A friend of mine took a class that required writing 50-word essays. Fifty words. Exactly.
This summer has taught me a lot. The biggest lesson I've learned is the difference between the things I want and the things I need. I now realize how big of a difference that is.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
On the other hand...
I really had no idea how much I use my hands until last Saturday.
Anchoring guests on IWU's rock wall is pretty much routine for me at this point. I did it all of last summer, some during the school year, and then again this summer. The process is pretty simple: You climb with a rope hooked to you and I stand on the ground holding the other end. If you fall, my weight keeps you in place.
At least, that's how it's supposed to work.
A week ago today, I was belaying my first climber of the night. Everything was, as is always said before something bad happens, going normally until he fell. Still, normal. I've caught my fair share of overly ambitious climbers.
But this guy was different. Partially because he was probably about twice my weight. But mostly because when he fell, as often happens, he didn't stop.
For reasons I, nor any of the other people at the wall that day can explain, he kept falling. I tried to hold on to the rope to slow his descent, but it just kept rushing through my hands. When he landed, perfectly and miraculously unharmed, I realized my hands felt like they were on fire.
Second degree [rope] burns was the diagnosis. And the fun kept coming. While being driven to the emergency room, I partook of my first car accident. But wait, there's more! Since my hands were temporarily out of commission, I wasn't even able to buckle my seatbelt before we left. Again miraculously, I walked away from that wreck with the same amount of injuries I had going into it.
So all of that left me with two stubs for hands and enough painkillers to knock out a charging rhino. I was stuck like that. I couldn't open doors, tie shoes, take a shower, or even eat without the help of a friend. It was (and still is) an incredibly humbling experience, one that taught me a lot about pride, humbleness, and yes, being grateful for my hands.
As I type this, completely overjoyed that I have six available fingers to use, it's now hard for me to think of any aspect of my life that wasn't affected by this injury. I could try to pull some kind of deeper meaning out of this whole incident, and it might work. But really, I don't think I need to. Because I went a week without my hands. It wasn't easy. And I never want to do it again.
But on the other hand, if I take as much out of it as I hope to, maybe I'm glad it happened.
Anchoring guests on IWU's rock wall is pretty much routine for me at this point. I did it all of last summer, some during the school year, and then again this summer. The process is pretty simple: You climb with a rope hooked to you and I stand on the ground holding the other end. If you fall, my weight keeps you in place.
At least, that's how it's supposed to work.
A week ago today, I was belaying my first climber of the night. Everything was, as is always said before something bad happens, going normally until he fell. Still, normal. I've caught my fair share of overly ambitious climbers.
But this guy was different. Partially because he was probably about twice my weight. But mostly because when he fell, as often happens, he didn't stop.
For reasons I, nor any of the other people at the wall that day can explain, he kept falling. I tried to hold on to the rope to slow his descent, but it just kept rushing through my hands. When he landed, perfectly and miraculously unharmed, I realized my hands felt like they were on fire.
So all of that left me with two stubs for hands and enough painkillers to knock out a charging rhino. I was stuck like that. I couldn't open doors, tie shoes, take a shower, or even eat without the help of a friend. It was (and still is) an incredibly humbling experience, one that taught me a lot about pride, humbleness, and yes, being grateful for my hands.
But on the other hand, if I take as much out of it as I hope to, maybe I'm glad it happened.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Turning points
If my life to this point was a movie, this weekend would have been the climax.
It had a little bit of everything. Romance, drama, mystery; a whole lotta comedy. It even had a wedding.
But life's no movie. There is no climax. Just a bunch of scenes.
Far too often, we treat life like something we see in a theater. We watch the tear-jerking weddings and settle for the words "happily ever after" as the happy couple rides off into the sunset and the credits roll.
But the reality is that life doesn't just fade away into ambiguous and eternal Joy after that climatic event. You've heard during hard times that the sun will always come out tomorrow. Well that goes the same for the good times too.
My own personal view of this was shattered after reading the book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. It was written by Donald Miller. I honestly don't remember much of it. But the main thing I did get out of it was that life doesn't have a specific turning point that you just know is the biggest moment of your life while it is happening. And even if you do find yourself in moments like that, there is always more life to live tomorrow, when that moment will not much more than a memory.
At first I was depressed at this conclusion. Kind of still am I guess. It makes the big moments in life seem not so big. But at the same time, it gives so much more value to the times of our lives that we may be tempting to label as unimportant and insignificant. Sometimes I just want to fastforward my life to times that I can only dream about, but remembering this important lesson will make me appreciate the here and now more.
