Sunday, April 26, 2009
First? Last? 30492nd?
Ha, good one, jokes on me! I walked right into that. Just when i feel like I've got hold of something, someone kicks me in the proverbial balls and I'm even now still reeling from the hit. Am I surprised? Only slightly, I'm not really a stranger to disappointment. It was foolish to get my hopes up, to let others get my hopes up. Just once in my life though I think it'd be nice to be really good at something. Not just halfway decent, middle of the pack, but 'better than anyone I know' good at something. I mean yes, there are plenty of things I'm okay at; piano, school, singing, swimming. It's not like I'm mad at God for not gifting me with enough abilities. But sometimes I wish that God had chosen just one thing and enabled me to excel at it. I don't care all that much about being acknowledged or recognized. Just knowing would be enough for me I think. But maybe that is foolish. If you build up my confidence on one talent, then what happens when that one person comes along who's just a little bit better than you? Then your world would shatter, that's what. I used to think it must be an amazing feeling to hold a world record. maybe win the 100m dash and break the world record at the Olympics. What an amazing feeling to be the fastest man or woman on earth. But how long does that last? A year? Four years? Twenty even? But no one can hold that spot forever. And who has time for the second fastest person on earth, or the third, or the thirty-thousandth, four-hundredth, and ninety-second? In the famous words of Ricky Bobby, "If you're not first, you're last." So I don't really know where to file this. I don't need to be world famous for something, I'm not even sure I want that. I'd just like to be good, and know I'm good, maybe even have a couple people tell me so. The frustrating bit? Part of me thinks that I am good, or could be. But I'll never get the chance to try and prove it, so I guess I'll never know.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Matters of Morality Part 1
Life would be so much easier is I didn't know everything. Admittedly, that sounds conceited, but what i mean is that it would be easier if I wasn't always so sure of myself. If I wasn't right 9 out of 10 times. I know what I like and don't like. I know what I believe and don't believe. I know what I agree and disagree with, I stand by it, and little can be done about it. In alot of situations this can be a positive thing. It is because of this that I rarely doubt my faith. It is the reason I handle crises well. I can make a clear decision quickly because I have already decided in my mind how to react. However, also because of this I am stubborn. This is not a secret, and I get myself into arguments far too often. People often expect me to have the answer, the best answer, the right answer. This becomes so difficult when they're questions of morality. Almost all of my choices are based on my discernment of right and wrong; based on my collection of values. Unfortunately, these don't always line up with everyone else's. In fact, most of the time my bar is set so much higher, and stronger. I don't regret it though, and I have very few regrets because of it. But sometimes I feel like I'm looking down over everyone else and I can predict what will happen. And I can give my opinion or say what I think needs to be said, but everyone does there own thing anyways, and more often then not, they burn for it. Nobody learns from their mistakes anymore. We almost anticipate and plan around mistakes and then when they occur we quickly overlook them. Life would be so much easier if I could just overlook all of this.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Bench
There once was a bench. Just an old, wooden park bench, situated between two other old wooden park benches. The typical resting spots for couples of all ages ages, and newspaper readers alike. There is nothing special about the bench itself, it was just a bench. And this story doesn't revolve around the bench as you might presume at first, the bench revolves around the stories. An outer orbiting planet, just one part of a much larger solar system. And in our solar system there was this one particular bench.
I imagine that if this bench could talk it would have many stories to tell. But benches can't talk, so they're not story tellers. Benches are story keepers. Every dent, and stain, and piece of litter left behind on the bench hold a story, a fraction of a life's history.
There are seeds scattered around it from the elderly men and women who come by often to feed the birds. There are initials carved into by people who are, or once were in love, and have left their love behind on the bench. There are hateful messages spray-painted onto it by those who are hurting and confused. They have nothing against the bench; they are just looking for a way to tell their story. There is yesterday's newspaper, wrinkled and discarded telling the stories of some people who couldn't tell their stories for themselves. There is loose change left by someone careless, too important to stoop down and pick up a few dimes. There is change left by someone caring, for someone who might need it to care for themselves. There is a small child's collection of pebbles and flower heads brought proudly before a young mother who doesn't realize their importance. Each of these things left at the bench, left with the bench, accidentally or on purpose, every object holds a deeper significance. A significance that most passersby wouldn't care to notice. However, there was one who noticed, one man who passed by.
On a Thursday in March, the sky was overcast and the park deserted. A man walked slowly down the path. Eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere, lost deep in his own thoughts. Who can really say what made him stop. Why here? Why this park? Why this bench? But he did stop, and with a slight reluctance, sat down. Still mulling things over within himself, he looked around. And dazed though he was, his eyes saw what very few others could. His mind took in and understood what others wouldn't have bothered to notice. He took a handfull of the flowers and pebbles and thought of his own children. He thought of what was, and is, and what no longer could be. He traced his hands over the initials and thought of his beautiful wife, and how her loved her and what he had never meant to put her through. He thought of her courage, and strength and of the better life that she would soon have. The backpack he carried slumped at his feet. One silent tear slipped down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away, and it hung on his chin. There was no need for pride anymore. He unzipped the knapsack and pulled out the pills. The medicine that was supposed to help. The medicine that was supposed to restore to him his right mind. The medicine that he had hated so fervently from the beginning. He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed. Now they would finally help him.
