Have a Beautiful, Terrible Day!

Have a Beautiful, Terrible Day! Plot Summary

Introduction

Modern life is marked by rising anxiety and an acute awareness of our precarity. The pandemic, political instability, climate change, and other societal challenges have intensified our collective sense of uncertainty. Yet amid this vulnerability, spiritual traditions offer wisdom about embracing both the beautiful and terrible dimensions of human existence. Traditional religious perspectives often gloss over the realities of fear, presenting faith as something that should eliminate anxiety entirely. This approach, however, misunderstands both faith and human experience. Faith does not eliminate our fears but rather provides a framework for living meaningfully within them. By examining theological perspectives on human limitation, interdependence, and uncertainty, we gain insights that challenge the modern myth of self-sufficiency. The spiritual journey involves acknowledging our fundamental vulnerability rather than denying it. When we recognize that anxiety and faith can coexist, we open ourselves to a more authentic spiritual life - one that doesn't demand perfection or complete certainty, but invites us to find God precisely in our brokenness, in small moments of grace, and in the awareness that transcends being overwhelmed by life's challenges.

Chapter 1: Understanding Modern Anxiety: The Pandemic of Fear

We live in an age characterized by three distinct but interconnected forms of anxiety. First, there is apocalyptic awareness - a sense that the structures holding our lives together are increasingly fragile. As we witness democracy eroding, environmental degradation accelerating, racial injustice persisting, and trust in institutions declining, we experience the world as teetering on an abyss. The term "apocalyptic" captures this perfectly, not only conveying destruction but also revealing truth. When confronted with documentaries about rising sea levels or similar existential threats, we experience a chill of recognition. We glimpse something too terrible to fully contemplate, yet too important to ignore. The second variety is anxious awareness - that hypervigilant state many of us inhabit constantly. This manifests as second-guessing our choices, checking and rechecking our impulses, and spending excessive mental energy wondering what others think or how to keep ourselves and others safe. Unlike those who seem blessed with natural confidence or bravado (which might be bravery, stupidity, or simply efficiency), the anxiously aware move through life feeling perpetually exposed to potential danger. The third type is painful awareness - the immersion in physical and emotional suffering that threatens to wash us away entirely. Those experiencing this form of anxiety live in a different reality from those who casually discuss dinner plans or weather forecasts. Their pain becomes so consuming that ordinary language fails. Some try crying, talking, or silence; others attempt sleeping, screaming, or confiding in friends. Some overeat while others starve themselves. Nothing works completely; everything works a little. The claustrophobia of personal tragedy becomes suffocating. These forms of anxiety reflect genuine human responses to real conditions. Rather than dismissing them as spiritual failures, we might understand them as heightened awareness of our actual circumstances. They reveal truths about our interdependence, vulnerability, and the limits of control. When we label these feelings as merely "FEAR" to be overcome, we miss their significance as authentic responses to life's complexities. Paradoxically, Christian tradition encourages us to understand fear more intimately, not to eliminate it. The gospel doesn't promise immunity from suffering but offers companionship within it. Faith doesn't demand fearlessness but provides context for our fears. This more nuanced understanding allows us to be both faithful and afraid simultaneously, acknowledging the legitimacy of our anxieties while not being defined by them.

