This is a small secret I've kept hidden away, tucked in my pocket for twelve years. This story felt sacred to Little Kate, so I've not confessed the words to any other human until sharing in this space.

My little sixth-grade-self was up against the smartest boy in the class, and the chance to snatch the gold medal from him was at my fingertips. I was told the word I needed to spell to win, and I smiled a bit because I knew it. 

A. U. B..... O. R. N.

Little Kate hesitated before saying the incorrect "o." She faced an inner battle to either win the spelling bee, or make herself small. In a split decision, her quiet self didn't want the glory-filled attention. She purposefully misspelled "auburn," giving up the chance to win the Loveland Elementary School spelling bee. I swept the deserved win under the rug and settled for second place. 

I remember going back to my seat, confused as to why I wouldn't let myself win. But friends, if I could go back to 2006, I truly and honestly would spell auburn the same way once again. Not to make myself small this time, but to remember that perhaps the sixth grade spelling bee was the moment my lion's heart began beating.

Even through the years following the spelling bee, I intentionally endured years of making myself small after that, letting myself hide in the corners of busy rooms. I wish I would've been listening for the echoes of a rumbling, fierce heartbeat. 

I now write, make and explore in pursuit of cultivating bravery in honor of Little Kate — the small, glasses-wearing girl who thought she was better as a mouse. If only, if only she knew that she would someday hike a mountain and climb canyons, and that she'd spend four summers as a wild camp counselor at the summer camp that carved beautiful bravery into her heart. If only she knew that she would someday illustrate a children's book inspired by that same summer camp. If only she knew one day she'd be the woman behind a business intended to cultivate courage.

I wish Little Kate would have looked in the mirror to believe there was a fiery spark igniting in her eyes. 

I do bravery missions for Little Kate, and for each human who needs to realize that bravery is indeed rooted in their bones, whether they realize it yet or not. Lionheart, please don't feel like you have to intentionally lose the spelling bee. Please root yourself and grow swiftly towards the sun. Let your younger, smaller self pour the water and nurture the blooms.

Dear friend, you are seen, deeply loved and powerful. Look in the mirror. Stare past the weariness in your eyes, look until you can see the familiar fire flickering. Place your hand over your lion's heart. Remember that it's kept you alive thus far. Remember your younger self and channel courage for her.

Bravely,
Kate Laing

Download this song: http://smarturl.it/OMAMalbumitunes Directed by WeWereMonkeys https://www.facebook.com/weweremonkeys Compositions © 2012 Of Monsters and Men / Sony/ATV Songs LLC (BMI) Recordings © 2012 SKRIMSL ehf, under exclusive license to Republic Records, a Division of UMG Recordings, Inc. http://www.ofmonstersandmen.com http://www.facebook.com/ofmonstersandmen http://www.twitter.com/monstersandmen http://www.instagram.com/ofmonstersandmen http://www.ofmonstersandmenmusic.tumblr.com

video edited by: https://twitter.com/DavidDBurkhart https://www.facebook.com/daviddeanburkhart For more good music, follow me on spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/daviddeanburkhart I have a playlist called "Compact Cassette" that I update and change weekly (a regularly modified rotation, kind of like a radio station) Unofficial music video for the song "To Just Grow Away" off of the new album "There's No Leaving Now," by The Tallest Man on Earth (out now via Dead Oceans).

TW // Las Vegas Shooting, mass shootings

I’m glad it was me, I’m glad it was me, I’m glad it was me. 

My sweet Allie would have asked to attend that concert because she likes country music. If she’d been with us, odds are we would have been there. Maybe we wouldn’t still be breathing.

Emmy is strong and sharp, but also sensitive. Odds are she might be annoyed I’ve said that, my friend, but I know it’s true. I’m the oldest of three sisters. It’s deeply rooted in me to protect both of them, to try and battle away the darkness of this earth from touching them directly. I feel a responsibility to keep my little sisters safe. I’m glad it was me in Vegas, not them.

---

October 2, 2:15 a.m.

Darling, you should be able to walk through your days safe and sound. I pray that you never experience the very second when you know something's not right. Chairs were flipped into slot machines, a stampede towards the doors, primal fear etched on human faces. Others shouted that they'd heard gunshots. I didn't hear any but I believed them. We walked briskly to the front door, alertly looking backwards and forward and sideways, then weaving into the crowds of people on the sidewalk all moving in one direction. Instinctual. Go with the crowd.