Glancing around again he noticed the newspaper and read the headline about some problem with the city's budget. There had been problems with the family budget for years, hopefully that would change. Popping open the cap again, he takes two more pills. Picking up the few coins on the bench he puts them inside the fold of the newspaper and is pleased with himself for solving the city's financial issue. 4 more pills. He glances at his wedding ring, and with great heaving sobs clutches it to his heart. Another two pills, and another. He pours the remaining pills into his palm, and puts all but one into his mouth. The last pill he sets down on the bench next to the flowers and pebbles. Yet another priceless token of the bench, from a man who had already given so much to the world, it was his last gift. He himself had been given many gifts. The gift of music, and language, humour, cleverness, culinary genius, creativity, and compassion. The last thing he could give back was his story. The story of an extraordinary and talented man, who never quite belonged in this world. And with that, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Who can say exactly how much later he was found by that runner and taken to the hospital. But this story's not about that. This story is about a man, a real man. Whose failures were overshadowed by his triumphs, whose personality was as unique as his Creator, and whose story has left a lasting impression on many of us. But this world became too much, and in a moment of weakness and strength, a decision was made that leaves us without him. There is nothing easy or simple or rational about suicide. There is nothing easy or simple or rational about depression. There is nothing that is easy or simple or rational this side of heaven. But let our focus not be on the death, for that was but a moment in time. Let us remember a life, a good life, a hard life, a life intertwined with our own. And then, with the knowledge that he is home, in a place he belongs so completely, we can let his memory rest within us, within the world, and with the bench.
I imagine that if this bench could talk it would have many stories to tell. But benches can't talk, so they're not story tellers. Benches are story keepers. Every dent, and stain, and piece of litter left behind on the bench hold a story, a fraction of a life's history.
There are seeds scattered around it from the elderly men and women who come by often to feed the birds. There are initials carved into by people who are, or once were in love, and have left their love behind on the bench. There are hateful messages spray-painted onto it by those who are hurting and confused. They have nothing against the bench; they are just looking for a way to tell their story. There is yesterday's newspaper, wrinkled and discarded telling the stories of some people who couldn't tell their stories for themselves. There is loose change left by someone careless, too important to stoop down and pick up a few dimes. There is change left by someone caring, for someone who might need it to care for themselves. There is a small child's collection of pebbles and flower heads brought proudly before a young mother who doesn't realize their importance. Each of these things left at the bench, left with the bench, accidentally or on purpose, every object holds a deeper significance. A significance that most passersby wouldn't care to notice. However, there was one who noticed, one man who passed by.
On a Thursday in March, the sky was overcast and the park deserted. A man walked slowly down the path. Eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere, lost deep in his own thoughts. Who can really say what made him stop. Why here? Why this park? Why this bench? But he did stop, and with a slight reluctance, sat down. Still mulling things over within himself, he looked around. And dazed though he was, his eyes saw what very few others could. His mind took in and understood what others wouldn't have bothered to notice. He took a handfull of the flowers and pebbles and thought of his own children. He thought of what was, and is, and what no longer could be. He traced his hands over the initials and thought of his beautiful wife, and how her loved her and what he had never meant to put her through. He thought of her courage, and strength and of the better life that she would soon have. The backpack he carried slumped at his feet. One silent tear slipped down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away, and it hung on his chin. There was no need for pride anymore. He unzipped the knapsack and pulled out the pills. The medicine that was supposed to help. The medicine that was supposed to restore to him his right mind. The medicine that he had hated so fervently from the beginning. He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed. Now they would finally help him.
Glancing around again he noticed the newspaper and read the headline about some problem with the city's budget. There had been problems with the family budget for years, hopefully that would change. Popping open the cap again, he takes two more pills. Picking up the few coins on the bench he puts them inside the fold of the newspaper and is pleased with himself for solving the city's financial issue. 4 more pills. He glances at his wedding ring, and with great heaving sobs clutches it to his heart. Another two pills, and another. He pours the remaining pills into his palm, and puts all but one into his mouth. The last pill he sets down on the bench next to the flowers and pebbles. Yet another priceless token of the bench, from a man who had already given so much to the world, it was his last gift. He himself had been given many gifts. The gift of music, and language, humour, cleverness, culinary genius, creativity, and compassion. The last thing he could give back was his story. The story of an extraordinary and talented man, who never quite belonged in this world. And with that, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Who can say exactly how much later he was found by that runner and taken to the hospital. But this story's not about that. This story is about a man, a real man. Whose failures were overshadowed by his triumphs, whose personality was as unique as his Creator, and whose story has left a lasting impression on many of us. But this world became too much, and in a moment of weakness and strength, a decision was made that leaves us without him. There is nothing easy or simple or rational about suicide. There is nothing easy or simple or rational about depression. There is nothing that is easy or simple or rational this side of heaven. But let our focus not be on the death, for that was but a moment in time. Let us remember a life, a good life, a hard life, a life intertwined with our own. And then, with the knowledge that he is home, in a place he belongs so completely, we can let his memory rest within us, within the world, and with the bench.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)