I was talking with some teammates the other day about growing up.It’s been far more difficult — and far better — than I expected.As a child, I assumed that maturity was a threshold of sorts, and then I was somewhat disappointed and confounded as I got older to discover that it’s a slow (and often painful) process — not a magical transformation.Andrew Peterson hit the nail on the head: After all these years,I would’ve thought that all my fears were laid to restBut I still get scaredAnd I thought that all my struggles would be victories by nowBut I confessThat the mess is there.(After All These Years) I found that adults often don’t feel particular competent and that nearly everyone has days when they want to crawl into a blanket fort and let the real adults deal with the problems of the world. Yet… although I certainly share in a nostalgic longing to return to the naïveté of childhood at times, I find myself increasingly grateful that I get to keep changing and growing.Being an adult soun…
Last night as I was playing around with a story, I realized: now I’m going to begin noticing every piece of metal work and glass work and craft in general and have this weirdly heightened interest in all things.
Actually, this is one of the addictive things about story writing. It pulls the blinders of familiar, taking-what’s-normal-for-granted off of my eyes for a time at least and lets me be enchanted all over again by the glory inherent in reality, the glory that is so pervasive and bright that I forget and walk through life with my eyes squinched mostly closed. It makes me think of of G.K. Chesterton's words: Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, 'Do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possibl…
For the first time in a (very) long time, my heart suddenly feels quiet.
I'm not sure of why exactly.
Maybe having finally finished the last requirement for Wheaton and, for the first time in almost three years, not having a nagging (or screaming!) feeling in the back of my mind reminding me that I should be doing some reading or writing a response or researching something or preparing for a class.
Maybe, having lived in Sichuan for two and a half years, the incredibly (and I do mean that in the most literal possible sense) slow pace of walking has finally sunk into my body. Although I still find myself setting out from my apartment at a briskly purposeful American stride, more and more often I find that it slows to a stroll by the time I'm halfway across campus, even if I'm not hanging out with students. And I notice the irises growing everywhere, the strange patterns of ripples on the surface of the small lake on campus as ducks chase each other across the water.