another way. They need to see how the power of his presence will crush their despair and bring them into freedom.

So tonight, I encourage you to join me in taking a step towards that change. We have tons of organizations here and there are so many practical ways you can help. I want to especially encourage you to consider sponsoring a child through Compassion. We’re really excited to have them here tonight because through their program you can donate just about a dollar a day to ensure that a child is released from the confines of spiritual, economic, social and physical poverty, that they’re cared for, have food, and a safe place to go. They’ve even done something really special: they’ve brought profiles of kids who live in the areas we as a school send missions teams. Imagine how cool that would be to sponsor a kid here tonight, and visit them next summer on a missions trip?! If you can’t swing that monthly commitment right now, then I encourage you to donate what you can to help us as a school sponsor a few kids.

Whatever you choose, take this opportunity to do something! Because tonight, we’re taking a stand. Tonight, we’re letting our awareness of these issues, our love for these people, to motivate us to action. Tonight, we refuse to let the weight of these issues cripple us. Tonight, we will not be silent.

addict.

I'll admit: I was a Facebook addict.

It consumed me. I came home from school, flipped on the Internet, opened it up, responded to friend requests, wall posts, inbox messages and the like, surfed the most recent pictures, and stalked old friends.

I found myself thinking, "If I just outline ten more pages in my government book, I'll let myself go on Facebook for fifteen minutes."

An hour did not go by when I wasn't checking my account for new updates.

And then, when nine o'clock came 'round, it was like prime time! (If you don't already know, nine to ten is roughly the time that everyone worth knowing is on Facebook.)

I think I found a certain pride in the fact that I usually had over 100 friends of my 1,000 online at the same time each night.

I know there are others like me. Don't try and hide. I have some of you as my friends. You subconsciously gravitate toward computers, type in "facebook.com", and begin living your second life. Updating your status, writing back to people you never talk to in-person, etc. The story's the same for everyone.

(Perhaps I should start a program: "Facebook Addicts Anonymous: A place for you and your friends. Your real friends. The ones who care enough about you to interact with you in person. In real life. In real time.")

I was right there with you.

And then one day, I just stopped.

Ash Wednesday came around, and this addict began realizing that she really did spend too much time on there. And it wasn't even time well-spent. I was stalking people. Snooping around. Figuring out who knows whom, and who's the biggest party-er.

It was pointless. All this time and effort for nothing. I never got anything back. It was just this empty black hole, this bottomless pit.

So I gave it up for Lent. I came to the hopeful conclusion that the proceeding forty days would be productive. The roughly two hours per night I spent on Facebook would be put towards something else more meaningful: sleep, blogging, talking to people on the phone, learning to play the guitar, etc.

And I have to say that these past forty days have been incredibly productive. But more surprisingly, I've learned several lessons:

1. Conversing audibly with individuals via the telephone is quite exciting and effective. Real laughing is more fulfilling than the "haha" or "lol" typically offered for witty interjections.

2. Going to bed before 11:30 PM every night makes you feel so much better in the morning. Staying up till 1:00 AM talking to people through a screen isn't worth the sleep you miss.

3. There is life beyond social networking. In fact, there are real people out there for you to get to know on a deeper level than what they post about themselves in their "Info" section. On top of that, you already have friends in real life, there's no need to aimlessly search for more (as the cartoon below satirizes).

Most importantly, however, I feel like I've learned something about my generation:

The development of the Internet, cyberspace, and online social network sites in general has created in my generation the acute desire to inform others of how we are feeling.

We have a need to be known.

For the first few weeks of Facebook-less-ness, after singing a song or making some snarky comment, I found myself thinking, "Oh! I can't wait to get home and make that my 'status!'" Moments later, I'd remember that I didn't exactly have a Facebook anymore. Such a status update was virtually impossible, and, as I began to learn, slightly ridiculous.

In times like these, I found myself questioning the motives behind updating my status. And all I found was this need to let others know how I was feeling.

But why? For what? Why don't I just tell someone how I'm feeling? Why post it on the Internet? So that I can get the most comments on my status? So I can make people feel bad for me?

It's stupid, right? What ever happened to actually caring enough for people to notice when they're down, and then talking to them about it? It's like we're too busy to care, but because we all still have needs, we resort to broadcasting them online for all our "friends" to see.

So now, with Easter and Lent behind me, I find myself incredibly hesitant to "reactivate" my account. I know I'll go straight back to stalking people, catching up on what I missed, staying up late "messaging." And I don't want to waste my life that way.

Perhaps I'll resume activity as the infamous event known as The Exchange rolls around. Or perhaps I'll reactivate it when I move off to college. I'm not sure.

All I know is that I've had the most productive, exciting, enjoyable past forty days of my life. And conversing with people, sans screen, is priceless.

And I wouldn't trade that for anything.

where you are.