"HANDS UP, KEEP MOVING TO THE BACK LOT," the police officers sternly and urgently shouted as they held long rifles. Hands up, my dad, stepmom and I moved to behind a parking garage with the crowd — a confused school of fish. I couldn't breathe for I don’t know how long. They said it was happening a few blocks away but you just didn’t know if there were more hiding in the shadows, staring down your body with a gun pointed at it.

An older woman was separated from her friends, afraid. I told her she could stay with us. She looked at me with grateful, kind eyes. We lost her at some point but she found us later and she gave me a warm hug. She’d found her people. I never asked her name. I wish I would have.

Nobody really knew what was happening. Rumors of somebody shooting an automatic weapon into the crowd at a Vegas country music festival. We now know that was the gut-wrenching, teeth-gnashing, horrifyingly evil fact.

There was a sense of shocked camaraderie built on a foundation of fear and panic, as we all checked the news trying to figure out what was happening. We contacted our loved ones and sat in the parking lot into the night. We were safe a few blocks away, but my heart lays shattered and broken. I'm crying for the dear humans who aren't alive anymore. I wish I knew your names and your stories and the laugh-lines on your faces. Pray unceasingly for this violence to cease and to let light prevail over this world's shadows of slithering evil.

I'm safe now. There was blood on our hotel's elevator floor. I didn't sleep very well.

When we returned to Nebraska, I needed time at home. I slept until noon, which I never do. I’d planned to make the two-and-a-half hour trip that day to make it back to work, but my body didn’t make a move towards packing my car. I stayed another night because I felt safe under my mom’s roof.

I tried blocking out the images haunting my mind with memories of the awe and wonder I felt when hiking up Zion’s dusty red rocks. The air was the freshest I’d ever breathed.

I breathed slowly, patting my dog and providing her with too many treats. I sat on the chair in the dining room, feet not touching the floor because that reminded me of my shoes slamming against the Vegas Strip’s sidewalk, eyes constantly on my dad and stepmom. I couldn’t lose them in the crowd. I was safe in my childhood home, where my mom made me muffins and graded papers, where my dog barked at anyone walking outside. It was safe.

Flashbacks rudely popped into my mind. Looking urgently around the flashing Vegas lights. Praying wordlessly that monsters weren’t hiding in the shadows with guns pointed at us. We didn’t know where they were. We had no idea what was happening.

---

My dad called me one day last month to say, “Make sure you get off work. We’re going. I bought our tickets.”

We took the trip for a creative inspiration journey. Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Hoover Dam and Vegas called our names, promising an adventure of beauty to us. And oh, the beauty. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as alive as I did hiking up a canyon to discover the Emerald Pools.

I sat in my car on the driveway of my childhood home for twenty minutes. I didn’t want to go back to the place where I work and live because I felt safe where my dog was on the other side of the front door. My eyes lingered on the steering wheel and the key in the ignition. Rattled breathing made me lightheaded and my shaking hands gripped the steering wheel. I don’t cry often but the occasional tear welled against my eyelashes. I finally left but my heart clenched in anxiety. Each passing car made me jump.

The first time I went to the grocery store was after I’d been back in normality for a week and a half. I was putting the trip off for as long as possible because the store’s maze of aisles made me anxious. I gripped the shopping cart tightly as my brain constantly calculated how closely I was aligned to the front sliding door. The exit. I watched nearby humans’ hands carefully to make sure they weren’t reaching toward their waistbands to pull out a gun.

Sleep didn’t come easy because the tch tch tch tch tch sounds careened around in my otherwise empty mind after hearing the shooting sounds playing repeatedly over the airport’s TVs. I haven’t watched the news since the second day of October. I think the reporters have probably moved on by now, but the news is all too much for me to take in. It’s too much.
 

A note written for myself and to you.

Darling, you cannot live with Fear as your main companion because pleasure ripples down his spine when he tears open your chest. He cracks apart your ribcage with clawed hands and grabs your heart as he leers, breathing slowly in your face. The chains he slaps across your body keep you from moving and dancing, and he seals your eyes to conceal the light.

