It’s beginning to occur to me that I have no story. I’m just constant retelling of the kindness and grace washed over me. My skin is filled with paragraphs and poems of fleeting beauty I take home from my short jaunts outside my door. I bring home memories. I drink them and they swirl in my stomach for a good, long time. In blank moments, they come to me, ask me questions, give me answers. They create new things for me.
Weird. I’d see things as new. Every single time. Must be a glitch in my brain. As of this moment, I’m beginning to suspect I’m a good candidate for dementia. Everything is so close and everything is out of my grasp. Everything is fast, and everything is slow. Everything is jumpy and everything is tedious at the same time.
I think of myself of just a specter gazing into the moving world. There, but not really there, inside the mosh pit where the action happens. I’m just sitting here, watching the world burn its fingers and say ouch. Or celebrate its glorious moments. I see it happen, sometimes a bit more ahead, a bit wary of the future, maybe even paranoid at the things to come. Thank you, GAD. Not.
Papa says we’re just vessels, anyway.
But of course, there are days when I wonder where am I in this world, if I’m doing what I’m supposed to, if I’m not pushing hard enough. I’d ask myself, where should I go, is there any other place for me, are there parts of me that need to be tapped so I can bloom into a bigger tree, maybe one different than I expected? Am I wrong in just being here? Should I be running instead of sitting? Jumping instead of walking? Bleeding instead of being cushioned by comfort? Is this enough?
The Rule of 3
I’d always pick up this parable when it comes to service. Which I made, by the way. I’m just not sure if I’m the only one. So, back the topic: numbers. I hate numbers. But things need to be measured; it’s important to know the distance you’ve run or the length you still need to cover. You want to know how heavy your basket is, or how much more you need to be satisfied. Numbers are hard, but numbers are important.
Now, back to the rambling.
I’d always consider myself a 3. Out of 10, on an average. Like, I’m not good at anything. I don’t even commit myself to anything (except for writing, which is why I’m doing this). I draw, but I’m mediocre at it (compared to my AMAZING artist friends who are just smashing it). I write, but I’m probably mediocre at it, although this part is something I know I can learn, because this is my first love. I write songs, also mediocre. Sing, but mediocre. Write poetry, but mediocre. Play the piano, less than mediocre; my grade’s probably .08. That bad.
Overall, I’m ho-hum, so-so, bleh kind of a human being.
But the thing is, I’d give all of my bleh-ness. My talents may be dusty and mossy and probably have tiny spiders crawling on them, but I’m putting them out, hopefully for some good use not just for me, but for others as well. Because God didn’t ask for my 10. He asked for my all. And all I have is 3.
So, I’m giving Him my 3.
If you’re reading this, and you’re feeling so-so, mediocre, not above average, just floating in the limbo of mediocrity, you’re not alone. I’m also that bad. We probably know a lot of things and don’t actually excel in all of them, but it doesn’t matter.