It was another Saturday night in Lincoln, Nebraska. My friends and I are usually successful at finding fun in a place where fun can't find you. Rope jumping was on the agenda. The idea is simple: you hike about a mile into the local nature park in the middle of night and stop at the old bridge that crosses Wilderness Creek, a long swatch of mud with several inches of water flowing on top. At the bridge, you tie one end of a climbing rope to yourself and the other end to the bridge. Then you jump thirty feet into the blackness until the rope suddenly decides you are done falling.
We had done this once before, and it was a blast. The rush, the experience, the laughing, the puking-because-of-the-laughing. They are what memories are made of. This Saturday night was a little different. We had different company, of a more annoying sort, and I had a lot on my mind. Girls have this undeniable propensity to put you in a melancholy mood, and melancholy moods are not very well suited to hype you up for a rope jump.
So there I was, watching my friends take alternating leaps, rechecking the rope after each jump, protecting the rope in abrasive areas, trying to figure out how I would ever untie a figure-8 after that big of a load. And, I was listening, because that's what happens when you're in melancholy moods. I listened to a lot of words said by a lot of people, and I realized something: we are full of bullshit. We are so full of bullshit.
I lost it there. I had to walk away to think about it. I thought about my priorities and what my priorities should be. I thought about the purpose of life, and whether or not I was living that purpose. And here's what I decided.
Only one thing really matters in life, and that is a life directed towards God. It is so above and beyond anything else we do. Then I thought about how to live a life directed towards God when you are surrounded by so much bullshit. Yes, I have grown closer to God. And I've grown farther apart. And closer again. It's such an endless cycle that I came to the conclusion several days ago that trying to cut sin out of your life is like getting off a drug--except the withdrawal symptoms never go away. That's how hard it is.
So, I wondered, what does a life directed towards God look like in my current situation? I was frightened when I realized that I didn't even know. I've seen true relationships with God in older people, and I accept that. They don't live in the same environment that I do. And I've seen it in other countries, for the same reasons. And I've seen a lot of people who claim to have strong relationships with God and then don't act like they do. But the truth is, I don't know what a student at Union College, while still remaining in mainstream society, would look like with a true relationship with God.
I don't know where that leaves me. I want to get away. Don't get me wrong--I've never felt so alive as I do in this place. But I'm still not where I want to be with God, and I don't know what it takes to get to that place.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Understanding Conquers Fear
Two and a half weeks has never felt so long. I feel like I’ve already experienced a lifetime of learning, adventure, and exploration. If I died today, I would die happy.
I’ve been thinking about what the best part was. There was the summit of South Massive, which I had completely to myself—no trail, no people, not a cloud in the sky. There were the night skies, exploding with stars in every direction. There was Echo Lake, a piney paradise. There were the new friends—Doug on Mount Sneffels, Patrick, Marty, and Bez (the understated Dutch Rhodesian) on the Wetterhorn, the British mountaineer on Elbert who was happy to mentor me. There was my first summit—Huron—with barely enough room to stand on and bad weather coming in. There was camping in Grizzly Gulch, surrounded by beautiful alpine basins and cool mountain springs. And then there was the mighty Wetterhorn, with all its steep ledges and heart-pounding exposure. There was the morning I was awoken by a stellar jay jumping on my feet and complaining in my face. And of course, there were more marmots and pikas than I care to remember.
But it’s not the experiences that I’ll treasure the most. It’s what I learned from them. And here is the greatest lesson of all, which is more poignant in the words of Rich Mullins:
“And on this road to righteousness,
Sometimes the climb can be so steep.
I may falter in my steps,
But never beyond your reach.”
Mountaineering takes you to the limit. It challenges your body, your mind, and your will. And sometimes it’s only when your abilities fail that God’s abilities become so clear. God is a very, very real power who is accessible to us, even loves us. Maybe it’s not hard for you to see God in everyday things, but it is for me. And that’s why these two weeks have been so important. They have given me an understanding of God that I can take into my life outside the mountains.
I have a t-shirt with the words “Understanding Conquers Fear” scribed over an artistic grizzly bear. When I got it, I was thinking that understanding the natural world conquers fear. But that’s a lie. In fact, the more I understand about the rugged San Juans, aggressive wildlife, unpredictable hailstorms, and nature in general, the more fearful I become. There is only one thing you can understand that will conquer fear, and that is—God is always with you.
Yesterday I was faced with a decision. I was taking a day off to rest my blisters, and I had one more day to climb. There were two mountains nearby that I hadn’t climbed—Uncompahgre, a famous Class 2 San Juan with an impressive amount of bulk, and Wetterhorn Peak, and intimidating Class 3/3+ spire named for its close resemblance to the Swiss Wetterhorn (a peak often seen in lists with the Eiger, the Matterhorn, and Le Petit Drus). I had already discounted Wetterhorn as being too difficult. The problem? Uncompahgre is a 16 mile day with something like 5,000 feet of gain if you don’t have a four wheel drive. We have a conversion van.
Well I sure as heck wasn’t going back to the boring Sawatches for my last day. So I said, I might as well get up the Wetterhorn as far as I can. Just to be on a mountain that famous and get some good photos would be a great day. But, just in case the summit seemed accessible, I did my research the night before, finding numerous trip reports describing the summit pitch, a 150 foot class 3/4 gulley with over 600 feet of nearly vertical exposure. And that’s where the fear came in.
I’ve climbed before. I know what my limitations are. I know that if a well-anchored rope is tied to my body, fear is not even considered. But I also know that if I free solo a ten foot boulder, I freeze.
The approach to Wetterhorn was breathtaking. As soon as I crossed the first ridge and the treeline dumped me into the basin, I was faced with an inspiring view of Wetterhorn to the south, connected to the northern Matterhorn by a pinnacled ridge. The ridge looked like a cross between a saw blade and the backbone of a t-rex. Thankfully, the route carefully avoided the ridge and approached the mountain from the south, winding through rock gardens filled with marmots and fat pikas.
