Maturation

So here and there I’ve written about (like all other writers and artists) the loss of innocence, i.e growing up and forgetting what it was to be young and to be carefree.

We used to imagine everything, right?

I don’t think we’ve stopped.

Sure we still imagine everything, what it would be like if ________ were true.

We haven’t grown up, we’re still kids in our minds. We haven’t matured we’ve just continued.

Sure we’ve lost innocence, clouds and fireflies don’t enchant us anymore. But we’ve not grown up our minds are still blank.

Until we look at reality and are enthralled by the what-is we’re still children in our thinking. Because any kid can imagine himself greater than he is or better than his friends, but it’ll take a mature mind to understand his own limitations and live right up to those limits.

Do we not strive for more? Honestly, I think we’re all capable of more than we think we are; we’re just lazy. Can anyone do what I do? Yes.

It’s not a positive thinking deal, not at all, no it’s a thinking deal.

It’s not telling yourself everything’s gonna be alright when the crap is hitting the fan, no, it’s a sucking it up and in spite of the crap fighting to continue.

So what is it to grow up? It’s to boldly face reality and understand in spite of yourself you are not capable of changing the world, but you are capable of being a friend, a parent, a sibling, a worker, a ___________ to the glory of God and the benefit of whoever.

20-somethings

I went on my first walk in a long time last night (I also candied pecans and cooked myself a steak dinner. Bam, domestic!). Walks are therapy.

Quite honestly when I walked out the door I didn’t know which way I’d go, where I’d walk to, or how long I’d go for; I just meandered about until I ended up back on my front porch.

But mostly I walked along the river while the trees cast eerie shadows in the light of the moon. The voices of people far away carrying in the still air, the high thin clouds making the dark darker here and there all of it bursting through the seams of my mind to whisper, “Christ is King.”

Now-a-days weeks feel like years and days feel like months. Hours aren’t enough to measure things by (‘cept college algebra) and minutes might as well not exist. Is this growing up? Continually loosing track of time until so much of it has slipped through your fingers there’s no more left to hold.

I’m still just a kid.

But that’s a lie too. Kids are intrepid little devils who are fascinated by fireflies, clouds, and summer nights (or snow fights). The life of a twenty-something is the life of a wondering dreamer, wanting more to life but facing the constant reality of loosing track.

Yet this too is pointing us back to the whisper of the eerie shadow of the trees, “Christ is King.” We, we bunch of almost-kids who dream big and act small, we bunch of semi-adults who fight hard and believe little, we are part of a story much bigger than ourselves.

The beauty of reality is equal to the wonder of our imaginations. With complications, adventures, and the boring all of it is the story of our lives. And this story is intertwined with the story of Christ is King that we, we rag-tag individuals, ought never to look for more than the wonder of Jesus, because in him is enough to see the world changed and our lives made both whole and worth while.

At least that's the hope. Yet the mind of the cynic will always see the flaws, the failures. Indeed, I rarely get far from Lewis, "We are far too easily pleased."