Posts Tagged: life

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15
Apr 09

The Middle, Part 4: Montage.

Pop culture alert.
 
There’s this song in the movie “Team America:World Police” called “Montage,” which best illustrates how overplayed that movie technique is:
Show a lot of things happening at once,
Remind everyone of what’s going on (what’s going on?)
And with every shot you show a little improvement
To show it all would take too long
That’s called a montage (montage)
Oh we want montage (montage)

And anything that we want to go from just a beginner to a pro,
You need a montage (montage)
Even Rocky had a montage (montage)

In the movie that is my life, I feel sometimes like I’m in the montage. That section full of little gems betwixt long spans of inane grinding and routine. That section that’s headed somewhere but going really, really slowly. The section that–when the retelling finally comes–will be heavily trimmed to a sequence of short clips to keep the pacing going.
 
Take my 5k goal, for instance. I would probably spend the exposition on that all-important first run. But the 14th, the 15th, the 23rd run? The mornings when I have to convince myself to go running? Showing only one will suffice.
 
Little stories worth telling placed between spans of seasons with littler stories. Something’s bound to get cut.
 
Everyone does that. Biographers and journalists and documentarians. My favorite memoirist, Frank McCourt, does that. In his three books he doesn’t record every single day of his life. Just the ones where he’s deemed to have a story worth telling, or at least one where he can skillfully tell and retell and dedicate chapters and pages and long drawn-out passages of paragraphs and super-long sentences where he rambles on and on in that often self-deprecating tone of his.
 
The Bible does that too, ya know. You know how the Israelites were stuck in the desert for 40 years? If we had to tell stories from every single day of that, or from the centuries between the Old and New Testaments, it would be an infinitely longer record. Even the retelling of the ministry of Jesus has sections cut out from it. The very last verse of John gives the reason:
“Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.”
 Our lives would fill books, and yet in the retelling, we summise it to a single volume. Something’s bound to get cut.
 
And that’s the challenge for me. Even if I know I’m not going to remember each one of these days, even if the only ones I remember will be cleverly pared into little clips bunched together with a sweet pop song playing over them. Even then, I still have to carpe diem my way through them. Still play my part to the best of who I am. Still have to treat each scene like it’s part of the story. Because they are.
 
I wrote this line a few seasons back. I’ve yet to make a song for it, but I feel like it’s absolutely fitting:
 
“Love is the everyday, the asinine moments of the day.”
 
I have a vague sense of what the finish line looks like, and I’m convinced deep down that I’m headed there.
 
That makes living in the middle worth it. 
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8
Apr 09

The Middle. Part 1: Tenses.

“It just takes some time, little girl
You’re in the middle of the ride
Everything, everything will be just fine
Everything, everything will be alright, alright.”
- Jimmy Eat World
At the forty-minute mark of this morning’s run, I wanted to be at the sixty-minute mark.
 
There are days when the run is just that, a run. The sun is up, my earphones are snug and blasting fixed-tempo electro-dance goodness into my ears, and each step is easy and enjoyable (considering my weight, of course). The hour goes by quickly, and in no time, I’m back at my door.
 
Today, however, I was made acutely aware that my run had a finish line, one that I wanted to reach as soon as possible. Not necessarily by running, of course. Maybe a friend could pass by and pick me up and take me home, or I could hitchhike my way back. My weapon of choice would probably be a wristwatch that speeds time so those last twenty minutes would zip by, and a blink later I’d be at my doorstep.
 
No such luck.
 
Minute 41 (or so): As I crossed the street at 155 beats per minute, I thought about Paul’s words to Timothy, written as he was nearing the end of his life:
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”
Fought. Finished. Kept.
 
Past tense.
 
The people in the Bible, the people like Paul? Their stories are complete. I take comfort in their stories because I know how their stories end. When he wrote those words to Timothy, Paul had completed his missionary ministry, as well as his writings, and by life’s end, God had worked out all the kinks until Paul was exactly what God had in mind for him.
 
Fast forward to me. Present tense. Much like my run, there have been lots of times when I’ve been in the middle of something and have wanted to reach the end in a blink. Countless times I’ve wanted to wake up and already be fit, to have reached my goal weight. To be more faithful, more trusting of Him. To see these projects and pet projects of mine already completed.
 