It had a little bit of everything. Romance, drama, mystery; a whole lotta comedy. It even had a wedding.
But life's no movie. There is no climax. Just a bunch of scenes.
Far too often, we treat life like something we see in a theater. We watch the tear-jerking weddings and settle for the words "happily ever after" as the happy couple rides off into the sunset and the credits roll.
But the reality is that life doesn't just fade away into ambiguous and eternal Joy after that climatic event. You've heard during hard times that the sun will always come out tomorrow. Well that goes the same for the good times too.
My own personal view of this was shattered after reading the book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. It was written by Donald Miller. I honestly don't remember much of it. But the main thing I did get out of it was that life doesn't have a specific turning point that you just know is the biggest moment of your life while it is happening. And even if you do find yourself in moments like that, there is always more life to live tomorrow, when that moment will not much more than a memory.
At first I was depressed at this conclusion. Kind of still am I guess. It makes the big moments in life seem not so big. But at the same time, it gives so much more value to the times of our lives that we may be tempting to label as unimportant and insignificant. Sometimes I just want to fastforward my life to times that I can only dream about, but remembering this important lesson will make me appreciate the here and now more.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Eat the rainbows last
When I was a kid, I had a very specific way of eating cereal. Lucky Charms in particular. When partaking of this glorious breakfasty treat, I always picked around the marshmallows, taking care of the good, but not great cereal bits. While of course, this was complete torture for the first five minutes of breakfast, my patience paid off at the bottom of the bowl when I enjoyed spoonful after sugary spoonful of hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers, and blue moons, hourglasses, rainbows, and tasty red balloons! And you always have to eat the rainbows last. Because they're the best.
Who am I kidding? I still do this. But in the year 2012, this is almost an outdated way of breakfasting, as you can apparently skip the nuisance of picking around the cereal by getting hundred-dollar bags of just marshmallows.
So much win.
But, setting aside my childhood eating habits, this ritual now makes me think about the difference between saving the best for last and getting your priorities in order. I'll admit this analogy is a stretch, but sometimes there is a fine line we have to walk there. Delaying gratification is a skill more need to have these days, but in some instances, why would you ever put anything above what matters most?
I never realized how much you have to make these decisions on a daily basis until recently. No matter what you're doing, you're choosing it over something else; you're saying that is more important than something else. Being fully aware of these decisions and what they mean helps to show you and those around you what you really care about, and helps you make better decisions yourself.
For the last year or so, I've been on a kick about being intentional. I believe everything I do should have a specific and purposeful reason for it. And when it comes to priorities, I want to be intentional about mine and make sure they're crystal clear.
But when it comes to Lucky Charms, I'll still eat the rainbows last.
Who am I kidding? I still do this. But in the year 2012, this is almost an outdated way of breakfasting, as you can apparently skip the nuisance of picking around the cereal by getting hundred-dollar bags of just marshmallows.
So much win.
But, setting aside my childhood eating habits, this ritual now makes me think about the difference between saving the best for last and getting your priorities in order. I'll admit this analogy is a stretch, but sometimes there is a fine line we have to walk there. Delaying gratification is a skill more need to have these days, but in some instances, why would you ever put anything above what matters most?
I never realized how much you have to make these decisions on a daily basis until recently. No matter what you're doing, you're choosing it over something else; you're saying that is more important than something else. Being fully aware of these decisions and what they mean helps to show you and those around you what you really care about, and helps you make better decisions yourself.
For the last year or so, I've been on a kick about being intentional. I believe everything I do should have a specific and purposeful reason for it. And when it comes to priorities, I want to be intentional about mine and make sure they're crystal clear.
But when it comes to Lucky Charms, I'll still eat the rainbows last.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
The best you've got
Austen Timm had one more chance.
Timm waited for his signal to go. He was competing in the men's high jump finals at the 2012 NAIA National Track and Field Championships at Indiana Wesleyan University. Eight competitors remained as the bar was raised to 2.08 meters; Timm's career best was 2.11.
His first two attempts came up short, giving the jumper from Point Loma Nazarene University one last shot to make it to the next round.
Rain started to fall just before the official called his name. By the time he got the green light it had turned into a steady drip.
Facing a do-or-die situation, Timm began his approach. His steps became longer with each stride, until he planted his foot to jump and heard a sound he will probably remember the rest of his life.
Timm's foot slipped and scrapped against the pavement as he flew into the bar with a jump that might not have even cleared one meter. He was done, finished, out of the competition because of little lapse in friction.
