Behold the Bear
Behold the Bear
What do I think about? I think about the decisions I’m wrestling with. I think about my family, what I’m doing, what I’m not doing, and how I can do better. I think about the people around me and the choices I’m making that affect them. I think about my employees, wondering if I’m leading them in the way they need me to. I think about whether we’re making the impact we set out to make. I think about what the funders want, what we’re not doing, and how we can do more. These are the normal things that keep my mind spinning.
One morning, all of this was running through my head, and I decided to go for a walk. My walks are rarely straightforward. I leave my house near the airport, aiming for Riverwest, but how I get there is always a mystery. Some days I take the lakefront. Other times I wander through Walker’s Point or downtown. Most of the time, I end up cutting through alleys, stepping over train tracks, or passing under bridges. It’s never about the destination or even the route. It’s about the rhythm. Reflect, work, pray, work, create, work, walk, work. That’s just how my brain operates.
That day, I found myself walking along train tracks, my head buried in my phone. I was firing off emails, convincing myself I was being productive, even though my mind was spinning. Then I looked up, and for a moment, I froze.
Standing on the tracks ahead of me was a massive white bear holding a bright red heart. My first thought was, “This is how it happens. Cocaine Bear 2: Urban Jungle.” If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s about a bear on a drug-fueled rampage. Naturally, I watched it because how could I not? But now, staring at this bear, I was half-expecting it to charge at me with its little heart clutched to its chest.
The stuffed bear was weathered and left someone abandoned on the tracks. The absurdity of it hit me immediately. A bear with a heart, not a grudge.
At first, I laughed. It was ridiculous. But then something about the moment stopped me. The light hit just right, and the noise in my head finally quieted. All the emails, the decisions, the endless loop of work and worry faded, and for a moment, I just stood there.
I’ve felt this before with art. You see a painting, a sculpture, or even just an abstract splash of color, and at first, it seems out of place. But then, you pause long enough, and something clicks. It’s not always logical. It’s not about fully understanding it. It’s about feeling it. Art has a way of sneaking past your defenses, making you notice something you weren’t expecting to see. That’s what the bear felt like—a ridiculous but real moment of clarity, like a painting that suddenly makes sense when you’re not trying so hard to figure it out.
Of course, because it’s 2025 and I’m me, I pulled out my phone to take a picture. Who wouldn’t document a random stuffed bear on train tracks? But even while snapping the photo, I realized the picture wasn’t the point. That bear, as random and absurd as it was, reminded me to pause. It reminded me to look up and notice the grace that was already around me.
Clarity doesn’t always come when I want it to. It doesn’t work on my timeline or terms. It has its own process, and most of the time, I don’t control that process. My job is to keep showing up, to keep looking, and to trust that when I need to see, I will.
What surprises me is how often the answers I need aren’t new. They’re already there, things I know deep down but have been too distracted to recognize. I’ve been holding onto this line recently: “I did not know him.” It feels honest because there are so many things in my life—grace, truth, and connection—that I haven’t recognized, even when they were right in front of me.
I’m learning that I can’t force recognition. I can’t make myself see what I’m not ready for. What I can do is keep showing up, even when things feel messy or unclear. I don’t need all the answers today. I just need to stay present, keep my eyes open, and trust that what I need to see will come into focus when it’s time.
When those moments of recognition happen, they do more than just clarify what’s in front of me. They change how I see myself and the world around me. That’s what grace does. It doesn’t just reveal; it transforms. It reminds me I don’t have to do this on my own.
And maybe that’s enough. Actually, I think it’s more than enough.