A cacophony of bouquets stretched around the foyer, burdening the air with a perfume nearly as oppressive as the silence that choked the crowd. They waited. He shuffled. His black—the one appropriate aspect of his wardrobe—t-shirt swallowed the teen, while his jeans draped around his knees, constrained only by three silver chains. He glanced to the coffin on his right, reaching to support himself on the nearest corner. He wanted to do this. He had to do this.
“Mom…” the quiet croak trailed off. He cleared his throat, and began his tribute again. “She loved people—kids, especially. She said she was never sorry she had me, even after dad left. She had always been so happy—so free and vibrant. Her kids in the 6th and 7th (down at the middle school) just loved her. She made science so interesting for them.”
He hesitated before plunging, unrestrained, into the past. “Sometimes, though, she got frustrated. She always hated it she wasn’t able to answer a serious question for a student; she really wanted the child to be able know, and to be satisfied. I guess she didn’t know either.
“Once I was helping her sort through the grading at the kitchen table. She was depressed again that night; she was that way a lot over the last two years. Mom had always been so upbeat--almost never negative. Except for those times…they should have scared me more. I should have seen…
He trailed off, chin tucked and shoulders hunched, wracked with silent sobs. Remembering his mission, he mustered his composure and continued.
“One night, she picked up a test from a 6th grader and asked me to listen to the essay answer he had written:
‘Evolution is why we are here. It’s seems like a pretty big chance that Chance took, but here we are. A whole lot of molecules made of—well, I’m not sure what—all put together. We humans are really neat, but basically the same thing as rocks or animals. We’re all made of the same things. I guess that’s why my mom says that abortions are okay, because it’s just tissue. I guess I’m just tissue, too, if we’re the same thing. I just hope she wants to keep me.’
“She was devastated. I wasn’t sure what to say—I knew what she taught the kids. So did she; but she also taught them to take care of themselves and others, to be kind, to promote peace, to fight hunger. Mom was the ultimate humanitarian—she couldn’t stand to see wrong. The other teachers teased her about being “cop Destiny.” I remember, shortly after that, coming in during the evening news. She looked up and hit the power button on the remote, and just sat staring at the TV. She wanted to know why there was so much violence. I couldn’t answer; but she wasn’t really asking me. She just kept rambling on about how we were only here by chance, how we were only atoms and molecules, how science was the only thing she could trust, how…and then she just stopped and looked at me. For the first time, she really looked at me, and she said, “I guess, Nick, I guess that’s how it has to be. All this stuff on TV is just, well, the natural outcome—not bad, not good…just the will of the universe. I don’t have a choice. No one does.”
“I remember wondering about her beloved science. She always loved to measure things, to look at them through the microscope. I wanted to ask her how many atoms were in thoughts and abstract reasoning, like in the plane Geometry I love so much. She would have thought I was being impertinent, so I didn’t. But I wondered. I wanted to ask her why she scolded the kids for being bad at home (though there weren’t rules there--it was just bad) when she said rules were entirely invented by authorities. She didn’t like the TV reports about foreign cannibalism and other similar atrocities, but she always told me that other people could follow the customs and rules in their environment.
“Mom wanted me to go to Sunday school. She tried; she really did. She wanted me to be “nice.” I tried—sorta. I knew if I complained about the stories of those weird supernatural things they’re always claiming Jesus did, she would let me out. Mom always told me that miracles and fairytales were nice, and creative, but absolutely, unequivocally, inconceivable. After I turned fifteen, I asked her why she didn’t believe in them. She asked me what I had learned about the universe in school—what it was made of. I told her, ‘Basically, matter.’
“‘Right,’ she nodded. ‘So, if something is supernatural, it’s outside of what is made of atoms and molecules, and what science can measure. There is nothing outside of that—you can’t find it. You can’t feel it-touch it-see it. That’s why, honey.’
“At that moment, I knew why Mom always said there was no real “God,” even though she said church was nice and could help people. He didn’t fit inside our—well, our universe. He couldn’t be part of it, if her were all they say He is. Obviously, since there is nothing outside it, he couldn’t be there, unless of course, he were nothing. So there he is. Nothing.