Chapter 2: Faith as Acceptance of Our Precarity and Limitation

The English word "precarity" captures perfectly our human condition. It means a state of dangerous uncertainty, but its Latin root reveals a deeper spiritual significance. Derived from "precarious" or "obtained by entreaty or prayer," the term points to a state where we cannot achieve things by ourselves but must rely on others and on God. This understanding stands in stark contrast to modern notions of self-mastery, where we pretend to rule our worlds through sheer determination. Human lives often seem like sensible projects when tallied up - golden anniversaries, mortgage payments, retirement plans, student loans. We add and subtract, calculating for radiators and replacement cars and unexpected household disasters. Yet this accounting misses what philosopher Simone de Beauvoir calls our "facticity" - the unchangeable constraints on our freedoms and choices. We are born in particular years to specific parents in certain places. Some medications exist while others don't. Our genetic blueprints predispose us to various conditions. This existential state represents what Martin Heidegger termed the "thrownness" of human life. As we awaken to the suffering of the world and our own existence, we find ourselves hurtling through time. We reach out for stability but feel untethered, like astronauts drifting in space. This awareness that we are not drivers of our circumstances but unwilling passengers constitutes a distinct form of grief. American culture values choice above all else, viewing those who choose as masters of their destiny - the mythical "self-made" individuals. By contrast, those with fewer choices, greater dependence, often experience shame, wondering if their awareness of limitations indicates personal failure. Even at our most capable, we should recognize how many others build, prop up, and maintain our lives. When illness or crisis strikes, we realize that failing to live independently is not failure at all. Our shared humanity lies not in our determination, talents, or accomplishments, but in our fragility. We all need shelter because we are vulnerable to the elements - and we need much more than material provisions. As Ecclesiastes observes, "Time and chance happen to us all." The truth is that none of us can afford the lives we already have. We set out to build dreams, slay dragons, and pay taxes, only to trip over health issues, relationship difficulties, and daily distractions. American individualism and the self-help industry promise to set us on our feet with easy solutions: "Try harder!" "Change your mindset." "You are your greatest hope." But our limitations - and the weakness of our institutions - reveal the absurdity of this atomized existence. As French sociologist Alexis de Tocqueville warned, our dreams built from toothpicks cannot support us standing alone. We intuitively understand we cannot win this game of solitaire. Our communities, from churches to book clubs, farmers' markets to carpools, remind us we should need each other - to borrow and lend, to babysit and run errands, to argue and debate. As sociologist Robert Bellah noted, "Absolute independence is a false ideal. It delivers not the autonomy it promises but loneliness and vulnerability instead."

Chapter 3: Embracing Interdependence: The Myth of Self-Sufficiency

The modern narrative of self-sufficiency promises freedom but delivers isolation. We have constructed elaborate myths about individual resilience and personal responsibility, but these narratives fracture under pressure. The reality of human existence is fundamentally about interdependence, not autonomy. We enter life utterly dependent on others, and despite our cultural pretensions, we never fully outgrow this condition. The myth of self-sufficiency harms us by making natural dependency feel like failure. A Catholic priest from Martinique once wrote to Dorothy Day with profound insight: "Here we want precarity in everything except the church." In other words, we talk eloquently about embracing vulnerability and serving others until it requires us to accept anxiety as part of the faithful life. The priest described how their food distribution facility was nearly collapsing, supported by supplemental poles, likely to last only a few more years. "Someday it will fall on our heads and that will be funny," he remarked dryly. Yet he couldn't justify ceasing to feed people in the breadlines to become the kind of church that was "always building, enlarging, and embellishing." Christians have no right, he concluded, to demand security afforded to no one else. The gospel of Luke tells a striking story illustrating this interdependence. Friends bring a paralyzed man to Jesus, hoping for healing. Finding the crowds too thick to enter through the door, they climb onto the roof, dismantle it, and lower their friend through the tiles on a stretcher. Jesus sees this extraordinary act of solidarity and heals the man, who gets up and walks. This narrative powerfully illustrates how we sometimes must be carried by others and how, in turn, we must sometimes dismantle our own comfort to help those in need. It is a miracle when we allow ourselves, in desperation, to be lowered into the unknown. When we admit our fragility and let others wear themselves out running errands, cleaning bathrooms, or sanding wood - all forms of love. It is equally miraculous when we set aside our own concerns to carry others' stretchers. The saints are those who pause their priorities because they remember that independence is a sham. And perhaps the greatest miracle is to be like the paralyzed man who gets off the stretcher, hears Jesus returning him to himself, and walks out the door transformed. Our interdependence reminds us that Christianity has never been about individual salvation divorced from community. The early church was characterized by radical sharing and mutual care. Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote that "Christian brotherhood is not an ideal which we must realize; it is rather a reality created by God in Christ in which we may participate." This reality calls us to acknowledge our mutual dependency as gift rather than weakness. When we reject the myth of self-sufficiency, we discover unexpected grace. We find that receiving help does not diminish but enriches us. We learn that vulnerability creates space for authentic connection. Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber describes this as "The Rowing Club" - a community where people take turns pulling the oar and being carried. In accepting our interdependence, we don't become less capable; we become more fully human in the image of a relational God who exists as Trinity - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in eternal communion.

