Author: Jisca

Do you ever have days that the world feels like it’s just too much for your finite heart to take? Like at some point you woke up to find yourself in a twisted fairytale, where magical forests decompose into putrid swamps, sweet bluebirds morph into obnoxious crows, and happy endings inevitably lead to heartbreak? Sometimes I feel like a horror story or tragedy would be easier to take, because then at least my heart would know what to expect. But there is just a different kind of devastation when a beautiful thing goes wrong. How can a human mind ever understand a planet where babies go hungry, vulnerable children get abused, people die of cancer, and marriages get broken? Even if the mind was somehow able make sense of all the broken beauty in the world, I am convinced the heart never could. Is it possible to foster a soft heart in such a world without constantly feeling like one is releasing a balloon into a family of porcupines or carrying a porcelain vase through a minefield?

One evening, after a particularly tough day, I turned to Matthew 5. While reading the beatitudes I tried to imagine the type of heart that is courageous enough to let itself hunger and mourn, gentle enough to extend mercy and practice meekness, and humble enough to embrace poverty and fight for peace. I grabbed my journal and scrawled these words: “Tonight I feel like a Matthew 5 kind of heart is either doomed to implode out of despair or explode out of intense anger when placed on this broken planet.” This moment led me to start reflecting on the concept of a soft heart. Is it in fact possible to fully turn my gaze to the reality of brokenness and not become cynical? What does a soft heart even mean? Is it possible that I have been carrying unexamined misconceptions? I wanted to share a few reflections from reading, journaling and conversing with some very wise and compassionate humans.

1.A hard heart sets barriers; A soft heart sets boundaries.

You’ve likely heard the analogy: trying to save a drowning person by jumping in the water without a lifeboat merely results in two drowning people. If you are anything like me, you may have had to learn this the hard way. Endeavours like trying to fix people’s problems and personally take on their pain can certainly be well-intentioned and appear noble, but invariably result in feeling burnt out, helpless or heartbroken. Fostering a soft heart does not mean clinging to naivety or continuing to jump into the ocean without a lifeboat after nearly drowning. Jesus Himself modelled this during his life on earth by putting up boundaries with the people around Him, because He saw into their hearts (John 2:24). It also does not mean putting up a barrier by firmly planting your feet on dry ground and ignoring any future distress cries. When Jesus found Himself surrounding by 5000 hungry people at sunrise, He could have provided many logical reasons for sending them home: He had served and healed them all day, it was late, He was exhausted, they should have had the foresight to bring food along. Instead, He took the time to both provide food and transform the experience into a very valuable teachable moment for his disciples (Matt 14:13-21). There is a wealth of brilliant writing on the importance of boundaries while caring for others. A quote I once heard from a professor in university has always stayed with me: “Whenever stepping into another’s shoes, it is important to keep your own socks on.”

2.  A hard heart is rigid; A soft heart is bendable.

As a heart solidifies, it slowly loses its flexibility and becomes accustomed to seeing the world and others from a fixed perspective. In contrast, a soft heart is able to bend and twist to see many angles and perspectives. When deeply hurt and wronged by another person, we often have the tendency to minimize them to their faults. In his book Making Sense of Forgiveness, Brad Hambrick paints a creative metaphor: “Internally we make [an offender] a flat character: a one-dimensional character like those in Winnie the Pooh, where Tigger is only an extrovert and Piglet is only a worrier.” When someone lies to us, they come to be seen as a mere liar. They are no longer seen as hard working, creative, and passionate. They certainly do not have the right to talk about anything moral with authority. A soft heart allows an offender to be a three-dimensional character, without minimizing or denying the offence.

Jesus modelled this three-dimensional perspective when He told Peter: “I say to you that you are Peter (which means ‘rock’), and upon this rock I will build my church, and all the powers of hell will not conquer it” (Matt 16:18). How did these words sit with Peter and his companions? This was the man who jumped out of a boat determined to walk on water, only to look down at the waves and sink for lack of faith. This was the man who frequently talked and acted before thinking. This was also the man who would go on to abandon Jesus in his most painful and vulnerable moment. Was it possible that others viewed Peter in a one-dimensional way, applying labels like “impulsive,” “insecure,” and “untrustworthy?” Did Peter think of himself this way? I wonder if he often thought back to this moment later in life. The One who could have easily affirmed all these negative labels instead used a powerful image to paint the person he could and would be one day.