Approaching the Class 3 section, I noticed two other climbers ahead of me. I hurriedly stowed my poles and buckled my helmet. Climbing with others gives a sense of security. I soon scrambled up to them, and together we examined the sketchy route up the first gully, then the steeper second gully. I remember knocking a dinner plate-sized rock with my foot, and watching as it tumbled down the slopes, gaining momentum until it finally vaulted off the gully and over the vertical south face. I couldn’t help thinking that’s what would happen to a person who made a misstep. Three points of contact…
My fears came to a culmination as I approached the famous Ship’s Prow, which hides a tiny notch. After climbing the notch, you find yourself standing on a friction slab that literally slides you into the summit couloir. This is where I expected to turn around. But as I saw my two companions taking non-essentials out of their packs to lighten the load for the climb, I found myself doing the same. And as I saw them scoot on their butts into the couloir, I found myself doing the same. And the best part was the fears were gone.
I had prayed about this climb for the last 24 hours, but even after seeing God’s power on Massive and other mountains, I still didn’t really expect anything to happen. I didn’t believe that “understanding conquers fear,” but it does.
I have pictures of that pitch, and I start to sweat just looking at them. But while I was there, God was in control. Who am I kidding? God is always in control. But like I said before, it sometimes takes situations like Wetterhorn to make it obvious. All I remember is singing my two favorite mountaineering songs over and over again in my head—“Sometimes by Step” by Rich Mullins and “Your Love, Oh Lord” by Third Day.
“Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your spirit?
To be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on the morning’s wings
To the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute.
You’re already there waiting for me.”
I’ve been thinking about what the best part was. There was the summit of South Massive, which I had completely to myself—no trail, no people, not a cloud in the sky. There were the night skies, exploding with stars in every direction. There was Echo Lake, a piney paradise. There were the new friends—Doug on Mount Sneffels, Patrick, Marty, and Bez (the understated Dutch Rhodesian) on the Wetterhorn, the British mountaineer on Elbert who was happy to mentor me. There was my first summit—Huron—with barely enough room to stand on and bad weather coming in. There was camping in Grizzly Gulch, surrounded by beautiful alpine basins and cool mountain springs. And then there was the mighty Wetterhorn, with all its steep ledges and heart-pounding exposure. There was the morning I was awoken by a stellar jay jumping on my feet and complaining in my face. And of course, there were more marmots and pikas than I care to remember.
But it’s not the experiences that I’ll treasure the most. It’s what I learned from them. And here is the greatest lesson of all, which is more poignant in the words of Rich Mullins:
“And on this road to righteousness,
Sometimes the climb can be so steep.
I may falter in my steps,
But never beyond your reach.”
Mountaineering takes you to the limit. It challenges your body, your mind, and your will. And sometimes it’s only when your abilities fail that God’s abilities become so clear. God is a very, very real power who is accessible to us, even loves us. Maybe it’s not hard for you to see God in everyday things, but it is for me. And that’s why these two weeks have been so important. They have given me an understanding of God that I can take into my life outside the mountains.
I have a t-shirt with the words “Understanding Conquers Fear” scribed over an artistic grizzly bear. When I got it, I was thinking that understanding the natural world conquers fear. But that’s a lie. In fact, the more I understand about the rugged San Juans, aggressive wildlife, unpredictable hailstorms, and nature in general, the more fearful I become. There is only one thing you can understand that will conquer fear, and that is—God is always with you.
Yesterday I was faced with a decision. I was taking a day off to rest my blisters, and I had one more day to climb. There were two mountains nearby that I hadn’t climbed—Uncompahgre, a famous Class 2 San Juan with an impressive amount of bulk, and Wetterhorn Peak, and intimidating Class 3/3+ spire named for its close resemblance to the Swiss Wetterhorn (a peak often seen in lists with the Eiger, the Matterhorn, and Le Petit Drus). I had already discounted Wetterhorn as being too difficult. The problem? Uncompahgre is a 16 mile day with something like 5,000 feet of gain if you don’t have a four wheel drive. We have a conversion van.
Well I sure as heck wasn’t going back to the boring Sawatches for my last day. So I said, I might as well get up the Wetterhorn as far as I can. Just to be on a mountain that famous and get some good photos would be a great day. But, just in case the summit seemed accessible, I did my research the night before, finding numerous trip reports describing the summit pitch, a 150 foot class 3/4 gulley with over 600 feet of nearly vertical exposure. And that’s where the fear came in.
I’ve climbed before. I know what my limitations are. I know that if a well-anchored rope is tied to my body, fear is not even considered. But I also know that if I free solo a ten foot boulder, I freeze.
The approach to Wetterhorn was breathtaking. As soon as I crossed the first ridge and the treeline dumped me into the basin, I was faced with an inspiring view of Wetterhorn to the south, connected to the northern Matterhorn by a pinnacled ridge. The ridge looked like a cross between a saw blade and the backbone of a t-rex. Thankfully, the route carefully avoided the ridge and approached the mountain from the south, winding through rock gardens filled with marmots and fat pikas.
Approaching the Class 3 section, I noticed two other climbers ahead of me. I hurriedly stowed my poles and buckled my helmet. Climbing with others gives a sense of security. I soon scrambled up to them, and together we examined the sketchy route up the first gully, then the steeper second gully. I remember knocking a dinner plate-sized rock with my foot, and watching as it tumbled down the slopes, gaining momentum until it finally vaulted off the gully and over the vertical south face. I couldn’t help thinking that’s what would happen to a person who made a misstep. Three points of contact…
My fears came to a culmination as I approached the famous Ship’s Prow, which hides a tiny notch. After climbing the notch, you find yourself standing on a friction slab that literally slides you into the summit couloir. This is where I expected to turn around. But as I saw my two companions taking non-essentials out of their packs to lighten the load for the climb, I found myself doing the same. And as I saw them scoot on their butts into the couloir, I found myself doing the same. And the best part was the fears were gone.
I had prayed about this climb for the last 24 hours, but even after seeing God’s power on Massive and other mountains, I still didn’t really expect anything to happen. I didn’t believe that “understanding conquers fear,” but it does.
I have pictures of that pitch, and I start to sweat just looking at them. But while I was there, God was in control. Who am I kidding? God is always in control. But like I said before, it sometimes takes situations like Wetterhorn to make it obvious. All I remember is singing my two favorite mountaineering songs over and over again in my head—“Sometimes by Step” by Rich Mullins and “Your Love, Oh Lord” by Third Day.
“Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your spirit?
To be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on the morning’s wings
To the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute.
You’re already there waiting for me.”