And he was a senior.
Timm sat on the padding. Maybe he was wondering what happened. Maybe his career was flashing before his eyes. Maybe he was cursing the shoe company. But no matter what he was thinking, he knew that his career had just ended.
Call me crazy, but as I watched this sad scene unfold, I couldn't help but feel sorry for this complete stranger. The look in his eyes as he hopped off the padding and walked away for the last time was painful to look at. He ripped off his green jersey and trotted into the empty field as the rain continued to fall.
As sobering as this was, I also knew that Timm should be grateful for at least part of his situation. At least he knew that was his last jump. Because while yes, that knowledge made the moment a terrible one, it's a lot better than not knowing at all. Despite the unfortunate slip that ended his career, he was still able to give everything he had to his last jump, and could quickly enjoy the closure of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was over.
How many things happen in life that we don't get to know it was the last time?
I think back to friends who recently graduated from college. Those few days during finals probably marked the last time I will ever see most of them. Sad, right? Yes, but I never knew when exactly that moment was. And who knows? I still might see them at some point, so there's a certain level of uncertainty there. And I'll probably never know when my last article will be.
For me, I enjoy a good game of sand volleyball as much as anything. And someday I'll play my last match (hopefully not for a long time), but there won't be a definite time that happens. Someday after that I'll probably look back and try to remember the last time I played, realizing it was my last game. I'll also think about what I would have done differently had I known. Flip that around to when you do know something's coming to an end, and it's easy to see the difference; there's a lot less chance for regret.
No matter if we're talking about volleyball or time with loved ones, there are an unlimited number of life events and interactions that have an ambiguous expiration date on them. The worst part is not knowing when that date is. Because then you can't give your every last bit to it. And I mean really, giving it all you've got.
So what did I take from watching this? Surely not some overused cliche about always giving your all because you never want to look back and wonder "what if?"
But then again, what's wrong with that?
Timm waited for his signal to go. He was competing in the men's high jump finals at the 2012 NAIA National Track and Field Championships at Indiana Wesleyan University. Eight competitors remained as the bar was raised to 2.08 meters; Timm's career best was 2.11.
His first two attempts came up short, giving the jumper from Point Loma Nazarene University one last shot to make it to the next round.
Rain started to fall just before the official called his name. By the time he got the green light it had turned into a steady drip.
Facing a do-or-die situation, Timm began his approach. His steps became longer with each stride, until he planted his foot to jump and heard a sound he will probably remember the rest of his life.
Timm's foot slipped and scrapped against the pavement as he flew into the bar with a jump that might not have even cleared one meter. He was done, finished, out of the competition because of little lapse in friction.
And he was a senior.
Timm sat on the padding. Maybe he was wondering what happened. Maybe his career was flashing before his eyes. Maybe he was cursing the shoe company. But no matter what he was thinking, he knew that his career had just ended.
Call me crazy, but as I watched this sad scene unfold, I couldn't help but feel sorry for this complete stranger. The look in his eyes as he hopped off the padding and walked away for the last time was painful to look at. He ripped off his green jersey and trotted into the empty field as the rain continued to fall.
As sobering as this was, I also knew that Timm should be grateful for at least part of his situation. At least he knew that was his last jump. Because while yes, that knowledge made the moment a terrible one, it's a lot better than not knowing at all. Despite the unfortunate slip that ended his career, he was still able to give everything he had to his last jump, and could quickly enjoy the closure of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was over.
How many things happen in life that we don't get to know it was the last time?
I think back to friends who recently graduated from college. Those few days during finals probably marked the last time I will ever see most of them. Sad, right? Yes, but I never knew when exactly that moment was. And who knows? I still might see them at some point, so there's a certain level of uncertainty there. And I'll probably never know when my last article will be.
For me, I enjoy a good game of sand volleyball as much as anything. And someday I'll play my last match (hopefully not for a long time), but there won't be a definite time that happens. Someday after that I'll probably look back and try to remember the last time I played, realizing it was my last game. I'll also think about what I would have done differently had I known. Flip that around to when you do know something's coming to an end, and it's easy to see the difference; there's a lot less chance for regret.
No matter if we're talking about volleyball or time with loved ones, there are an unlimited number of life events and interactions that have an ambiguous expiration date on them. The worst part is not knowing when that date is. Because then you can't give your every last bit to it. And I mean really, giving it all you've got.
So what did I take from watching this? Surely not some overused cliche about always giving your all because you never want to look back and wonder "what if?"
But then again, what's wrong with that?
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