“I know why. I know why mom is caged up in that coffin—yea, I know the mortician said a gunshot wound. But that’s not why. She died of a broken heart. She burst. She had questions, she had her answers. Her answers weren’t good enough.
“She told me once that if we didn’t have a choice, it was meaningless. We can’t make a difference—human have no purpose, because they cannot make a choice to change a determined world. They are really no different than the world by which they are determined. Just matter. Why would she waste her time trying to make a difference in little lives that would never be able to make a difference? Just matter.
“So she quit. That’s all. Just quit. She was destined to go. The atoms just changed format. So here we are. Here I am. I might as well go too…if she was right. I hope she wasn’t. She couldn’t have been.”
Mar 20, 2010
Only What I Am
Oh, you humor me! If you only knew the tremendous fun I have watching you! How could you know? Ah, but in your complacent arrogance you think you know! Oh, must I spoil the fun and actually tell you? Yet, I suppose I must pity your ignorance and enlighten you—none too eagerly, though, I assure you. Let me tell you what I am—or perhaps, simply what I am not.
I offer this suggestion: what I am—or what I am not—has very much to do with you. Your perspective, your commitment, your depth—these will all determine your ability to recognize me as what I am truly meant to be.
Perhaps you find me to be an artistic sculpture. So you have discovered beauty in my varnished wood, fibered accessories and delicate symmetry, eh? Bless your heart, how kind of you!—but I’m afraid you’ve missed it. Would you care to try again? … Ah, so now I am an equation, a science to be studied? What have you found in your study of airflow, resonance, and acoustics? How dare you reduce me to mere figures, charts and measurable elements! For this, I despise your ignorance and rise to defend my case. Let us continue.
How is it that I am misused; can it be that you do not understand my purpose? It seems that to some I am, at the very least, an insignificant plaything; at the most, I have been consigned to hobby-hood! These nonchalantly attempt to imitate what only a few have mastered. My true potential is insulted by this breed of feeble motivation. Shall your ignorance drive you back—back into the milling masses of wretched oblivion? Disgruntled and misinformed, you will never have had the chance to know what I truly am. Wait! First I must tell you of a favored few. Hear me, one more time.
Few grasp truth. But it is the understanding in their hearts that has unveiled my secret. True understanding inspires devotion. This devotion, birthing dedication, shall finally coerce from me my finest gift—true music. It is only to these faithful mavericks that I become beauty, art… passion.
I plead for more. Oh for those to perceive me as I long to be. More that would know me for what I truly am. That is simply this: the expression of worship. My material aspects are only means to create a spiritual medium. Let me reach my full potential. Let me be the expression of some soul; let me be the gift to bless the ears of God. It is excelling in the arms of vibrant worship that I will truly be what I am…
a violin.
I offer this suggestion: what I am—or what I am not—has very much to do with you. Your perspective, your commitment, your depth—these will all determine your ability to recognize me as what I am truly meant to be.
Perhaps you find me to be an artistic sculpture. So you have discovered beauty in my varnished wood, fibered accessories and delicate symmetry, eh? Bless your heart, how kind of you!—but I’m afraid you’ve missed it. Would you care to try again? … Ah, so now I am an equation, a science to be studied? What have you found in your study of airflow, resonance, and acoustics? How dare you reduce me to mere figures, charts and measurable elements! For this, I despise your ignorance and rise to defend my case. Let us continue.
How is it that I am misused; can it be that you do not understand my purpose? It seems that to some I am, at the very least, an insignificant plaything; at the most, I have been consigned to hobby-hood! These nonchalantly attempt to imitate what only a few have mastered. My true potential is insulted by this breed of feeble motivation. Shall your ignorance drive you back—back into the milling masses of wretched oblivion? Disgruntled and misinformed, you will never have had the chance to know what I truly am. Wait! First I must tell you of a favored few. Hear me, one more time.
Few grasp truth. But it is the understanding in their hearts that has unveiled my secret. True understanding inspires devotion. This devotion, birthing dedication, shall finally coerce from me my finest gift—true music. It is only to these faithful mavericks that I become beauty, art… passion.
