Never Give Up

I wrote the following essay as a response to a question asked for Rhythm in Twenty.

Since we last gathered in Estes Park, what has been the impact of quiet, listening, and rhythm on your life? How have the last year’s learnings shaped and impacted your thoughts, habits, relationships, and dreams?

_____

I sat down in the church library with what would have been a blank sheet in front of me if its simple stark appearance wasn’t marked by a thin red line. From what I could tell, the line was straight, only a millimeter thick, and ran across the page in a way that would have normally seemed pleasing to the eye.  

But this day the line was anything but pleasing.  This line stared at me with a look that said, “you know what you have to do.”  

And the line kept staring.  

“Come on,” it cooed. “It’s ok to reflect. I think you’ll be surprised.”    

Was this line was meant to represent the last year of my life?  Could this bright red streak truly hold within it the complexities and oddities that have ticked by since last summer?

I nodded, pulled my chair up a little further, and added some markings of my own.  In the next few minutes of writing and reflecting, I re-lived the past, raptured by the ebb and flow that is sometimes so hard to see through the day-to-day song and dance.  The line was right.  I was surprised.  A lot had happened.

But the pattern that jumped out at me from my own scattered scribbles made me realize that I had found rhythm in what might have been the busiest time of my life.  And busy was an understatement.  After all, I had made notes about family (and family drama), friends (some who left, some who came), relationships (heartbreak and new love), travel (months of it), adventures (including being chased by an elephant), education (grad school?  Me?), and amazing opportunities (like moving across the country).  But behind and between these experiences was the growing hum of something mystical.  

I was happier, healthier, more confident, a better boyfriend, friend, pastor, and person. 

My chair squeaked as I pushed it back again, and I thought of where I was last year.  Rather than remembering certain events, faces, or experiences, a picture formed in my mind’s eye, an image that had described my emotional state perfectly: Blinding white.  It was the kind of white that pulsed at the edge of your vision.  It was nuclear - it was power and energy and it was uncontrolled.  It was anger and chaos and the result of a total imbalance of my soul. I remembered.

I hiked along a trail in the forest.  This had been a year ago.  I gladly separated from the group - I couldn’t relate to most of them.  I was too hot, too frustrated.  These other guys - they were gentle, kind, patient.  They got along so well.  At the time, I had felt that I was made of something harder and rougher and less… likable.  So I did what any twenty-something male does when he’s upset.  I stormed off.  

This was supposed to be a time of reflection, a time to encounter God, but I decided that if God really wanted to talk to me, he could use the help of some endorphins.  He created them, after-all.  I booked it, sometimes walking, sometimes running, but always with a determined forward motion.  It was here, on this mountain path, that I realized what was wrong with me.  

I cared.  

That was the core of everything.  I cared about people.  I cared about the world.  I cared about how other people saw me and I cared whether or not I was using my life to the best of my ability.  When we care, we become powerful.  It’s like nuclear reactor in the soul - the explosion of colliding atoms, life out of death.  But it’s a tumultuous source of energy.  It can be unstable.  And it creates a certain kind of vulnerability.  The ancient languages connect words like “passion” and “care” with words like “suffering” and “hurt.”    They knew a lot about this kind of power.  But rather than embrace that vulnerability, I guarded it - defended it.  I denied it.  I had embraced the energy, but at what cost?  What good was I doing moving through the woods like a rocket ship?

Any good source of energy needs balance.  Energy can bring health and life, but it can destroy and maim as well.  You can’t just care about people.  You have to let them care, too.  It’s all in the rhythm.  The people you care for have power themselves.  And they need opportunities to use their power, too.  A healthy system needs rhythm.  A healthy family needs rhythm.  A healthy church needs rhythm.

And this year I let them in.  In the midst of 70-hour work weeks and mind-numbing busy-ness, I loved and was loved.  

And it was good.  

And powerful.