Chapter 4: Finding God in Brokenness and Uncertainty

The traditional narrative suggests that faith should eliminate doubt, fear, and pain. However, this perspective contradicts both scripture and human experience. Throughout the Bible, we find profound examples of faith coexisting with uncertainty. Abraham ventures into the unknown. Job questions God amid suffering. Jesus himself cries out, "My God, why have you forsaken me?" These biblical figures don't display unwavering certainty but rather faithful presence amid profound uncertainty. God consistently appears not in human strength but in weakness. The incarnation itself - God becoming human in Jesus - represents divine endorsement of vulnerability. Christ enters human experience fully, embracing its limitations and sufferings. The cross stands as the ultimate symbol of God's willingness to enter brokenness rather than bypass it. Resurrection doesn't negate this vulnerability but transforms it, suggesting that brokenness becomes the very site of divine presence. When we encounter personal crises - illness, loss, failure - we often initially respond with attempts to fix or control. We deploy our resources, knowledge, and willpower to overcome the challenge. Yet eventually, we reach the limits of our capacity. In these moments of acknowledged helplessness, something shifts. As theologian Henri Nouwen observes, "The great spiritual call of the Beloved Children of God is to pull their brokenness away from the shadow of the curse and put it under the light of the blessing." This movement from curse to blessing doesn't eliminate pain but recontextualizes it. Our brokenness becomes the meeting place with God rather than evidence of divine absence. We discover what St. Paul meant when writing that God's power "is made perfect in weakness." This doesn't glorify suffering itself but recognizes how limitation creates openings for grace. When our self-sufficiency crumbles, we become available to encounter God in new ways. Uncertainty functions similarly. Modern culture equates certainty with faith, yet historically, faith has been understood as trust amid uncertainty. Contemporary philosopher Peter Rollins argues that "faith is not certainty but the courage to live with uncertainty." This courage doesn't eliminate questions but embraces them as part of the spiritual journey. Doubt becomes not the enemy of faith but its necessary companion. The spaces of not-knowing become precisely where divine mystery can be encountered. This understanding of finding God in brokenness and uncertainty offers profound freedom. We no longer need to pretend wholeness or certainty we don't possess. Instead, we can bring our authentic, messy selves into relationship with God and others. We discover solidarity with all who suffer, recognizing our shared vulnerability. Rather than pursuing an illusory perfect faith, we embrace a faith that encompasses the full range of human experience - including anxiety, doubt, and limitation.

Chapter 5: Spiritual Practices for Beautiful, Terrible Days

Spiritual practices provide concrete ways to live faithfully amid anxiety, not eliminating it but engaging it differently. Traditional approaches often emphasize practices of addition - more prayer, more scripture, more service. While valuable, these sometimes overlook equally important practices of subtraction and attention that specifically address anxiety's challenges. The key is developing practices that honor both beauty and terror without diminishing either. Contemplative traditions offer particular wisdom here. Centering prayer, for instance, teaches us to sit with intrusive thoughts without identifying with them. Rather than fighting anxious thoughts (which paradoxically strengthens them), we acknowledge them and return to a sacred word or breath. This practice doesn't promise freedom from anxiety but a different relationship with it. We learn to observe our thoughts rather than being consumed by them. Over time, this creates internal spaciousness even amid external chaos. Practices of lament provide language for suffering that avoids both denial and despair. The psalms model raw emotional honesty before God - anger, fear, abandonment, desperation. "How long, O Lord?" becomes a faithful cry rather than evidence of spiritual failure. By incorporating lament into our spiritual lives, we acknowledge reality's painful aspects while still maintaining relationship with God. This counters toxic positivity that demands artificial cheer in all circumstances. Communal practices take on special significance when anxiety isolates us. Regular gathering with others for worship, study, or service reminds us we're not alone in our struggles. The simple act of sharing meals creates space for mutual recognition and support. As theologian Norman Wirzba notes, "When we eat together, we discover the many ways our lives are bound together." These connections provide tangible reminders of interdependence when anxiety pushes us toward isolation. Practices of gratitude and attention to beauty serve not as escapism but as truthful recognition that life contains both suffering and wonder. Keeping a gratitude journal, practicing the Ignatian examen (reviewing the day for moments of God's presence), or simply pausing to notice beauty grounds us in present reality rather than catastrophic futures our anxiety constructs. The key is practicing gratitude alongside, not instead of, acknowledging difficulty. Sabbath practices - intentional rest and cessation from productivity - directly counter anxiety's restless energy. By regularly stepping out of achievement and production, we embody the truth that our worth doesn't depend on our output. Sabbath reminds us that the world continues without our constant management. As Jewish theologian Abraham Joshua Heschel writes, Sabbath offers "a palace in time" where we temporarily live as if the perfect world has already arrived. These practices don't guarantee freedom from anxiety but provide ways to live faithfully within it. They create spaces where we can experience what theologian Paul Tillich called "the courage to be" - existing authentically amid the tensions of life rather than seeking false resolution. Through them, we discover that spirituality encompasses both beautiful and terrible realities, not by eliminating either but by holding them together in a larger context of meaning.

