Coming and Going
Does it ever feel like you meet yourself coming and going? This week’s been like that.
One of the sad realities of life is that you simply can’t be two places at once. Most of the time we can avoid facing that truth. We’ve got text messaging and cell phones and email and video cameras and who knows what else we’ll invent to help us pretend to be omnipresent?
But every so often the illusion breaks down. Like this weekend for us.
Our daughter, Kyan, graduates from Azusa Pacific University Saturday evening. It’s a big deal for us, as you might guess. Family has come in from Illinois to Atlanta to help us celebrate. Should be fun.
But another great thing is also happening the same day. Kurt, our youngest son, is an excellent soccer player competing in the elite division for our state. His team, due to some incredible soccer last weekend, is now among the top four teams competing for the State Cup.
His semifinal game? You guessed it: Saturday. Kyan’s big event is in California; Kurt’s is in Arizona. Kyan’s is at 6:00; Kurt’s is at 4:00.
Adding insult to injury is this fact: until Wednesday we thought Kurt’s game was at 10:00. We’d made arrangements to go to the game and fly as a family to Kyan’s graduation only to discover five minutes after reservations were made that the game time had been changed.
We went from elation at our ability to virtually be in two places at once, to depression at the fact that Kurt was going to have to miss his sister’s graduation, and Mom & Dad were going to have to miss Kurt’s big game.
I know, in the broad scheme of things it’s not the end of the world, but still, as a parent you want to be there for your kids. You live and die by their ups and downs.
I read in the paper this morning and interesting quote from Raja Bell of the Phoenix Suns. He, as you may know, had to serve a one game suspension for a retaliatory foul he “administered” to Kobe Bryant in Tuesday’s game. As a result, he had to watch his teammates fight for their basketball lives without him.
Bell said about last night’s overtime win, “It was amazing. It was kind of surreal. I don’t have kids so this is the proudest I’ve ever been. I’m struggling for words. That was big time. I’m more emotionally drained than if I had played the game.”
Raja’s right. Super highs and deep lows come with parenting. This weekend our kids celebrate some huge accomplishments. We wish we could be there for both of them on their big days, for, for both of them, this represents the apex of their lives to this point.
But we can’t. We’re not omnipresent.
Why do we crave omnipresence so much? We’re just creatures, bound to space and time. You’d think we’d accept that. But we don’t. We want it all – now.
No wonder we’re so stressed. I’m stressed even as I write this. I’m trying to complete it because I have a “To Do” list longer than the hours in the day. Chances are you do, too. You even feel guilty for taking the time to read my dawdling dribble.
I don’t think we were meant to live under that kind of pressure. We can’t be in two places at once. We’re not God. We can pretend to be, long to by, try to be, but we’re not. At the end of the day, we’re his dearly loved children playing out our lives under his loving, omnipresent eye. And that’s a good thing.
Under the frenetic pace of our lives we are in danger of becoming human “doings” rather than human “beings.” We weren’t designed to merely do, but to truly “be.” And if all we ever do is “do” we never have time to “be.”
I can’t resist the obvious allusion: “To be, or not to be; that is the question.” Here’s my answer: I’ll try to embrace my humanness with its limitations. I’ll try to “be” fully present in each moment of my day – not thinking or worrying about what I can’t be or do. I’ll take time today and tomorrow to sit and do nothing. To enjoy being alive. To love some people and enjoy their presence. To listen to the birds sing.
Which reminds me of a little poem my childhood pastor, Marvin Price, was fond of quoting and which I’ve always remembered and which I’ll close with at the end of this run-on sentence – just because I can and you can’t make me stop:
Said the Robin to the Sparrow,
“I should really like to know
Why these anxious human beings rush about and worry so.”
Said the Sparrow to the Robin,
“Friend I think that it must be
That they have no Heavenly Father such as cares for you and me”
One of the sad realities of life is that you simply can’t be two places at once. Most of the time we can avoid facing that truth. We’ve got text messaging and cell phones and email and video cameras and who knows what else we’ll invent to help us pretend to be omnipresent?
But every so often the illusion breaks down. Like this weekend for us.
Our daughter, Kyan, graduates from Azusa Pacific University Saturday evening. It’s a big deal for us, as you might guess. Family has come in from Illinois to Atlanta to help us celebrate. Should be fun.
But another great thing is also happening the same day. Kurt, our youngest son, is an excellent soccer player competing in the elite division for our state. His team, due to some incredible soccer last weekend, is now among the top four teams competing for the State Cup.
His semifinal game? You guessed it: Saturday. Kyan’s big event is in California; Kurt’s is in Arizona. Kyan’s is at 6:00; Kurt’s is at 4:00.
Adding insult to injury is this fact: until Wednesday we thought Kurt’s game was at 10:00. We’d made arrangements to go to the game and fly as a family to Kyan’s graduation only to discover five minutes after reservations were made that the game time had been changed.
We went from elation at our ability to virtually be in two places at once, to depression at the fact that Kurt was going to have to miss his sister’s graduation, and Mom & Dad were going to have to miss Kurt’s big game.
I know, in the broad scheme of things it’s not the end of the world, but still, as a parent you want to be there for your kids. You live and die by their ups and downs.
I read in the paper this morning and interesting quote from Raja Bell of the Phoenix Suns. He, as you may know, had to serve a one game suspension for a retaliatory foul he “administered” to Kobe Bryant in Tuesday’s game. As a result, he had to watch his teammates fight for their basketball lives without him.
Bell said about last night’s overtime win, “It was amazing. It was kind of surreal. I don’t have kids so this is the proudest I’ve ever been. I’m struggling for words. That was big time. I’m more emotionally drained than if I had played the game.”
Raja’s right. Super highs and deep lows come with parenting. This weekend our kids celebrate some huge accomplishments. We wish we could be there for both of them on their big days, for, for both of them, this represents the apex of their lives to this point.
But we can’t. We’re not omnipresent.
Why do we crave omnipresence so much? We’re just creatures, bound to space and time. You’d think we’d accept that. But we don’t. We want it all – now.
No wonder we’re so stressed. I’m stressed even as I write this. I’m trying to complete it because I have a “To Do” list longer than the hours in the day. Chances are you do, too. You even feel guilty for taking the time to read my dawdling dribble.
I don’t think we were meant to live under that kind of pressure. We can’t be in two places at once. We’re not God. We can pretend to be, long to by, try to be, but we’re not. At the end of the day, we’re his dearly loved children playing out our lives under his loving, omnipresent eye. And that’s a good thing.
Under the frenetic pace of our lives we are in danger of becoming human “doings” rather than human “beings.” We weren’t designed to merely do, but to truly “be.” And if all we ever do is “do” we never have time to “be.”
I can’t resist the obvious allusion: “To be, or not to be; that is the question.” Here’s my answer: I’ll try to embrace my humanness with its limitations. I’ll try to “be” fully present in each moment of my day – not thinking or worrying about what I can’t be or do. I’ll take time today and tomorrow to sit and do nothing. To enjoy being alive. To love some people and enjoy their presence. To listen to the birds sing.
Which reminds me of a little poem my childhood pastor, Marvin Price, was fond of quoting and which I’ve always remembered and which I’ll close with at the end of this run-on sentence – just because I can and you can’t make me stop:
Said the Robin to the Sparrow,
“I should really like to know
Why these anxious human beings rush about and worry so.”
Said the Sparrow to the Robin,
“Friend I think that it must be
That they have no Heavenly Father such as cares for you and me”