I step back a little to catch myself thinking, "I'm going to be more intentional about _______," quite a bit more than I realized. Have I allowed myself to become numb to these resolutions? Whether it's something relational or a habit I'm trying to form, I throw around the sentiment about being intentional as if there isn't any weight to it. So allow me to be a little meta for a moment: any substantial changes that need to happen require me to be a little more intentional about where I throw my intention.
Yes, I know these thoughts probably land just a little vague at the moment. But I promise you, there are logical impetuses for them currently in my life which I'll most likely disclose at some future point. The focus is on the ancient struggle: knowing what needs to happen but feeling overwhelmed by inertial resistance. I fear resolving to be more intentional about something has become a dismissive statement for me; a procrastinator's line that says, "It's important enough for me to take care of... eventually."
The old habit of trying to "will" things to happen crept back into my life because I allowed it. I started on this strand of thought when I took a figurative step back from my life. That action of taking a moment to reflect and plan outside of life's stream of activity is something I've strayed away from. Maybe the long hiatus from writing contributed, I'm not sure. For whatever reasons, ignoring the pause button on life means that I effectively ignore all the spiritual connections and resources I've worked so hard to build up. The current pace of life and the sheer mass of distractions and stimuli are forceful currents pushing me downstream, away from goals and intra-personal milestones I had set for myself.
So now that I recognize the situation, what's the remedy? I don't think I can allow myself to minimize intention anymore. My prayer today is that a red flag goes up whenever "I want to be more intentional about _______" hits my thoughts and that I truly examine the feasibility of such statements. And with the more realistic ones that get filtered through such scrutiny, I turn over to God who probably put those thoughts and yearnings in my mind from the start.
What kind of story are we telling with our lives?
Am I writing this story or is it writing me? There's a subtle deception that I let creep in over the years and I can trace it back to the "I'm just a first-mate while Jesus is my Captain" plot line that was taught in my younger formative years. With Jesus at the helm, I bought into a Christianity with plenty of life-vests and emergency crafts in case the ship went down. We all know what happens to the Titanic. It's resting under a couple miles of salty ocean.
Just like the famed luxury liner, our existence is destined for tragedy, heartbreak and turmoil. But how can this be? I've allowed Jesus to "take the wheel." Jesus may be Captain, but we make for pretty sad first-mates. In my case, I had SO MUCH faith in my Captain that I was confused, and sometimes in denial, about the power of the choices I made... and I was seemingly OK with it.
A silly example is a catchphrase I probably use too often, "I'm just the driver;" as if I were merely Sharyl's chauffeur with no autonomy of my own. Not having to be the decision-maker excuses me from all fault if the decision goes awry. Not only do I excuse myself from engagement, I turn it into a joke.
There's no autopilot to our lives. We write our own stories and make our own decisions. And most of the time, we eat the consequences. At the core, my attitude was lazy indecision and I mistook that indecision for faith. I let things just happen to me, for me. The story was writing me. I was the first-mate that decided that the Cap's got everything under control and I'm down in the lower deck sleeping.
I was blessed this past weekend attending the wedding of a student Sharyl and I used to work with, Matt. Grand life events (like weddings) spark, sometimes much-needed, moments of introspection. The words of commitment spoken as wedding vows are a direct, conscious choice that one makes. Matt was the author of his own story in that moment. Jesus was a part of that moment, and just maybe knew it was going to happen well before any of us sucked in our first breath of oxygen. But Jesus wasn't the one making the actual choice, determining Matt's fate, writing the story. If anything, I can imagine Jesus chest-bumpin' the Father high-fivin' the Spirit and celebrating right along with the rest of us.
I've been copping out all these years, shifting the privilege of blame from myself in one way or another. While Jesus is still integral, still a driving force, I'm the one faced with decisions day after day. Free will is pointless otherwise. What's stirred in me as a result is the need to wake up, and live up, to my responsibilities and claim ownership over the decisions, past and present, that shape the story I'm trying to tell with my life.
Don't we love blog reboots? This blog began as a journal for my experience in NC with Passport Camps. That summer of 2010 was chock-full of intensity, both highs and lows, but I kind of wish I had done more reflection to better preserve those experiences. The older I get, the more fleeting life reveals itself to be. Transformations and re-imaginings of ourselves come spaced out farther and farther apart. We get busy, too busy sometimes. So I'm rebooting this blog in the hopes that it will slow things down for me and allow more opportunities to explore both the ethereal and ephemeral.
We decided, after a stop for lunch in Asheville, to take a short detour to drive through Smoky Mountain National Park. What a great decision. I heart mountains but Central Texas is not really known for its mountains. I had a lot of fun driving in a lower gear coming down the Tennessee side; not really something you get to do in the flatland. The most remarkable thing about the trek was watching the weather -- nay, climate -- change as we went up and back down. Once on the west side, we were both like, "this is familiar weather. Huzzah! No more East Coast sauna." Out of the sauna and into the roaster. At least there's a breeze. Enjoy the view. We did.
Camp's over. Everything's packed. And at this point, most everybody is home.
Except the Texans. We're taking our sweet time getting home. What's the hurry? I don't have to go back to work until the 5th.
We're in Durham right now visiting with some friends. Friends, in fact, that were a part of the lifegroup Sharyl preached about on night 3: "Share" night. Duke University is an amazing campus. We went to church at the Duke Chapel this morning and I was awestruck by the amazing collegiate gothic architecture. I'm not sure there's anything like it at the colleges in Texas.
This blog isn't over yet. I've still got plenty to think about and plenty to write about. I'll also be transitioning back into my teaching blog:
the Ire of Apathy. I've got two cans of Cheerwine left (if Sharyl doesn't make me buy another case on the way home) and I think I'll save the very last of it for when this blog is officially over. Until then, blessings.
Small towns are great. I mean, I've absolutely fallen in love with Waco for the slower pace, not as much pressure to be materialistic, and rush hour traffic that feels like 4am Saturday morning in Dallas. But there are some things that are unavoidable with small towns. And Wingate is definitely a small town.
A few Wednesdays back, Sharyl and I decided to eat dinner out (Wednesday afternoons are pretty much free time once we take care of all of our business). We decided on a place that was really close to campus so it wouldn't be such a big hassle going to and coming back. It was fairly early for dinner, which is normal for us; normal for us and old people.
Now there is something borderline endearing about old people in that a lot of times, they do and say what they want without any filters. During the conversation that Sharyl and I were having (a stressful one at that), she spontaneously bursts out in laughter, deliriously saying, "I can't take it anymore!"
Apparently, a couple of older ladies sitting a table behind me were just staring at us. And it was an all out, laser-vision, kind of stare that Sharyl had attempted to match with in a staring contest. She lost. We figured it was one of several things that they were staring at:
1. That I was as Asian-looking as can be but spoke very Texan-like.
2. That we were obviously a couple... a very interracial couple.
3. That I was wearing my lavender MK2 shirt with a purple/black checkered scarf.
I think it was the scarf they couldn't hang with.
Last week was, by far, our best week. It was, especially, for me. I think I came up for air finally after drowning in the technical details for the first four weeks. I could finally focus on the relational aspects of my job and leave the task aspects alone for once, knowing that most of those details have become second nature by now.
I'm glad that the services flowed like they were designed to and I could perceive the impact on the students for the first time. Program staff, by nature, don't get to interact as much with the students so I haven't been able to gauge what kind of impression we were leaving the students with very much.
Well, here's to the remaining two weeks and finding the motivation to be here 100% instead of phoning in a performance.
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