Mountaintop Experience
What a day. Now with the sun setting over the Collegiate Peaks on the Buena Vista horizon, it’s hard to recall just how much emotion was packed into this day.
It started at 4:30 a.m., when my phone alarm sounded at the head of my bivy sack. The hardest part of the day. Getting out of a wet bivy sack without getting soaked to the bone is truly a learned art. It was about 35 degrees out, which is typical for August in Leadville, located two miles high in elevation.
I wasn’t getting up at 4:30 because I particularly liked romping in near-freezing dew. I had a mission for the day—Mount Massive, a 14,421 foot mountain located about ten miles out of Leadville. The mountain is the second tallest in Colorado and the third in the continental United States. However, its eight summits and sprawling ridges dwarf Mount Elbert, its slightly higher neighbor.
Almost every Colorado 14er has a standard route for climbers. The route is usually a well maintained path below the tree line, turning into a rocky slope that switches back and forth across alpine meadows and eventually leads to the rocky summit ridge, finally ending at the pinnacle of Colorado mountaineering—the 14,000+ foot summit.
That was great for them. My experience meeting 55 high schoolers on the summit of Mount Elbert made me want a little peace and quiet. That’s what mountaineering is all about, right? So there was another option, the Southeast Ridge. The Southeast Ridge begins at the standard route and climbs to about 10,600 feet, where my maps shows it abruptly turning west into the hillside. The abrupt turn marks the last time the route sees a trail. After that, it climbs for 1,000 feet in open, piney forest, before opening up into three miles of pristine, unblazed ridgeline. It conquers four of Massive’s eight summits—more than any other route. It gains nearly 6,000 feet in Class 2 and 3 terrain, winding 12.5 miles past hidden alcoves and mountain goat homes. This, I thought, was my route.
I had my doubts. There was no trail. I was relying on my map and compass to find the way, although that’s not too difficult when a 13,000 foot summit is towering before you. Also, I was still sore and tired from climbing Mount Elbert two days before. Finally, the solitude, although rewarding, increases an overall feeling of insecurity. But I had to climb it.
The climb to the tree line was breathtaking, and the first point, over 12,000 feet high, provided the best view of Mount Elbert to be found anywhere. I descended the saddle between the first and second summits and began up the mountain known as South South Massive. Although mostly grassy, the lack of trail busted my calves as I climbed one of the steepest slopes I have ever been on. Several hours later, I summited South South Massive and had an unobstructed view of South Massive, a 14er, and the saddles in between.
My first thought was, okay, time to turn around. The saddle between the two southern summits narrowed into an exposed knife edge, which turned into near vertical rock outcrop. With crushed spirits, I continued as far as I could, stepping carefully on the knife edge until I stood at the base of the outcrop. I stopped, looking left and right for a route to appear. I rechecked my route guide, which said plainly “Class 2,” and then the map that had the route going squarely over the outcrop.
Traversing easterly, I started up the adjoining talus slope. Bad idea. The loose rock beneath my feet began to give way, and I slid painfully over sharp stones to the lower slopes, where I rolled quickly to avoid the rockfall I had caused. Brushing myself off, I had a thought. I needed to pray.
I know my parents pray for me all the time when I’m in the mountains. But I didn’t really need that. Climbing mountains happens all the time by people who don’t pray, and they don’t seem to have any trouble. But at that moment, it seemed like the best plan. So I said, “God. Hey man. If there’s a way up to the summit from here, that would be awesome. Could you show it to me? I’m gonna walk up to that outcrop one more time. And if I don’t see the route, I’m going down the mountain."
So I walked up to the outcrop again. And just around the corner of one of the boulders, I saw a steep, passable slope. And best of all, there were footprints. I had been on this route for hours, and I hadn’t seen a single footprint. There were about three of them, distinctly leading up the route, then they stopped.
So I followed them. It was a bit sketchy, Class 3 scrambling up an exposed slope. But I could do this.
And I started thinking. Maybe mountaineering is not about us at all. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with proving our manliness, conquering our fears, or defeating the mountain in a one on one battle. Maybe it’s just another thing that proves how small we are and how big God is. It’s just an object lesson in a very, very , real way. Maybe there is no way to do it on your own. Maybe there never is.
After another grueling climb, I got to the summit of South Massive, where the air is thinner than string theory. But this time, instead of praising my own physical abilities, I was praising God’s strength. But there was another side to this story. There’s no way to make a commitment to rely on God without making someone else very angry. After getting to the top of South Massive, it seemed like everything that could go wrong went wrong. The air grew cold as the first clouds of the day covered the sun. Wind gusts like I’ve never felt before threw me off balance several times. I took missteps and twisted my ankle while traversing boulder fields.
It was then that I realized the battle was not between myself and the mountain. The battle was between the Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. There was nothing I could do in my power to conquer the mountain. There was only a matter of choosing sides. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe the solitude, but I couldn’t keep in the emotion. I knelt down on the summit of South Massive, without another soul in sight, and rededicated my life to Christ at 14,000 feet.
I descended South Massive into the saddle between the mountain’s two highest summits, meeting up once more with the standard route for the summit bid. For the first time that day, I talked with other climbers and exchanged adventure stories. The impact of what just happened almost escaped me. But as I summited Mount Massive at 14,421 feet, I remembered what this was all about. I recited my summit prayer, which is a collection of lines from the Psalms I have always found inspiring.
“Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your spirit,
To be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on the morning’s wings to the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute.
You’re already there waiting for me.
Your love, oh Lord, reaches to the heavens,
Your faithfulness to the skies,
Your righteousness is like the mighty mountain,
Your justice like the great deep.
Therefore the children of men put their trust
Under the shadow of your wings.”
We are in a spiritual battle. The conflict I felt on the mountain doesn’t just occur above the timberline. The battle is not between me and school, it’s between the Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. The battle is not between me and work, it’s between Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. The battle is not between me and life, it’s between the Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. All we need to do is choose the right side.
It started at 4:30 a.m., when my phone alarm sounded at the head of my bivy sack. The hardest part of the day. Getting out of a wet bivy sack without getting soaked to the bone is truly a learned art. It was about 35 degrees out, which is typical for August in Leadville, located two miles high in elevation.
I wasn’t getting up at 4:30 because I particularly liked romping in near-freezing dew. I had a mission for the day—Mount Massive, a 14,421 foot mountain located about ten miles out of Leadville. The mountain is the second tallest in Colorado and the third in the continental United States. However, its eight summits and sprawling ridges dwarf Mount Elbert, its slightly higher neighbor.