Chapter 6: The Theology of Small Moments and Daily Grace

Faith often focuses on dramatic transformation or mountaintop experiences, yet most spiritual life unfolds in ordinary moments. A theology of small moments recognizes God's presence not primarily in the spectacular but in daily rhythms and humble encounters. This perspective proves especially valuable when anxiety makes grand spiritual achievements feel impossible. Small moments become not consolation prizes but the actual substance of faithful living. Jesus consistently directed attention to overlooked details - sparrows, wildflowers, children, coins, seeds. His parables elevated ordinary objects into vehicles of divine revelation. This wasn't merely illustrative technique but reflected his understanding that God's kingdom emerges gradually through seemingly insignificant events. As he taught, the kingdom comes "not with observation" but grows quietly like leaven in dough or seeds in soil. Small moments matter because they constitute the primary arena where spiritual life unfolds. Daily grace appears in mundane encounters that easily pass unnoticed. A moment of unexpected kindness from a stranger. The gift of being truly seen by a friend. Sudden awareness of beauty in familiar surroundings. Brief experiences of presence amid distraction. These aren't spiritual consolations for those who can't achieve greater heights but constitute authentic encounters with transcendence embedded in ordinary life. As theologian Karl Rahner suggested, "In the torrent of everything, the everyday, there is revealed to us the eternally beautiful." This theology challenges achievement-oriented spirituality that measures growth through dramatic breakthroughs or intense experiences. Instead, it recognizes that faithful living often involves small acts of courage, kindness, and attention repeated over time. Writer Tish Harrison Warren calls this "liturgy of the ordinary" - finding God in dishes, traffic jams, and casual conversations. Such spirituality doesn't require escaping daily life but entering it more fully with awareness. The emphasis on small moments particularly serves those struggling with anxiety. When fear makes the future seem overwhelming, focusing on the present moment provides a way forward. Jesus's teaching to "not worry about tomorrow" wasn't dismissing legitimate concerns but directing attention to where God can be encountered - in the actual rather than the imagined. Taking the next right step becomes possible when we're not paralyzed by contemplating the entire journey. Grace in daily life also manifests through what theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer called "the ministry of small things" - modest acts of service that rarely receive recognition. Listening attentively. Offering practical help. Showing up consistently. These seemingly minor contributions constitute the bulk of love's actual expression in the world. They remind us that faithfulness rarely involves heroic gestures but consistent presence and attention to immediate needs. This theology of small moments doesn't diminish life's significant challenges or pretend anxiety can be overcome through positive thinking. Rather, it acknowledges that even amid terrible days, moments of beauty and grace remain accessible. By attending to these small gifts without denying larger struggles, we develop resilience rooted in reality rather than denial. We discover that God's presence doesn't depend on perfect circumstances but manifests precisely within life's beautiful and terrible complexities.