3. A hard heart turns inward; A soft heart reaches outwards

A common misconception is that when something is hard, it is automatically stronger. I would argue that a soft heart is actually one of the most courageous and formidable organisms on this planet. In his book The Four Loves, C.S Lewis writes:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

Jesus carried the kind of heart that was vulnerable to deep feeling. He experienced joy and happiness, celebrating at weddings (John 2:1-12) and interacting with young children (Matt 19:13-15). He felt intense anger when encountering injustice and hypocrisy (Matt 21:12-13), raw grief when faced with the brokenness of sin (Matt 23:37), and deep sadness after the death of a friend (John 11:35). At the end of his life, he felt such “agony of spirit” that “his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood” (Luke 22:44).

A soft heart can feel like a scary thing to take into a hard world. But Jesus clearly showed that it is far from naïve, fragile or cowardly.  When faced with brokenness and tragedy, He always responded with a heart infinitely wise, loving and courageous, carving a path for every human heart to follow. God delights in choosing “weak things of the world to shame the strong” (1 Cor 1:27). Could it be that ironically a soft heart is one of the only things made of material formidable enough to face a broken world?

One day, a little over ten years ago, I decided to run a marathon. I started training at once with nothing but a pair of worn running shoes, a Wikipedia page worth of marathon knowledge, and a whole lot of determination. Looking back, I would have been a textbook case of what not to do when training for a major race. I am still amazed that I somehow did not get injured. My race was in May, and I spent much of the preceding winter running in the snow. I remember running for hours on end navigating icy sidewalks, pushing against frigid gusts of wind, and trying to ignore the fact that every muscle in my body was screaming at me. The only thing that kept my feet moving that winter was the image of the finish line. I dreamt about the indescribable moment I would realize I had actually done it, run every single step inside of forty-two kilometres.

 The funny thing is, ten years later I have almost no recollection of that moment. I do remember some other things very clearly. The random bystander who committed to wearing a heavy Darth Vader costume for four hours, waving a homemade sign that read “may the course be with you.” The man who put his arm around his struggling friend to physically push him on for the final two kilometres. My older brother running beside me for the last five kilometres in his jeans and work boots.  My eighty year-old grandma Doris standing outside for hours to cheer me on for a few minutes at the finish line. Eating the best Big Mac of my life with a group of family and friends after the race.

In her latest book Waymaker, Ann Voskamp uses the term EPS, or Expectational Positioning System. Our minds often latch on to destination points, places we dearly hope to find ourselves one day. They might be tangible, like yellow tape drawn across a finish line or a framed college diploma. Or they might be more abstract ideals, like the perfect marriage, an ideal body, a fulfilling career.  Sometimes we are conscious of our desired EPS destination; other times we may not even be fully aware until our lives veer off-course. And sometimes the smallest most ordinary moments can be the most poignant reminders of broken expectations. An obliviously happy and tired mother with a newborn baby enters a café and sits across from a couple that has struggled for years to conceive. An enthusiastic  running group passes a man with chronic pain, just struggling to go for his daily walk. A young divorcee sees an old couple holding hands in companionable silence. These small moments, so ordinary to the rest of the world, can feel like a sudden dagger to a broken heart.

When I read through the book of Psalms in the Bible, I imagine that David experienced many of these trigger moments. The man who was supposed to be a father-figure and mentor turned on him out of jealousy and tried to take his life. People that he thought were friends stabbed him in the back. The woman that he was engaged to married another man without any notice. Instead of becoming a king like he was promised, David spent years as a fugitive. His writing gives a little insight into the depth of his pain as he wrestled through these moments: “How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul, with sorrow in my heart every day?” (Psalm 13: 2) “I am in deep water, and the floods overwhelm me.” (Psalm 69: 2) There is a beautiful point in each of these psalms where David’s gaze shifts from horizontal to vertical, finding communion with God. “I will trust in your unfailing love” (Psalms 13:5) “Let all who seek God’s help be encouraged, for the Lord hears the cries of the needy” (Psalm 69:32-33).

Later in Waymaker, Ann Voskamp writes “The moment you let go of your expectations, much suffering lets go of you.” What does it look like to release an expectation? Broken dreams can be incredibly painful, and the process of grieving can even feel akin to mourning a death. And grieving very seldom looks linear: even years later unexpected triggers or dagger moments can make the loss feel as fresh as if it happened yesterday. Carl Rogers once wrote: “The good life is a process, not a state of being. It is a direction, not a destination.” We were not created to reach destinations, but rather to form relationships through the process of joy, pain, stability and uncertainty. As a follower of Jesus, I believe that our hearts were ultimately formed to find communion with Him by walking with Him through every season of life.