Almost every Colorado 14er has a standard route for climbers. The route is usually a well maintained path below the tree line, turning into a rocky slope that switches back and forth across alpine meadows and eventually leads to the rocky summit ridge, finally ending at the pinnacle of Colorado mountaineering—the 14,000+ foot summit.
That was great for them. My experience meeting 55 high schoolers on the summit of Mount Elbert made me want a little peace and quiet. That’s what mountaineering is all about, right? So there was another option, the Southeast Ridge. The Southeast Ridge begins at the standard route and climbs to about 10,600 feet, where my maps shows it abruptly turning west into the hillside. The abrupt turn marks the last time the route sees a trail. After that, it climbs for 1,000 feet in open, piney forest, before opening up into three miles of pristine, unblazed ridgeline. It conquers four of Massive’s eight summits—more than any other route. It gains nearly 6,000 feet in Class 2 and 3 terrain, winding 12.5 miles past hidden alcoves and mountain goat homes. This, I thought, was my route.
I had my doubts. There was no trail. I was relying on my map and compass to find the way, although that’s not too difficult when a 13,000 foot summit is towering before you. Also, I was still sore and tired from climbing Mount Elbert two days before. Finally, the solitude, although rewarding, increases an overall feeling of insecurity. But I had to climb it.
The climb to the tree line was breathtaking, and the first point, over 12,000 feet high, provided the best view of Mount Elbert to be found anywhere. I descended the saddle between the first and second summits and began up the mountain known as South South Massive. Although mostly grassy, the lack of trail busted my calves as I climbed one of the steepest slopes I have ever been on. Several hours later, I summited South South Massive and had an unobstructed view of South Massive, a 14er, and the saddles in between.
My first thought was, okay, time to turn around. The saddle between the two southern summits narrowed into an exposed knife edge, which turned into near vertical rock outcrop. With crushed spirits, I continued as far as I could, stepping carefully on the knife edge until I stood at the base of the outcrop. I stopped, looking left and right for a route to appear. I rechecked my route guide, which said plainly “Class 2,” and then the map that had the route going squarely over the outcrop.
Traversing easterly, I started up the adjoining talus slope. Bad idea. The loose rock beneath my feet began to give way, and I slid painfully over sharp stones to the lower slopes, where I rolled quickly to avoid the rockfall I had caused. Brushing myself off, I had a thought. I needed to pray.
I know my parents pray for me all the time when I’m in the mountains. But I didn’t really need that. Climbing mountains happens all the time by people who don’t pray, and they don’t seem to have any trouble. But at that moment, it seemed like the best plan. So I said, “God. Hey man. If there’s a way up to the summit from here, that would be awesome. Could you show it to me? I’m gonna walk up to that outcrop one more time. And if I don’t see the route, I’m going down the mountain."
So I walked up to the outcrop again. And just around the corner of one of the boulders, I saw a steep, passable slope. And best of all, there were footprints. I had been on this route for hours, and I hadn’t seen a single footprint. There were about three of them, distinctly leading up the route, then they stopped.
So I followed them. It was a bit sketchy, Class 3 scrambling up an exposed slope. But I could do this.
And I started thinking. Maybe mountaineering is not about us at all. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with proving our manliness, conquering our fears, or defeating the mountain in a one on one battle. Maybe it’s just another thing that proves how small we are and how big God is. It’s just an object lesson in a very, very , real way. Maybe there is no way to do it on your own. Maybe there never is.
After another grueling climb, I got to the summit of South Massive, where the air is thinner than string theory. But this time, instead of praising my own physical abilities, I was praising God’s strength. But there was another side to this story. There’s no way to make a commitment to rely on God without making someone else very angry. After getting to the top of South Massive, it seemed like everything that could go wrong went wrong. The air grew cold as the first clouds of the day covered the sun. Wind gusts like I’ve never felt before threw me off balance several times. I took missteps and twisted my ankle while traversing boulder fields.
It was then that I realized the battle was not between myself and the mountain. The battle was between the Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. There was nothing I could do in my power to conquer the mountain. There was only a matter of choosing sides. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe the solitude, but I couldn’t keep in the emotion. I knelt down on the summit of South Massive, without another soul in sight, and rededicated my life to Christ at 14,000 feet.
I descended South Massive into the saddle between the mountain’s two highest summits, meeting up once more with the standard route for the summit bid. For the first time that day, I talked with other climbers and exchanged adventure stories. The impact of what just happened almost escaped me. But as I summited Mount Massive at 14,421 feet, I remembered what this was all about. I recited my summit prayer, which is a collection of lines from the Psalms I have always found inspiring.
“Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your spirit,
To be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on the morning’s wings to the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute.
You’re already there waiting for me.
Your love, oh Lord, reaches to the heavens,
Your faithfulness to the skies,
Your righteousness is like the mighty mountain,
Your justice like the great deep.
Therefore the children of men put their trust
Under the shadow of your wings.”
We are in a spiritual battle. The conflict I felt on the mountain doesn’t just occur above the timberline. The battle is not between me and school, it’s between the Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. The battle is not between me and work, it’s between Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. The battle is not between me and life, it’s between the Prince of Peace and the King of Chaos. All we need to do is choose the right side.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Oh, The Places You Will Go
I promised myself I would get through the end of the year--finals, pranks, graduation, goodbyes, parties, and all--without getting emotional. Yeah, right. That would make me somethings I never want to be: unfeeling and indifferent.
I guess today a lot of things were running through my head. The thought of going to college has never scared me. I've wanted it since I was a freshman in high school. The campus life, the classes, the people are all part of the adventure that I live for. But today I realized that to get there means I have to leave here.
I was driving home tonight, taking the exit for Broken Land Parkway, the same exit I've taken literally thousands of times. And I wondered how many more times I would see the word "Columbia" on a road sign and think of it as home. I was thinking of the Dr. Seuss story we heard today and how exciting and terrifying the trip I'm about to take is going to be.
I live for experiences. I love adventure, exploration, challenges. I love to test myself and either come out on top or give it another go. That's why my sadness about leaving was curious to me for a short time. I wondered, This is everything I've ever wanted. I can be on my own, independent, making decisions for myself. I can reinvent myself. I have the opportunity be closer to the things I love--mountains--and to learn from those who know the mountains better than I know my bedroom. I can dive into the wild and not look back.