Most importantly, to be able to sit fondly at some cafe with some friends, sit back in satisfaction and recount “the good old days”. I would preface each memory with “Remember when?” and end with: “Good times, man.”
 
(Note: I’ve already done that with friends, so I know how happy it feels to reminisce about past successes. Good times indeed. Am I THAT old?)
 
Truth is, I know. I know I can’t always look forward to the day when I can speak in past tense. It’s too early for that. I know I’m supposed to enjoy each step, be they easy as pie or laborious. I know the journey counts as much as the destination. I know God’s called me to live here and now. I know I shouldn’t feel stuck in drudgery and monotony of the day-to-day. I know “tomorrow has worries of its own.”
 
Truth is, I know. I just need reminding every, oh I dunno, every single time.
 
So as I hit minute 42 (or so), bearing in mind Paul’s earlier words to the Philippians: “I press on toward the goal to win the prize…”, I decided to paraphrase his words to Timothy into something more, er, apt: 
“I am fighting the good fight. I am finishing the race. I am keeping the faith.”
Fighting. Finishing. Keeping.
Present tense.
 
By the way, I did get to sixty minutes.
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5
Jan 09

lydia

her small, thin, fragile frame was propped on the bed, a transparent breathing mask covering most of her face. she was in the hospital because her lung had collapsed. the doctor’s detached sentiment was, “it’s only a matter of time.”

surrounding her were friends she hadn’t seen in years. my group was but one pack in a steady stream of people who had visited her over the past two days. friends from her old church. friends from her current one. all to support, to show love. all chatty and upbeat. i was wondering how the person she was sharing a room with could cope with all that racket. good thing lydia would be transferred to a suite soon enough.
 
in her state, she shouldn’t be talking. she didn’t need to. while her friends encouraged her, urged her on, pointed out her steady heartbeat on the monitor, she could have just smiled and nodded.
 
but she wanted to talk. she had to. her friends were here. and though she was addressing the room, i could swear she was looking right at me. as if what she had to say were meant, nay, reserved for me.
 
there she was, labored breaths escaping through failed lungs, currency for choice words muffled by an oxygen mask, and you know what she spent those precise words on?
 
praises.
 
praises and laughter.
 
“God is good.”
 
“what I’m going through has a purpose.”
 
“His name will be glorified.”
 
and so it has been for her. for all the years i’ve known her. through her first debilitating disease and surgery thirteen years ago, when her doctor said she would never walk again. as she experienced a miracle recovery. as she walked for the rest of her days with a cane. through her two daughters’ weddings. through facing the worst kind of heartache from those who were closest to her. when she found out she had cancer. when it spread to the rest of her body. while she had to take care of her ailing mother in spite of her own ailments. when her lung collapsed. when the first opinion was, “it’s only a matter of time.”
 
praises and laughter.
 
that was her. a life of praises and thanksgiving. of trusting in a God who will come through, even if the evidence points otherwise. a life devoid of feeling sorry for oneself and always looking to Him, especially during the afflictions.
 
i’ve been a worship leader for eight years. i stood in front of the congregation and i sang the songs and played the music till the strings popped on my guitar and my fingers were calloused and green and my throat was sore for days on end. but i’ve spent more time doing those things with a cynical heart. i think about how much breath and spit i’ve wasted complaining, grumbling, shouting at this God that i say i praise, bad-mouthing and blaming the people and circumstances He has brought to me. i think about all those times i’ve fallen repeatedly into self-pity and depression, for the same pathetic reasons, instead of looking up to the sky and adoring Him.
 
it’s disgusting.
 
if i don’t have the right attitude, the thankfulness, the love, then everything i have, everything i do is garbage. if i can’t find it in me to praise and thank God for each moment of every day that i have, then i will not survive even the trivial, mundane, repetitive, boring moments. how do i expect to survive the crises?
 
i don’t know how many breaths lydia’s got left to spend. i don’t know how many i’ve got. but i know what she’ll be using those remaining breaths for.
i’m asking God for the heart do the same.