Ironically, the moments of deepest pain can lead to the moments of purest comfort and connection. My one-year old daughter typically does not stay still for longer than five seconds at a time. However, occasionally after having a big fall and sobbing, she will spend some time in silence nestling her body into mine and resting her head on my shoulder. And these are the moments that I desperately wish I could stop time. I truly come to know “the God of all comfort” when I choose to bring Him my hurt and pain (1 Corinthians 1:3). When I feel rejection and loneliness, my heart has a deeper capacity to wonder that Jesus would willingly enter these feelings to their greatest possible intensity out of love for me (Isaiah 53:3).   

Sometimes I wonder how I will view my life now in ten years. Will I even remember dreams or destination points? Or will I be left with all the little moments of connection along the journey in the form of tearful prayers, joyful worship and silent meditation? During points along the way of navigating broken expectations, David came to realize that communion with God was all that his heart truly desired. “My soul thirsts for you, my flesh longs for you as in a dry and weary land without water… Because your loyal love is better than life, my lips will praise you.” (Psalms 63:1, 3)

If I had dollar jar for every time a client expressed that they just want to get rid of their anxiety, I would likely be set for a nice steak dinner at the Keg. If I had a dollar jar for every time I tried to will my own anxiety away, I would absolutely be able to take a round trip to Paris, hotel included. And to be fair, anxiety can be really challenging. It does not feel great. I have had young clients illustrate this on a body outline in incredibly creative ways: butterflies flitting around the stomach, a boa constrictor wrapping around the lungs, an elephant sitting on the chest. I will always remember the moment a client sculpted an anxious face out of clay and then tried to push against it to show her intense dislike. We realized that the harder she pushed it, the more the clay expanded and the bigger the face became. This certainly illustrates my own experience. Trying to push anxiety away with sheer will power almost never works; ironically, it can make it even bigger in the end.

What is your relationship with anxiety? Personally, I spent many years treating it as an arch enemy, either to be ignored at all costs, or to be conquered by force. My perspective has slowly changed over time, and although I could not honestly call it a friend, I have come to consider it as a helpful messenger. All emotions, including difficult ones like anxiety, carry wisdom and can give deep insight if we learn to take the time to really attend to them. In my experience, anxiety commonly acts as a courier for several key messages, and asking the right questions can help decode them:

1)        Is there a genuine threat or cause for concern? Is there something in my power to do or change in this moment?

The way anxiety impacts the body can actually be incredibly helpful and even life-saving. If I am driving through a blizzard with my two young girls in their car seats, my elevated heart rate and increased adrenaline influence me to slow down, keep a safe distance, and constantly keep my eyes on the road. As a student, if I had a major assignment worth 40% of my grade due the next day, my anxiety might be a healthy indicator that I need to spend the evening on school rather than watching Friends re-runs.

2)        Am I trying to control something that is uncontrollable?

Very often, when I have explored the first question and still experience persisting anxiety and spiralling thoughts, at the root I am trying desperately to control something that is not in my control. This could take many forms: the weight of people’s opinions, the decisions of others, the future of my kids. One of the most universal human struggles is the contradiction of carrying things as beautiful and fragile as one’s children into a world that can feel harsh and wildly unpredictable. This is the point of surrender, or “letting it go.” I could easily spend another whole blog entry on this point, but for me it is best summarized in Philippians 4:6:

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

This might look like many tearful prayers with open hands, giving back to God all the things that were never mine to hold on to.

3)        Have I pushed myself past my human limits?

The human body is just incredible in it’s ability to stretch, adapt, and heal. For many centuries, mothers have found ways to function and care for young children on a few meagre hours of sleep and refugees have found ways to keep their joy and stamina under the most difficult physical conditions. However, at the end of the day every one of us is only human, and our bodies all reach a point where they say “nope, no further.” High anxiety and panic attacks can actually be our body’s way of saying “I desperately need rest.” Our society is not set up to foster or re-enforce regular rest, so this can really require intentionality.

4)        How much time am I spending in the virtual world as compared to the real world?

