My recent reticence is a byproduct of a constant state of busy-ness, combined with a gnawing sense of inadequacy - that I am not enough, that there is not enough of me to go around. I am empty and depleted and it just didn't seem like good blog fodder to come out here and proclaim my self-pity.
Except.
Maybe - just maybe - I'm not the only person who ever feels this way.
I've been listening to Andy Stanley's current message series, titled "Ask It". Well, that's not entirely true. I listened to the first two installments of the series, which pissed me off to the point that I'm not ready yet to hear the last four.
The messages are centered around a simple question to ask ourselves in relation to all decisions, big ones or small ones. Decisions like - should I buy that, should I do this, should I eat that, should I go there, should I say that, should I...you get the gist here. All decisions.
The simple question is this:
"In light of my past experience,
present circumstances,
and future hopes and dreams,
what is the wise thing to do?"
Not the "good" thing, or the "right" thing - what is the WISE thing to do?
At face value, it's an innocuous and reasonable question, one that frames a sound decision-making process. I understand how the question works - I am not confused by it. If I'm honest with myself, I am pretty sure that I generally know what the WISE choice would be in most decisions.
I am irritated about this question because I am cross with myself and with Pastor Smartypants for shining a giant ugly spotlight on the frequency with which I intentionally choose the unwise over the wise.
Returning to my aforementioned maudlin state of mind, it makes me even crankier to realize that much of my funk is my own handiwork. (Self-pity is a heckuva lot easier to embrace and camp out in when you can claim victimhood.)
In fairness, my decisions are a tad less unwise than in prior seasons of my life, where chaos, debt collection and relationship disasters were familiar companions. I chalked much of it up to bad luck and other people's meanness - much easier than eyeballing myself in the mirror and calling a spade a spade.
But being older and wiser doesn't automatically infer the application of wisdom, and like sin, it can be argued that there really aren't degrees of wisdom. You either choose the wise answer - or you don't. And waffling is pointless - as Geddy Lee once put it, "if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice".
So I am faced with some hard truth here. I choose to eat poorly, dodge exercise, procrastinate, watch crap on TV, stay up too late, use words like "crap" and "pissed off" and other off-color language, waste time, take on too much, beat myself up for taking on too much, and feel guilty for all my poor choices, big or small. No wonder I am blue.
As if exposing the question wasn't bad enough, Stanley goes on to explore the facts that King Solomon laid out in Proverbs, circa 970 B.C. That's three thousand years ago, people. Yet Solomon's teaching is both relevant and clear - you're either wise, or you're a fool. Not sort of a fool, or a little bit foolish - a fool who actively chooses his/her folly.
I don't want to be a fool.
This is the part of the blog post where I'm supposed to turn the corner and realize the error of my ways and cheerfully commit to a day, a week, a life of good and wise choices henceforth.
But in light of my past experience, current circumstances and future hopes and dreams, it would be unwise for me to lie to myself or to you, my patient friends. It would be unwise for me to make such a commitment because I would be setting myself up for failure before I hit the "publish" button...thereby perpetuating a stale old cycle of defeat and despair.
What I can do, however, and what appears to be the wise conclusion is this: just for today - and maybe only for the next hour - I can be honest with myself about each decision, big or small. I can choose the wise or the unwise answer, but I can't really claim that I don't know the difference, or that I don't have a choice. We always have a choice.
And as odd as it may sound - that, my friends, is good news.
1 comment:
Love this, and needed to hear it. Perhaps, over and over and over again. Love you, friend.
Post a Comment