Darling, you cannot let Fear do that. Acknowledge he is there but demand that he leaves you alone. Close the door on him and lock it tight. He will knock again and again and again but don’t give him power over your sweet self.

You must wring the beauty out of each breath but don’t let the cloth run dry. You must let beauty linger. Don’t miss out on the drops of joy and creative sparks, because Fear wants you to be oblivious to that. If we let Fear live with us, we’re not living.  

---

Still processing. Still anxious. I don’t think that night will ever leave me. But in the most twisted way, that night in Vegas was a gift. I try to preach bravery as best I can, but I learned abruptly just how fragile life is and how unexpectedly it could be over.

I’m not trying to be morbid, not at all. If anything, I’m trying to remember that each and every moment I am given is the most precious gift — an opportunity to dance and tell people I love them and to do the things my soul aches to do before I leave this earth.

That night was the most terrifying span of time I have experienced. I was scared that I might die. But I was more fearful that I wouldn’t get a chance to talk to all of the people I love most one last time because most of them were sleeping. I was more fearful that I wouldn’t be able to stand on the platform one more time to shout into the noise of the world that each human is seen, worthy and brave. I was angry at myself for the lack of progress I’ve made in writing my book because I feel so strongly about the message I crave to give as a love letter to my readers.

I wasn’t sure if God was going to call me home. I didn’t want to die and I craved more time. I was kept safe. And now I’ve firmly realized my responsibility to get my knees dirty and do the work.

I’ve spent a lot of time this October with my eyes staring at nothing. I fear that my heart is growing too apathetic, too numb because the pain gnashing around the entire world seems to be cracking into my bones and rooting there. My brain and soul are still processing what happened. I’m dealing with the guilt of being traumatized by the event, even though I never had those guns pointing in my direction. But I was close enough.

My breathing has been slow and my heart still feels like it lays in a mosaic at my feet. Each day, I drag myself out of bed, pick up a piece of that mosaic and nestle it back into my body. I can’t let Fear crack my ribcage because I have work to do, even though the flashbacks provide distraction. Eyes forward. Knees on the ground to do the dirty, good work of loving and writing and breathing life.

This earth is meant to be explored and we’re not meant to be locked inside our homes because of fear. I refuse to stay inside. My dad and I hiked to the top of a canyon in the name of seeking the Emerald Pools. We climbed over boulders on a trail with steep drop offs to find a lush oasis among dusty red rocks. Greenery and foliage somehow found it possible to grow through dry cracks of the canyon’s walls.

The rocks and cliffs give way to the wind and the rain, changing ever-so-slightly. Second by second, millions of years. A story that will still be told long after we are called home.

I felt alive, I breathed intentionally and listened to the wisdom from the ancient rocks that made me feel small in the most profound, beautiful way. This earth is brimming with natural, wild beauty that God created for us to take in awe. A masterful architect and artist who renders us speechless, who I’m sure smiles when our eyes dance around and try to take in all we can. To remember all that the dusty red rocks presented.

You must go. You simply don’t know when your eyes won’t open again so you must see the natural, wild beauty with your own eyes. Make a list of what you feel an urgency to go accomplish. You must go. Your hands must move.

Please, tell people you love them. I woke up the morning after it happened with countless missed phone calls, text messages and comments on my social media. Words from people who mean the world to me saying that they were crying because I was safe. That meant the world to me.

Promise me this, I beg you. Breathe from this moment on with more intention, grace, and never for granted. Call off hesitation and fear. Live with a lion’s heart and fire in your eyes.

---

“I will always keep you and your sisters safe. All of you are very, very precious to me and have so much to offer this painful world we seem to live in. My prayer each night is that you all find your way on the path of your dreams. I’m just along for the ride because you all have fulfilled my dreams. Each one of you has made me very proud to be a father and comforter, protector and cheerleader. We survived the whole ordeal because God has much bigger plans for us. We were not called home this time and I will take each day from now on to let people know how much they have to live for. Even in the worst of times, we wake up each day to do what is right and touch all of those around us in positive ways. I love you and miss your laugh already.”

- Dad

This is the first time in four years that I'm not packing up my wolf shirts, water bottle, bandanas and Bible to live with me in the forest for ten weeks. It's the strangest feeling and I've felt the urge to get in my car and drive to camp immediately at least twelve times in the last five days. 