I wouldn’t even have considered this question several years ago. When I was ten years old, I lived with my family on a kind of hobby farm. We had an archaic computer with dialup that weighed about forty pounds. I shared this computer with my parents and five siblings at the time. Considering that the dialup could take at least two minutes to connect and tied up the landline, at best I would get five minutes a day to check my hotmail and MSN account, and if I was lucky I would get to play a game of snakes and apples. My interactions and friendships were thus all built around real life interactions, over thousands of times playing board games, biking, and accessorizing dolls. If I messed up in some way by saying the wrong thing, having a terrible hair day, or forgetting a birthday, I might feel a little distressed but I had a deep confidence that our friendship could handle it, that we could figure it out and move on. In other words, my real-life relationships had a fairly high tolerance for error.

It is still sometimes hard for me to imagine a world where a ten-year-old now can build most of her interactions and relationships online. Social media is a place where making connections with others can feel easy and accessible. However, if this girl has a bad hair day, she might face bullying and mockery. If she says the wrong thing, she might be cancelled and automatically lose connections she considered friendships. In other words, the virtual world has a low tolerance for error. The smallest mistake can have big consequences. I imagine that if I had faced this amount of constant risk and uncertainty at age ten, I would have felt significant anxiety. It is not my goal to criticize the use of all social media, but rather to invite some reflection on the ways it could be impacting anxiety.

I would like to end with a little analogy that often connects well with young clients. Imagine a six year old boy who feels intense anxiety before going to school every morning. He struggles to eat his breakfast and more often than not has a meltdown on the way to the bus. We make a plan together, not to leave his anxiety in the house or squish it into oblivion, but rather to pack it into a side compartment of his blue backpack. This way he begins to consider that anxiety is just one compartment, not the whole bag. He might also slowly begin to believe that he can take it along with him and still be ok. After time, he might even be able to state with a confident smile: “I’m going to pack my anxiety in my little blue backpack and take it along to school with me today.”  

Many years ago, I had the privilege to visit Africa for about a month. This trip was meant to be a much-needed change of scenery after an incredibly busy and stressful season. I had spent the last year juggling an ever-increasing number of balls: a masters degree, a part time job, volunteering, and training for a marathon. I had started the year full of dreams, ambition, and boundless energy, and ended up completely exhausted, overwhelmed, and discouraged. I remember arriving in the sweltering Zambian airport, surrounded by a million unfamiliar smells and sounds, my mind only focused on one goal: to figure out a way to get back on my feet as quickly as possible so I could come back home and resume juggling. Arriving in rural Zambia, my life felt like a Formula One car that had hit a wall while going around a blind corner, going from three hundred km per hour to a dead stop in the blink of an eye. I went from cramming every spare minute of the day with productivity to spending entire afternoons watching the village women prepare dinner around a fire, often sitting in companionable silence for minutes at a time.

As my external world slowed down to a crawl, my internal world felt increasingly chaotic. I felt lost and useless and had many moments of wrestling with God. I felt somehow betrayed that I had started all these activities with a desire to serve Him and was left high and dry, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. One hot dry afternoon, I took a walk with just my journal and my thoughts for company and sat down on a log looking over the Zambezi River. My eye was soon caught by a little beetle a few feet in front of me. The beetle itself was unremarkable, but amazingly it was pushing a pile of dung that must have been at least five times its size. After watching this impossible expedition for some time, I noticed something intriguing. Every few minutes the little beetle would stop and climb up to the top of the pile of dung. It paused and looked around as if getting its bearings, and then would climb down, adjust course slightly, and continue pushing. At the time, this little event deeply impacted me, and I recently reflected on it again as I chose “rest” as my focus word for 2025.

In the grind of life, what might it look like to incorporate regular moments of pausing and “climbing up the ball?” One rhythm that God introduced at the very beginning of time is weekly Sabbath rest (Exodus 31:13) What is the first thing that comes up when you read the word Sabbath? It might be a picture of Laura Ingalls sitting on a hard pew for a few hours and then solemnly walking home to partake in an afternoon of silent sacred reading. Or it might be the thought that a complete day off was a nice ideal for another time and economy. I have talked to friends over the years that have found inventive and beautiful ways to incorporate some sort of Sabbath into their week. For some it means an entire day off, and for others it is just a morning or afternoon. They have various views on what constitutes rest, including worship, prayer, reading a good book, coffee with a friend, napping, going for a long walk, painting, etc.

Another form of climbing up might be to take a moment every evening to reflect on the goodness of each day. For me this includes writing down little daily milestone moments from my girls and looking through videos and pictures I snapped during the day so I can absorb the beauty of their unique personalities. Or it might look like a nightly gratitude prayer, reflecting on the thousands of gifts God gave during the day that were infinitely more valuable than money or possessions. 

