Up, down, middle

Life isn’t gangbusters of awesomeness usually. Life is what it is: sometimes up, sometimes down, a lot of time in the middle. It’s learning to live in the middle that so many of us find hard. We rise to the occasion when confronting a crisis or an emergency. We behave brilliantly, bravely, and benevolently. But it’s the day-to-day life that’s hard and grinds on us. Most people break at the endlessly getting out of bed each morning to confront life’s little annoyances and battles. That’s what we find tough. That’s how we know if we’re a sprinter or a long-distance runner.

I hope you’re the latter, because sprinters may be fast, but this life is long. It is the ones who can keep going, step by step, mile by mile, day by day, year by year... they finish the race. I hope I’m a long-distance runner.

I try to be. I try to stay busy. I try to keep putting one foot in front of another. Keep my eyes on the road. Don’t get distracted. Don’t lose focus. Don’t lose hope. Don’t lose courage. Don’t fail. Believe, believe, believe.

It’s a lot of pressure, and I think that’s why some people falter. They drink or take drugs or have crazy sex. They cheat on their spouses, neglect their children, and waste their lives seeking a thrill to fill the holes in their lives. They think happiness is a destination rather than the journey itself.

It’s learning to take joy in the journey. We have to do that if we’re going to survive and flourish. It’s the secret to happiness, contentment, and fulfillment. For some – like me – finding that joy is easier with God’s help. Others choose another path, but finding that path is essential.

It's how we become fully human.

In the sky

Have you ever just taken a few minutes to watch the clouds drift across the sky? Some people see shapes... dragons, animals, horses cars... what they're looking for, I think. But I don't see anything. My imagination doesn't work like that. Instead, the sky fills me up until there's nothing of me left. No thoughts, no worries, no me. Just the clouds and winds and sun.

Starry nights do that to me, too. I can look into the darkness punctuated with pinpricks of lights, and the vastness inside me expands. It's a weird feeling ‒ or it is after I've stopped experiencing it ‒ but when I'm in the moment, it doesn't feel weird. It feels... expectant. Like I'm waiting for something to raise its head and look at me. You'd think that would be frightening, but it's not. It's anticipation. A strange anticipation.

I've mentioned this to other people before, but I've never met anyone who felt the same way. I'm sure someone does in this world with millions of people. Maybe in China or maybe just someone I don't know. Maybe in the next house. I'd like to meet them, though. I'd like to find out how they feel. And talk with them about that vast creature out there. Ask them when we look at the sky, what are we expecting? What's coming for us out of that blackness between the stars?

And why aren't we afraid? That might be the most important question of all.