Since giving up Facebook for Lent about a month ago, I figured I'd have all this extra time to write. But that expectation has proven entirely false. I'm beginning to wonder if giving it up was more the hand of God looking out for me, than me trying to set time aside to observe and contemplate him. 

In either case, life has been incredibly busy.

So busy, that I have an even more apathetic and lethargic attitude towards school than before. I'm just weary. I feel somewhat like a gopher drilling a hole into the earth, and despite being halted in progress by the presence of a large boulder underneath the layers of dirt, I continue digging just for the sake of digging.

On top of this lack of motivation, is this growing desire to just discard the unnecessary things in my life. I so want my life to have meaning and purpose; and at this particular time, I feel like there are so many things in my life that serve no purpose; things that I'm doing just to do; things that contribute to my "digging for the sake of digging."

We sang a song in church tonight that says it: 

"I wanna be where you are."

I just want to be where God is. Serving him. Loving his people. Learning about him.

Everything else pales in comparison. 

What's the point of life if we're not focused on the source of it? Why do I have to be in school? Why do I have to learn about regression lines in Statistics? Why do I continue learning about literary devices?

I feel like this picture captures the essence of the place I'm in. While driving up to Big Bear on a cloudy day, we reached a point on the winding road where we passed through and above the clouds. It was incredible!

And I wish that I could do that with my life: rise above its mundane and repetitive course, tap into the heart of God, and live in simple service to him--without Statistics, AP English, or this thing called high school.

convicted.

Some of life's most beautiful moments are those in which you are utterly convicted. 

Conviction itself is a humbling, rather uncomfortable state. One in which you have been proven wrong. And as a teenage girl from a society striving to avoid the unveiling of (or simply the recognition of) personal flaws, it's even more difficult.

At the same time, it's rewarding. This correction brings forth growth and a reassurance in the grace and forgiveness of our Savior.

The reason this is even a point of discussion is because I've been convicted. It's hard to explain right off the bat, so let me give you some context.

Lately, my super duper friends and I have been attending Christian Assembly's Fusion service on Sunday nights. It's fabulous. It's both "current"/"hip" and spiritually edifying - things are taken to a different level than most high school ministries (mostly because it's the college-age and older service, not high school).

Currently, we've been in a series called "The Sequel" - taking a deeper look at what it means to be Spirit-filled believers who are the sequel to Christ, the ones left to do his will. A few weeks ago, Mark Pickerill (the pastor) highlighted a passage in Revelation 3:

"These are the words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the ruler of God's creation. I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm - neither hot nor cold - I am about to spit you out of my mouth. You say, 'I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.' But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see."

This is a letter to the church in Laodicea. And as Mark went on to tell the congregation, Laodicea was quite a "happening" place. It was a city of incredible prosperity because of its ideal location: the crossing of major trade routes. Because of this, its people were quite self-reliant - particularly the believers. Their wealth blinded them. They were unwilling to see what they were lacking, and that because of their wealth, they were "wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked."

As a result, they were an inward-focused community, which Mark likened to a football team that consistently stays in a huddle. Imagine that: a football team that always strategizes but never runs an offensive play. He went on to say that our churches are still like this: we don't adequately share the Gospel with others because we're so focused on our church budget, or the publicity campaign for the next retreat, or which songs to sing next Sunday, etc.

My conviction came when he pointed out that he thinks the Alcoholics Anonymous program has got things right. 

As he watched a relative work his way through the program he realized the institution's purpose was not to bring men to sobriety, but to help men become sober so that they can help others become sober. 

And that he said is what we, as Christians, ought to do. That is the point of the Gospel: to embrace the good news ourselves and share it with others. 

What got me was the fact that the Alcoholics Anonymous program is doing things right, and I'm not.

As that idea soaked in, I began really looking at my life. 

You could say I've been raised in a Christian bubble. It's a wonderful bubble, don't get me wrong. But the problem with it is that its perpetuation has not exposed me to the outside world, the world that I'm supposed to share this good news with. 

In fact, up till now, my only outlet to the non-Christian world has pretty much been through National Charity League (NCL): a 6-year program in which mothers and daughters serve their communities together. Having just completed my service with NCL, I've realized how much I've taken that ministry opportunity for granted. I have been too consumed with my disgust in watching women serve to acquire required hours and miss the point of it all, that I too missed the point: I could have developed deeper friendships with the girls who, though quite different from me, are thirsting for truth and meaning and purpose in life. 

I could have been a light. 

I could have shown them the way to fulfillment and joy. 

I could have shown them hope.

But my selfishness kept me from doing so. I stayed in the huddle and forgot to launch my offense.

I don't want to live life in the huddle. I don't want to forget that at some point, I've got to put all this strategizing to play. I don't want to let my selfishness hold me back.