But perhaps you have packed. Maybe you are about to drive down the gravel road to the forest. From somebody with "professional sleeping bag roller, four years experience" on her resume, here are some words written just for you. 

You may never know if your feet are dirty or if you have a Chaco tan line. It's probably both. Accept that as a badge of honor, just as you should accept being called "weird" as a characteristic of a superhero. 

My friend, it takes a special breed of human to be a camp counselor. Congratulations, you have made the cut. Have all the coffee but have no expectations. Walk ten miles a day. It's really no biggie. 

When a camper wakes you up at two in the morning because a wolf spider and her egg sack are creeping in the outhouse, please simply put a sign on the door directing them to the bathhouse instead. There are some spiders you can deal with. A wolf spider, her egg sack and an outhouse at 2 a.m. is not a circumstance you should have to deal with. 

Be proud when your girls whisper to you that they peed clear because that means you made sure they're hydrated. Be jazzed when another tells you she was excited about having a frog in her shower. Make each day close, real and good. Make every day like one you haven't seen before. At some point it's going to be your 50th day of camp, but it will be your campers' first day. 

Make up long jokes that don't make sense. Tell outrageous bedtime tales, even to the high schoolers. I promise they'll like it. Your campers will soak in every word of your stories, and they'll crave to share their own when they know they're in a safe space with you. You can either tune them out or listen hard. Choose to listen and love them deeply. Make them know they are seen by you and God because maybe they feel invisible back home. This is your chance to be a world changer. 

Invest in the work. It's more valuable and more precious than you can even dream of. I beg you, make your God-given time on the fruitful camp soil worth it every day you're there. Don't sleepwalk while you're awake. 

When you're a camp counselor, you build fires and campers come to them. Some nights they'll be one-match sculptural masterpieces. Other times you'll battle humidity so hard that you start frantically whispering prayers to God that your fire might start before the campers hike down the trail for worship. 

Build your campfires. Figure out if you like the log cabin or teepee structure best. I personally like the cabin. Peel bark off logs for kindling and gather small twigs and dried foliage from the forest floor. Light your match or take the lighter from your backpack. Fan the flame once it begins to catch. You'll have to work to sustain your fire like you'll work to sustain your staff community. 

Try as you might, you can't force connection and you won't always get along. When you haven't showered in three days, have 37 mosquito bits on just one leg, and another camp counselor is getting on your very last nerve, you may feel like you're barely holding onto the edge. Take a breather and then step back to the present. You never know what they're just barely holding on too, so please love each other hard. Be the light because your campers are always watching. You can't be a superhero camp counselor by yourself. You cannot do this life alone, and you're not called to. 

Let hearts be changed during nightly campfire worship and let your lungs breathe in the woodsy air during night hikes. Watch in the forest for the nights when thousands of fireflies glimmer around the trees. That is pure camp magic. 

Let campers call you their older brother or sister. Give them space for cabin talk because that's when community is formed. It's a good opportunity to share your own sweet wisdom about life, school, boys and faith.

Humble yourself. Seek God's will this summer and call on him so that you can speak truth and love to your campers. The last night of camp will roll around each week. You'll sit around the fire, tears flowing and the Holy Spirit dancing around you and you'll know for sure that God is sitting next to you on the log. 

You might evolve into your best self at camp. Carry that person with you after you leave. The seemingly small things you do over the summer will indeed ripple out to spaces you may never even see. Plant the seeds anyways and trust that God will do the nurturing and harvest. 

Be fearless in your faith. Carry bravery with you and dispel every lie you tell yourself -- that your hands are much too small to do the work, that you're incapable of being a world changer, that your actions are insignificant. My friend, God blankets you in grace and sufficiency. You're valuable, worthy and seen. Don't forget that for a second. 

Take the Sabbath. God can usually renew your energy better than a nap can. God worked and rested, and took delight in both. You should too. Gift rest to your fellow camp counselors, but also ask them for help. Be careful to not stretch yourself too thin but don't be too relaxed in the work. Fight the battle to establish balance. 

Promise to fail. It's okay. But don't let that consume you. Dig out anything that's not serving you or speaking to your faith this summer. Let God fill the holes. Keep lists of your victories and the God winks you see, both large and small. 