Finally, climbing up might come in the form of a courageous and honest conversation with a therapist, mentor, or trusted friend. The kind that goes beyond light banter and surface small talk. The kind that invites brave exploration, loving challenge, and deep connection. What happens during these moments of pause? In my experience, I often end up re-evaluating both what is driving me, and what I truly value.

As a therapist, I picture a moment a teen comes into a session diagnosed with depression, holding a deep belief that she is unlovable, and struggling just to get out of bed every morning. We might spend some time exploring practical strategies to get her out of bed and involved in meaningful activities. And these things can certainly be valuable on their own. However, if we stop short of examining and challenging her belief that she is unlovable, she might re-engage in school, work, volunteering and social activities, becoming increasingly busy and trying to perform her way into becoming loveable, and eventually ending up in the same place of sadness and rejection. In other words, we could expend a wealth of energy constantly changing the direction of our dung balls but not discover true growth until we find the courage to climb to the top. In my Africa experience, it was not until I was at the end of my strength and resources that I first knew deep in my heart that when I was completely without strength Christ died for me (Romans 5:6) and that I was loved with a love beyond comprehension (Ephesians 3:19). 

As a mom, I find that moments of pause also help refocus my heart on my core values. Parents can feel a tremendous amount of pressure to set up their kids for success by engaging in extra curricular programs and sports in addition to regular school. Although my daughters are young, there are already days that I feel like a hamster inside of an activity wheel, desperately trying to fit an impossible number of things into a day, resulting in me being dizzy and exhausted and the girls being overstimulated and overwhelmed. When I take time to reflect on the best moments of each day, I realize that they very often lie in quiet and insignificant times like reinventing an empty toilet roll, having a dance party after bath time, building a snowman, and cuddling before bed. 

Thanks for joining me on my mini exploration of the dung beetle. Here is a video link for any fellow nerds who would like to see a visual: 

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance.” Ecclesiastes 3:4

Do you ever have moments in November when you think longingly back to late August, and dream of clear skies, bright flowers and barbecues? I remember telling a friend that the only thing I don’t like about August is how the time just disappears. Well, I finally realized that the extra time that always eludes me at the end of the summer shows up unwanted in November, making the dark and dreary month stretch out and feel  like an eternity. My mind starts sending me signals that it is deficient in sunlight, colour, and motivation, and my body just wants to curl up under a warm blanket and hibernate.

In the past, November was often a just a month to survive. A sort of featureless transition between Thanksgiving and Christmas. However the past two years, as I have learned to walk through some deep moments of grief, I have come to see great beauty in the season. This afternoon as I went for my run, I noticed that the silence in the woods made the intermittent call of the lone songbirds more beautiful. And the barrenness of the branches and twigs made the reds and yellows of the surviving leaves more striking.

Times of sadness and grief can easily become seasons to endure or hide out. Something that constantly amazes me as a mother and therapist is the way children often experience and express sadness. My three-year-old can let out the most heart-breaking sobs after she realizes she left her doll at the library, and then a few minutes later be dancing around the house in pure joy to Let it Go from Frozen. I have had young children in therapy sculpt joy and sadness as little clay figures and then portray them as being friends. Children often have a beautiful ability to experience and express the full spectrum of emotions without judgement. As adults, we can lose this freedom and try to block out or reason away emotions we don’t like.

If you have ever stayed at a hotel, you might be able to imagine the thick set of curtains that you open by pulling a single chord. Sometimes we can grow up to believe that we can keep the one side of the curtain closed to block out sadness, but still allow happiness in on the other side. However, in my experience happiness and sadness always work in tandem with each other, and ironically the more our hearts find the courage to allow grief, the more ability they have to rejoice.

Maybe November is a hard month for reasons beyond the darkness and dreary weather. There could be days that bring back sharp memories of loss or trauma. The emergence of Christmas decorations and music might bring up painful feelings. There are times that even the thought of allowing in sadness can be overwhelming. In the sermon on the mount, Jesus said “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matt 5:4) The more I read this, I wonder if mourning is much more than just a cruel pre-condition to happiness. Could it be that the process of mourning itself fosters things that are essential to a joyful life? In my experience, when I dare to feel sad without instantly requiring explanation or providing distraction, I open the door for a deeper connection with God, myself, and with others.

I am not advocating for spending all of November with a journal and tissue box. I fully intend to enjoy adventures with the girls, eat chocolate, and watch the occasionally cheesy Christmas movie. However, I wonder what it could look like to regularly allow for moments where we pull the chord, even just a little.