Then I remembered the most important thing I've ever learned. I learned it from my mom before I ever entered a formal classroom. Then I discovered it for myself at Spencerville. I finally knew it was absolute truth when I took a five-day solo backpacking trip for no other reason than to face my own fears. Here is the truth, and if you haven't discovered it for yourself already, I hope you'll take it to heart: Relationships are the most important thing in life.
There's not even a close second. Relationships are the only important things in life--your relationship with God first, your family second, and your friends third. I remember on day five of my wilderness adventure, when I was standing on the summit of Hightop Mountain, perhaps without a person within ten miles of me. I got up before the sun rose so I could catch the sunrise from the summit, and it was worth it. The sun had just risen over the Shenandoah Mountains, and it cast the largest shadows I had ever seen. On one side it was day, on the other, night. It was as if I was looking at a topographic model hidden beneath a glass case. It was so beautiful. So beautiful that I laughed out loud. Maybe it was because I was going crazy from solitude. I found its beauty to be bitter. It was bitter because I was all alone, and there was no one to share it with. There was no point.
That's why I feel sadness in the midst of new opportunity, new adventure. Why would I ever want to experience the most exciting things in the world if my friends are elsewhere? It just doesn't make sense.
I realized today that I'm going to miss everyone, even the people I never got "close" to. Just going to the same school as them for two years formed a relationship that will be missed. The good news is that new relationships are waiting for me just around the corner. Yes, they come and go, but no, that doesn't make it any easier.
I'm beginning understand that I've been focusing on the wrong things for a while. I've been focusing on the qualities of SAA, and I always get caught up in something to complain about. I've been focusing on being this quiet, detached guy who doesn't care enough to get excited about the little things. I've been focusing on mountains--climbing them, knowing their weather patterns, their topography, their plant and animal life, their tricks and secrets. I've dreamed, but I've also let my dreams become my master. And the reason I'm having trouble finding satisfaction in ANY of it is that my focus is not right. It's not what you do, it's who you do it with.
Relationships are the ONLY things that matter.
I guess today a lot of things were running through my head. The thought of going to college has never scared me. I've wanted it since I was a freshman in high school. The campus life, the classes, the people are all part of the adventure that I live for. But today I realized that to get there means I have to leave here.
I was driving home tonight, taking the exit for Broken Land Parkway, the same exit I've taken literally thousands of times. And I wondered how many more times I would see the word "Columbia" on a road sign and think of it as home. I was thinking of the Dr. Seuss story we heard today and how exciting and terrifying the trip I'm about to take is going to be.
I live for experiences. I love adventure, exploration, challenges. I love to test myself and either come out on top or give it another go. That's why my sadness about leaving was curious to me for a short time. I wondered, This is everything I've ever wanted. I can be on my own, independent, making decisions for myself. I can reinvent myself. I have the opportunity be closer to the things I love--mountains--and to learn from those who know the mountains better than I know my bedroom. I can dive into the wild and not look back.
Then I remembered the most important thing I've ever learned. I learned it from my mom before I ever entered a formal classroom. Then I discovered it for myself at Spencerville. I finally knew it was absolute truth when I took a five-day solo backpacking trip for no other reason than to face my own fears. Here is the truth, and if you haven't discovered it for yourself already, I hope you'll take it to heart: Relationships are the most important thing in life.
There's not even a close second. Relationships are the only important things in life--your relationship with God first, your family second, and your friends third. I remember on day five of my wilderness adventure, when I was standing on the summit of Hightop Mountain, perhaps without a person within ten miles of me. I got up before the sun rose so I could catch the sunrise from the summit, and it was worth it. The sun had just risen over the Shenandoah Mountains, and it cast the largest shadows I had ever seen. On one side it was day, on the other, night. It was as if I was looking at a topographic model hidden beneath a glass case. It was so beautiful. So beautiful that I laughed out loud. Maybe it was because I was going crazy from solitude. I found its beauty to be bitter. It was bitter because I was all alone, and there was no one to share it with. There was no point.
That's why I feel sadness in the midst of new opportunity, new adventure. Why would I ever want to experience the most exciting things in the world if my friends are elsewhere? It just doesn't make sense.
I realized today that I'm going to miss everyone, even the people I never got "close" to. Just going to the same school as them for two years formed a relationship that will be missed. The good news is that new relationships are waiting for me just around the corner. Yes, they come and go, but no, that doesn't make it any easier.
I'm beginning understand that I've been focusing on the wrong things for a while. I've been focusing on the qualities of SAA, and I always get caught up in something to complain about. I've been focusing on being this quiet, detached guy who doesn't care enough to get excited about the little things. I've been focusing on mountains--climbing them, knowing their weather patterns, their topography, their plant and animal life, their tricks and secrets. I've dreamed, but I've also let my dreams become my master. And the reason I'm having trouble finding satisfaction in ANY of it is that my focus is not right. It's not what you do, it's who you do it with.
Relationships are the ONLY things that matter.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Lyrics 'N Stuff
Caedmon's Call
We are called out; we are ransomed
We are not of the world were in
we are chosen; we are blessed
to bring light to the lives of men
so father sow your seed
give us life in community
wake us from our sleep
this is your time; this is your place
We are vessels for breaking
under your grace we are led by your spirit
you have redeemed us by the
blood of your son
send down your word we are eager to hear it
ready our hearts to carry your love
you are sunlight you are morning
you're the hope of a brand new day
you are comfort; you are blessing
and you wipe all our tears away
so change us from within
render miracles from our sin
remind us once again
this is your time; this is your place
We are called out; we are ransomed
We are not of the world were in
we are chosen; we are blessed
to bring light to the lives of men
so father sow your seed
give us life in community
wake us from our sleep
this is your time; this is your place
We are vessels for breaking
under your grace we are led by your spirit
you have redeemed us by the
blood of your son
send down your word we are eager to hear it
ready our hearts to carry your love
you are sunlight you are morning
you're the hope of a brand new day
you are comfort; you are blessing
and you wipe all our tears away
so change us from within
render miracles from our sin
remind us once again
this is your time; this is your place
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Glory of It All
A relationship with God doesn't make sense.