Chapter 7: Cultivating Awareness Without Being Overwhelmed

Awareness serves as both gift and burden. It enables us to perceive beauty, injustice, and meaning that would otherwise pass unnoticed. Yet heightened awareness can also overwhelm, especially when focused exclusively on suffering or threat. The spiritual challenge involves cultivating awareness that encompasses reality's fullness without drowning in its painful aspects. This balance proves particularly crucial for navigating anxiety in faith contexts. Contemplative traditions distinguish between different types of awareness. Reactive awareness jumps reflexively between stimuli, constantly scanning for danger - a state familiar to those with anxiety. Mindful awareness, by contrast, maintains gentle attention to present experience without immediate judgment or reaction. Contemplative awareness extends further to perceive sacred dimensions within ordinary reality. These distinctions suggest that awareness can be trained toward receptivity rather than hypervigilance. Christian practices of discernment offer particular wisdom for directing awareness productively. Ignatian spirituality, for instance, teaches examining internal movements toward consolation (that which leads toward God) or desolation (that which leads away). This framework helps distinguish between awareness that illuminates and awareness that paralyzes. Not every thought deserves equal attention; some warrant acknowledgment and release rather than extended engagement. Compassion fatigue - exhaustion from constant exposure to suffering - demonstrates how awareness without boundaries becomes unsustainable. Jesus himself periodically withdrew from crowds despite overwhelming need. This wasn't failure but recognition of human limitation. Spiritual maturity involves acknowledging we cannot bear all awareness equally or simultaneously. As theologian Henri Nouwen observed, "We cannot bear the suffering of all people all the time. That is God's task." Practices of attention training help balance awareness with necessary boundaries. Fixed-hour prayer interrupts scattered attention with intentional focus. Lectio divina (sacred reading) cultivates slow, contemplative engagement with limited text rather than consuming endless information. Contemplative walking directs awareness to immediate surroundings rather than abstract worries. These practices don't eliminate awareness of suffering but provide rhythms of engagement and rest. The goal isn't perfect awareness but faithful presence. We recognize that awareness itself operates within human limitation. As theologian Rowan Williams notes, "We see in a glass darkly" - our perception remains partial and provisional. This humility prevents awareness from becoming another perfectionist project that fuels rather than alleviates anxiety. We can be present to reality without demanding complete comprehension or immediate resolution. Ultimately, cultivating awareness without being overwhelmed involves trust that extends beyond our individual perception. We participate in awareness that exceeds our own - what theologians have called the divine perspective that holds all things together. This doesn't eliminate the tension between knowing and bearing, but it contextualizes our limited awareness within a larger framework of meaning. We can remain awake to reality's beautiful and terrible dimensions while trusting that neither has the final word.

Summary

The profound insight emerging from this exploration is that faith amid anxiety doesn't require eliminating fear but rather embracing our fundamental precarity as the very ground where God meets us. By accepting our vulnerability rather than fighting it, we discover that limitation itself becomes the doorway to authentic spiritual life. The most transformative spiritual path isn't found in transcending human weakness but in recognizing how our interdependence, uncertainty, and fragility connect us both to each other and to divine presence that manifests in brokenness. This perspective fundamentally challenges modern myths of self-sufficiency and control. Rather than striving for impossible independence, we are invited into the freedom of acknowledged limitation - what theologians have called "the glorious liberty of the children of God." This isn't resignation to suffering but recognition that when we stop pretending to be gods, we can finally encounter God. In small moments of daily grace, in practices that honor both beauty and terror, in awareness that doesn't deny reality's complexity, we find a faith sturdy enough to encompass anxiety without being defeated by it. Such faith doesn't promise freedom from storms but offers the profound discovery that we are never alone within them.

About Author

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Kate Bowler

Kate Bowler, PhD is a New York Times bestselling author, podcast host, and a professor at Duke University. She studies the cultural stories we tell ourselves about success, suffering, and whether (or not) we’re capable of change. She is the author of Blessed: A History of the American Prosperity Gospel and The Preacher’s Wife: The Precarious Power of Evangelical Women Celebrities. After being unexpectedly diagnosed with Stage IV cancer at age 35, she penned the New York Times bestselling memoir, Everything Happens for a Reason (and Other Lies I’ve Loved) and her latest, No Cure For Being Human (and Other Truths I Need to Hear). Kate hosts the Everything Happens podcast where, in warm, insightful, often funny conversations, she talks with people like Malcolm Gladwell and Anne Lamott about what they’ve learned in difficult times. She lives in Durham, North Carolina with her family and continues to teach do-gooders at Duke Divinity School.

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