Make camp your sanctuary. Make it the place you crave to go back to when you're in the real world and you need to find yourself again. Let camp serve you as you serve it. If your heart is open, camp can help you find your place in the world, a place where you can take your broken pieces, insecurities and messes. Find your tribe. Be forest dwellers and bed stealers. Be church goers, fire builders, life talkers and s'mores eaters. 

The work you do as a camp counselor is good. You will change lives, whether you see it or not. Maybe you'll get an Instagram DM weeks after the summer ends saying that she wrote a school essay about how you're her role model and you made her feel seen.

My friend, you are about to spend the next ten weeks of your life as a camp counselor. You ARE ready. What you're going to do WILL matter. The time is s'now to be a world changer, my dear sweet skippy. 

As a camp counselor of four summers, I am rooting for you so hard. 

Much love and many cinnamon rolls,

Kate

I'm trying to decipher words to explain how it feels to be handed an opportunity to write about a passion project that's nestled deep into your bones.

It's surreal to see a spread in a publication with your photograph and your words and a byline that says your name.

Bravery Mission is my own One Idea, the passion project that means the world to me. I so, so hope it grows to be larger than my own little corner of the internet. I so, so hope it grows to reach my fellow lion hearted humans. Friend, you have bravery and your own One Idea within you, whether you know it or not. It may be wedged somewhere in the woodworks of your mind, but the world needs it. 

I think reading about other people's brave moments and how they nurture their own One Ideas, both large and small, helps us realize our own. 

I wrote about the ideation process and growing ideas and passion projects, and how that reflects in Bravery Mission for the fifth issue of Comeback Magazine. I'm excited to read what the other contributors have written about for the publication's theme of endurance.  

Bravery is woven into every fiber of your being and I hope maybe my words can add fuel to your fire. You can order a print copy or a digital PDF here. Please do! I'm all about supporting indie publications. 

You can also find out how to submit to Bravery Mission here and read what others have already anonymously written here. 

Sending love and courage to your corner, babe. 

Kate

This is a love letter to the ones who evening dream on Sundays, to the ones who sit in a quiet space between four white walls covered in dying flowers as the clock slowly ticks at 4:52. If you live with nobody else, perhaps you haven’t murmured a single word since leaving church this morning, both a blessing and a curse.

As the sun goes back into hiding, the golden hour will turn towards a gradient of shadows that cross the living room floor. This is when the dreamers emerge from the woodworks to grow the One Idea.

I think maybe lonely Sunday evenings were designed to romanticize the dreamers. We fill our lungs with intentionally breathed air. We start nurturing the One Idea when we're restless because Netflix and novels aren’t filling the empty spaces anymore, when we’re tired of watching the clock tick closer to 10:00 -- the sign that it’s not too early to lay our heads on our pillow for the night.

The One Idea is introduced as a character in your story when your brain is moving a million times faster than your body, when you've curled up in a cocoon of soft blankets with no intention of emerging.

The quiet creeps in from underneath the door cracks. Those who live alone either let it envelope us or we'll allow the quiet to become the golden scene for the One Idea's development.

Sundays are restful. Be still and listen because passion projects, the One Ideas, are usually planted as soul whispers.

Our minds start wandering to the situations in this shadowy world that need to be loved on or gently bandaged up, and our brains begin chirping to water the roots for the One Idea.

We remove the journal or the sketchbook from the precariously piled stack of books, open to the next clean page and start scrawling messy thoughts and simple drawings to document the web in our minds. The quiet becomes an intentional friend instead of a beast in the shadowed corner. 

The restless wigglings fuel us to act with our small hands, to bandage the cracks of darkness. When the dreamers crawl out from the woodworks as the sun falls asleep on Sundays, the One Idea waters a promising plant.

---

This is a continuation of thoughts from some writing I did last week. I was invited to write for Comeback Magazine (an indie magazine) about the One Idea and Bravery Mission. The quarterly magazine will be published soon and I can’t wait for you to read more about my heart whispers about developing the One Idea! 

Here is Comeback’s mission statement, I'm slightly obsessed with it ::

“Comeback is a collection of stories with the sole purpose of helping anyone lost to find a path. Comeback believes that no one is in the same place as another. Comeback reaches through the vast resources available to today’s generation and takes back the purest, realist advice to provide a beginning for self-discovery, motivation, and curiosity. A comeback is not just a return to former glory; it’s going beyond what was thought possible.”