1. Even before you believe there is a God, logic says that if a God existed, then he probably would be in favor of everything that happens in the world. Otherwise, he'd stop it, obviously.
2. If you ever get around to believing in a God, it doesn't make sense that he would want to be in a relationship with you. He's probably got better things to do.
3. If you ever actually believe that God loves you, then you're probably going to get caught up with the difficulty of needing a relationship with a God that you can't see or touch, especially if you're an introvert like me who has trouble needing a relationship with anyone.
I like what C.S. Lewis says on the topic of God, and the whole concept of Christianity, making sense. He says that that everything in the world around us seems like it should be simple, but nothing is. When we examine anything, we see complexities and intricacies that all work and rely on each other--but no one could have guessed them. You can't argue that a relationship with God is too complex to be true--that Christians try too hard to explain it into existence. The truth is, if a God like the God of the Bible was simple, I couldn't help disbelieving in Him. Nothing true is simple.
I think I understand how to have a relationship with God. I don't understand God. All I think I know is the next step. Here is what I know about God.
1. God is everywhere. Rob Bell states very convincingly that "everything is spiritual" and that to label parts of your life spiritual are to label other parts not spiritual. That's powerful. In Psalm 139 David exclaims about the omnipresence of God. God is everywhere.
2. Prayer is not talking. Prayer is action directed toward God. Eugene Peterson writes, "Prayer is elemental, not advanced language. It is the means by which our language become honest, true, and personal in response to God. Is is the means by which we get everything in our lives out in the open before God." Prayer is more a lifestyle and less a moment. It's all part of that everything is spiritual thing. For example, imagine I've been backpacking for 30 miles and I sit on the top of a mountain enjoying a well-deserved vista. I think to myself, "Breathtaking! This view brings something in me to life. It makes me what to be a better person." The looking is the prayer, and the thought is God's response. That's not to say that talking to God on your knees in not praying. But thankfully prayer is much more than that. It's a lifestyle directed towards God. It's keeping a direct line of communication open with God. Simply, it's recognizing that everything is spiritual and treating them that way.
Yes, God and Christianity are both complex to understand. But I don't think they're complex to practice, after you have a basic understanding of how they work. I'd like to end with the lyrics with one of my favorite songs, David Crowder Band's song, "The Glory of It All." Every time I hear the line "for the rescue of us all" I imagine Jesus rappelling from a top anchor and gathering a little child from a ledge into his arms. We all have our pictures of Christ. We all need our pictures of Christ.
"The Glory of It All"
At the start
he was there, he was there
In the end,
he’ll be there, he’ll be there
And After all our hands have wrought
He forgives
Oh the Glory of it all is:
he came here
For the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
for the glory of it all
All is lost
find him there, find him there
After night
Dawn is there, Dawn is there
After all falls apart
he repairs he repairs
Oh the Glory of it all is:
he came here
for the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
oh he is here
for redemption from the fall
that we may live
for the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
After night
comes the light
dawn is here
dawn is here
it’s a new day
it’s a new day
everything will change
things will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
Oh, The glory of it all is
you came here
for the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
Oh you are here
with redemption for us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
for the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
1. Even before you believe there is a God, logic says that if a God existed, then he probably would be in favor of everything that happens in the world. Otherwise, he'd stop it, obviously.
2. If you ever get around to believing in a God, it doesn't make sense that he would want to be in a relationship with you. He's probably got better things to do.
3. If you ever actually believe that God loves you, then you're probably going to get caught up with the difficulty of needing a relationship with a God that you can't see or touch, especially if you're an introvert like me who has trouble needing a relationship with anyone.
I like what C.S. Lewis says on the topic of God, and the whole concept of Christianity, making sense. He says that that everything in the world around us seems like it should be simple, but nothing is. When we examine anything, we see complexities and intricacies that all work and rely on each other--but no one could have guessed them. You can't argue that a relationship with God is too complex to be true--that Christians try too hard to explain it into existence. The truth is, if a God like the God of the Bible was simple, I couldn't help disbelieving in Him. Nothing true is simple.
I think I understand how to have a relationship with God. I don't understand God. All I think I know is the next step. Here is what I know about God.
1. God is everywhere. Rob Bell states very convincingly that "everything is spiritual" and that to label parts of your life spiritual are to label other parts not spiritual. That's powerful. In Psalm 139 David exclaims about the omnipresence of God. God is everywhere.
2. Prayer is not talking. Prayer is action directed toward God. Eugene Peterson writes, "Prayer is elemental, not advanced language. It is the means by which our language become honest, true, and personal in response to God. Is is the means by which we get everything in our lives out in the open before God." Prayer is more a lifestyle and less a moment. It's all part of that everything is spiritual thing. For example, imagine I've been backpacking for 30 miles and I sit on the top of a mountain enjoying a well-deserved vista. I think to myself, "Breathtaking! This view brings something in me to life. It makes me what to be a better person." The looking is the prayer, and the thought is God's response. That's not to say that talking to God on your knees in not praying. But thankfully prayer is much more than that. It's a lifestyle directed towards God. It's keeping a direct line of communication open with God. Simply, it's recognizing that everything is spiritual and treating them that way.
Yes, God and Christianity are both complex to understand. But I don't think they're complex to practice, after you have a basic understanding of how they work. I'd like to end with the lyrics with one of my favorite songs, David Crowder Band's song, "The Glory of It All." Every time I hear the line "for the rescue of us all" I imagine Jesus rappelling from a top anchor and gathering a little child from a ledge into his arms. We all have our pictures of Christ. We all need our pictures of Christ.
"The Glory of It All"
At the start
he was there, he was there
In the end,
he’ll be there, he’ll be there
And After all our hands have wrought
He forgives
Oh the Glory of it all is:
he came here
For the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
for the glory of it all
All is lost
find him there, find him there
After night
Dawn is there, Dawn is there
After all falls apart
he repairs he repairs
Oh the Glory of it all is:
he came here
for the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
oh he is here
for redemption from the fall
that we may live
for the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
After night
comes the light
dawn is here
dawn is here
it’s a new day
it’s a new day
everything will change
things will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
Oh, The glory of it all is
you came here
for the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
Oh you are here
with redemption for us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
for the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Dropping the Solo
Baby, we’re in this together.
I run a microfiber cloth over my instrument for the third time. It’s funny, the cloth never seems to really lift smudges. It only smudges them, sort of smears them around my guitar’s finish like paint on an artist’s palette. I finally give up and begin fiddling with amp knobs, trying to figure out the whereabouts of that perfect mix, the one that’s been eluding me all these years. I settle with something only acceptable, then raise my eyebrows and sigh when I notice my wife sitting on the end of the fifth row. It’s all ruined.
Turning my attention back to the stage, I motion for Smiley to give us a sound check on the drums. He pounds out the same test beat he’s been using for thirty-seven years, this time mixing it up by using one hand to devour a ham sandwich at least as old as the beat.
One more time, baby, one more time.
I forgot the string oil, but my sweaty palms probably won’t need anything else. Besides, it’s not a paying gig. Charitable concerts don’t need to be perfect, right? A string squeak here or there won’t make a difference as long as the man gets a fat wallet out of the deal.
Bruno steps off the stage for a second and gets a good luck kiss from his wife. I suddenly find something very interesting about my mike stand, so I stare at the floor and make my phantom adjustment. Things should get more comfortable as more of the alumni filter in. Although nearly ten years younger than me, my wife would look right at home in East Sacramento High’s Class of 1971.
The principal comes up on stage and asks us if we’re about ready to begin. The whole benefit concert for the new school expansion was that slimy prick’s idea. As if I would sacrifice for a school that screwed me over forty years ago. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re ready.” Just like I said at my engagement.
Things are rough from the beginning. The crowd is small and dead. And old. Our opening act is three songs: an old original we played at 1970 homecoming and two classic covers which Jerry’s voice simply slaughters. Scattered applause leaves me a little cynical as we enter the next set.
My Strat growls on “Layla,” then weeps a little for “Cold Shot.” We’re just getting started, and I can see the crowd beginning to warm up to us. At the end of the second set, I’m pouring sweat, Jerry’s voice is starting to crack more than usual, and I wonder if Smiley’s ham sandwich might cause him to pull a John Bonham in the middle of our show. And I’m sure dead drummers can’t keep tempo.
About thirty minutes into the show, I glance at my wife. She isn’t looking at me, and she seems to be enjoying herself. I wonder why she came?
A glaringly off-key note brings my senses back to the song, but I can’t get her face out of my head.
A second note slips from my fingers that makes Jerry frown at me. I just shrug and keep playing. Then a third. When a whole string of rusty notes blare from my amp, I stop, stunned. What’s wrong?
I start up again at the chorus, but my guitar doesn’t respond until a full two measures after I strum it. I frown at my delay pedal and kick it sharply. It’s not even on, but I knock the looping chord out of its jack anyway and route my sound straight from guitar to amp. It’s doesn’t make a difference.
The music is simply a mess. The drums, bass, and vocals are all playing perfectly four seconds ahead of my guitar. People in the crowd start fidgeting as the air turns muddy. I stop for the verse again. When I know I need to hit a harmonic in about two measures, I anticipate the move. Close, but no cigar. But now I have a goal, something to work toward. If I can see the music before it hits me, just know it before I hear it, then maybe we can still save this thing.
I know this song. I’ve known it for decades. In my head I begin making wild calculations, speeding and varying the tempo to try to anticipate the rhythm. I get a couple of chords nearly on beat. Now Smiley’s a little confused, but he makes an unconscious adjustment and falls into beat with my guitar.
Come on, baby, let’s take this show home.
Jerry and Bruno catch on, and after a few bars we’re back in business. My eyes are closed, my fingers flying silently, whispering into the future. I don’t even hear what the guys are playing. I hear only what’s in my head, and it pours into the fretboard of my Strat.
I begin ripping out the wildest solo of the night while everyone else is still outroing the second verse. It falls right into the music, but I ignore how beautiful it is and focus on how beautiful it will be. The improv slides by seamlessly, except for a few odd looks from the audience, probably other guitarists who are sure that what I’m playing isn’t what they’re hearing. I’ll have to convince them later that it wasn’t a canned solo.
You just need to know what you’re playing.
You need to know the song so well that when it leaves you, your fingers still hash out the movements in your sleep. And it takes work.
My eyes fly open and meet my wife’s. I think I finally know what I’m playing.
I run a microfiber cloth over my instrument for the third time. It’s funny, the cloth never seems to really lift smudges. It only smudges them, sort of smears them around my guitar’s finish like paint on an artist’s palette. I finally give up and begin fiddling with amp knobs, trying to figure out the whereabouts of that perfect mix, the one that’s been eluding me all these years. I settle with something only acceptable, then raise my eyebrows and sigh when I notice my wife sitting on the end of the fifth row. It’s all ruined.
Turning my attention back to the stage, I motion for Smiley to give us a sound check on the drums. He pounds out the same test beat he’s been using for thirty-seven years, this time mixing it up by using one hand to devour a ham sandwich at least as old as the beat.
One more time, baby, one more time.
I forgot the string oil, but my sweaty palms probably won’t need anything else. Besides, it’s not a paying gig. Charitable concerts don’t need to be perfect, right? A string squeak here or there won’t make a difference as long as the man gets a fat wallet out of the deal.
Bruno steps off the stage for a second and gets a good luck kiss from his wife. I suddenly find something very interesting about my mike stand, so I stare at the floor and make my phantom adjustment. Things should get more comfortable as more of the alumni filter in. Although nearly ten years younger than me, my wife would look right at home in East Sacramento High’s Class of 1971.
The principal comes up on stage and asks us if we’re about ready to begin. The whole benefit concert for the new school expansion was that slimy prick’s idea. As if I would sacrifice for a school that screwed me over forty years ago. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re ready.” Just like I said at my engagement.
Things are rough from the beginning. The crowd is small and dead. And old. Our opening act is three songs: an old original we played at 1970 homecoming and two classic covers which Jerry’s voice simply slaughters. Scattered applause leaves me a little cynical as we enter the next set.
My Strat growls on “Layla,” then weeps a little for “Cold Shot.” We’re just getting started, and I can see the crowd beginning to warm up to us. At the end of the second set, I’m pouring sweat, Jerry’s voice is starting to crack more than usual, and I wonder if Smiley’s ham sandwich might cause him to pull a John Bonham in the middle of our show. And I’m sure dead drummers can’t keep tempo.
About thirty minutes into the show, I glance at my wife. She isn’t looking at me, and she seems to be enjoying herself. I wonder why she came?
A glaringly off-key note brings my senses back to the song, but I can’t get her face out of my head.
A second note slips from my fingers that makes Jerry frown at me. I just shrug and keep playing. Then a third. When a whole string of rusty notes blare from my amp, I stop, stunned. What’s wrong?
I start up again at the chorus, but my guitar doesn’t respond until a full two measures after I strum it. I frown at my delay pedal and kick it sharply. It’s not even on, but I knock the looping chord out of its jack anyway and route my sound straight from guitar to amp. It’s doesn’t make a difference.
The music is simply a mess. The drums, bass, and vocals are all playing perfectly four seconds ahead of my guitar. People in the crowd start fidgeting as the air turns muddy. I stop for the verse again. When I know I need to hit a harmonic in about two measures, I anticipate the move. Close, but no cigar. But now I have a goal, something to work toward. If I can see the music before it hits me, just know it before I hear it, then maybe we can still save this thing.
I know this song. I’ve known it for decades. In my head I begin making wild calculations, speeding and varying the tempo to try to anticipate the rhythm. I get a couple of chords nearly on beat. Now Smiley’s a little confused, but he makes an unconscious adjustment and falls into beat with my guitar.
Come on, baby, let’s take this show home.
Jerry and Bruno catch on, and after a few bars we’re back in business. My eyes are closed, my fingers flying silently, whispering into the future. I don’t even hear what the guys are playing. I hear only what’s in my head, and it pours into the fretboard of my Strat.
I begin ripping out the wildest solo of the night while everyone else is still outroing the second verse. It falls right into the music, but I ignore how beautiful it is and focus on how beautiful it will be. The improv slides by seamlessly, except for a few odd looks from the audience, probably other guitarists who are sure that what I’m playing isn’t what they’re hearing. I’ll have to convince them later that it wasn’t a canned solo.
You just need to know what you’re playing.
You need to know the song so well that when it leaves you, your fingers still hash out the movements in your sleep. And it takes work.
My eyes fly open and meet my wife’s. I think I finally know what I’m playing.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Creedo
In eighth grade I knew everything about everything, but the first thing I learned was that I knew nothing.
In ninth grade I learned enough to make me wonder at the rest.
In tenth grade I was confident that I knew who I was.
In eleventh grade I knew everything about myself, but the first thing I learned was that I knew nothing about myself.
In twelfth grade, God told me who I am, and for the first time, I listened. Now I'm back to knowing nothing. But, finally, I'm enjoying the process.
I wonder why my search for identity was so much more passionate than other people's. Is is because going to "real school" and adolescence came at roughly the same time? Is it because eight years of homeschooling led me to believe I was someone I wasn't? Or was it simply a process I would have gone through no matter what my place in life?
Life is such a process. I'm the kind of person who likes to accomplish things. I like to take a task, see it through to completion, and look back on it. That's why I have a tendency to say, "this part of my life is done" and "I've figured out that part of my life," when, really, there's no definite end to any part of your life. It just floats on, changing imperceptible, as it is only in retrospect that you can see where you came from.
For example, who I am now snuck up on me. I had it all figured out. I was one of those emotional guys--poetry, philosophy, psychology, books, music, academics. The mental but not the physical. I still remember in tenth grade when Mr. Mulkern asked us write down where we would be in fifteen years. It was an easy assignment for me, because I knew exactly where I would be. I would be holding at least two degrees in my hand, possible three. I would have a loving family and live in upper class suburbia. I would love my job because of the pioneering research I was involved in. I would be a success.
Haha. Those are the people I laugh at now.
When did it all change? When did I realize how ridiculous I was being stuck in my little shell of protection? Last summer the phrase "Ben-first" kept popping up on family vacation. For the first time, I was the one going in first. And the feeling was amazing.
It's like someone flipped a switch inside, and I could finally do what I wanted. Inhibitions are cruel beasts. And, best of all, it the switch got flipped at a time when I was imploring God to show me what I should be doing. That's why my new interests are more than a passing obsessions; they're deeply rooted in my concept of what God wants me to do.
I'll end all this with a quote by Tecumseh which I love. I guess all the poetry isn't gone from me yet.
"So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and bow to none. When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and nothing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home."
In ninth grade I learned enough to make me wonder at the rest.
In tenth grade I was confident that I knew who I was.
In eleventh grade I knew everything about myself, but the first thing I learned was that I knew nothing about myself.
In twelfth grade, God told me who I am, and for the first time, I listened. Now I'm back to knowing nothing. But, finally, I'm enjoying the process.
I wonder why my search for identity was so much more passionate than other people's. Is is because going to "real school" and adolescence came at roughly the same time? Is it because eight years of homeschooling led me to believe I was someone I wasn't? Or was it simply a process I would have gone through no matter what my place in life?
Life is such a process. I'm the kind of person who likes to accomplish things. I like to take a task, see it through to completion, and look back on it. That's why I have a tendency to say, "this part of my life is done" and "I've figured out that part of my life," when, really, there's no definite end to any part of your life. It just floats on, changing imperceptible, as it is only in retrospect that you can see where you came from.
For example, who I am now snuck up on me. I had it all figured out. I was one of those emotional guys--poetry, philosophy, psychology, books, music, academics. The mental but not the physical. I still remember in tenth grade when Mr. Mulkern asked us write down where we would be in fifteen years. It was an easy assignment for me, because I knew exactly where I would be. I would be holding at least two degrees in my hand, possible three. I would have a loving family and live in upper class suburbia. I would love my job because of the pioneering research I was involved in. I would be a success.
Haha. Those are the people I laugh at now.
When did it all change? When did I realize how ridiculous I was being stuck in my little shell of protection? Last summer the phrase "Ben-first" kept popping up on family vacation. For the first time, I was the one going in first. And the feeling was amazing.
It's like someone flipped a switch inside, and I could finally do what I wanted. Inhibitions are cruel beasts. And, best of all, it the switch got flipped at a time when I was imploring God to show me what I should be doing. That's why my new interests are more than a passing obsessions; they're deeply rooted in my concept of what God wants me to do.
I'll end all this with a quote by Tecumseh which I love. I guess all the poetry isn't gone from me yet.
"So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and bow to none. When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and nothing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