I plead for more. Oh for those to perceive me as I long to be. More that would know me for what I truly am. That is simply this: the expression of worship. My material aspects are only means to create a spiritual medium. Let me reach my full potential. Let me be the expression of some soul; let me be the gift to bless the ears of God. It is excelling in the arms of vibrant worship that I will truly be what I am…
a violin.
And She Dances
She does not hesitate. The stately waltz accompanies her regal step onto the marble. The array of imitation-porcelain faces around her slows in confusion, but swirls on. She does not rush or falter; each step exudes grace and purpose. Wearers of every color and texture of ostentation sweep around her and wonder at her lonely simplicity. Shrouded in white chiffon, she would certainly require a partner of unusual taste. But they see no such one in her arms. She appears alone. Beguiling a shifty cavalier such as those commonly found in the clutches of a well-painted woman would be a difficult task for a countenance of such striking purity. They smirk and wonder in their befuddlement.
And she dances.
One slender silhouette interrupts the flood of moonlight as she rises from atop the granite tombstone and nestles her scarlet slippers into the mossy carpet. She is welcomed by long rows of silent memorials as she bows her head. For one moment, all is as still as if the midnight graveyard had no visitor. The form is poised and tense. Suddenly, black satin blurs as her entire figure catapults into pulsating rhythm. She does not sing, but every throbbing measure is the impulse of her passion. The dead know not this fiery song, nor can they feel the furious cadence through their mossy roof. This is the gift only of the living.
And she dances.
Intensity is the hallmark of true life. Some may be called to dance before the hollow ceramic statues that pride themselves upon having achieved all that can be gained. Others are compelled to dance in the stillness of obscurity. It matters not.
She is oblivious to it all. Neither the hypocrisy of the living dead nor the despair of the hopeless can divide her devotion. She cannot relinquish the Source of her Song. Her eyes never leave the one who holds her through every dance. For her, there shall never be another, for he is the one True Life.
And she dances.
Endnote of Explanation:
The dancer is simply an analogous depiction of the Christian walking in daily life. Her situation varies: sometimes she is among crowds of expecting, demanding worldlings that do not understand her. Other times, she is very much alone. Whatever her state, and whatever the time, mood, or tone of her life (the music, so to speak), one thing does remain the same. She dances with intense fervency, for her goal is to please that one same Source, the same partner, through every Song she dances. He is the only one Whose opinion really matters, the only One who can give her music and Life. Jesus Christ.
And she dances.
One slender silhouette interrupts the flood of moonlight as she rises from atop the granite tombstone and nestles her scarlet slippers into the mossy carpet. She is welcomed by long rows of silent memorials as she bows her head. For one moment, all is as still as if the midnight graveyard had no visitor. The form is poised and tense. Suddenly, black satin blurs as her entire figure catapults into pulsating rhythm. She does not sing, but every throbbing measure is the impulse of her passion. The dead know not this fiery song, nor can they feel the furious cadence through their mossy roof. This is the gift only of the living.
And she dances.
Intensity is the hallmark of true life. Some may be called to dance before the hollow ceramic statues that pride themselves upon having achieved all that can be gained. Others are compelled to dance in the stillness of obscurity. It matters not.
She is oblivious to it all. Neither the hypocrisy of the living dead nor the despair of the hopeless can divide her devotion. She cannot relinquish the Source of her Song. Her eyes never leave the one who holds her through every dance. For her, there shall never be another, for he is the one True Life.
And she dances.
Endnote of Explanation:
The dancer is simply an analogous depiction of the Christian walking in daily life. Her situation varies: sometimes she is among crowds of expecting, demanding worldlings that do not understand her. Other times, she is very much alone. Whatever her state, and whatever the time, mood, or tone of her life (the music, so to speak), one thing does remain the same. She dances with intense fervency, for her goal is to please that one same Source, the same partner, through every Song she dances. He is the only one Whose opinion really matters, the only One who can give her music and Life. Jesus Christ.
Love Has Come
You—do you see me through the frosted glass? Listen to me, if you can hear me above this blizzard. Yes, I am trapped in an anguished isolation, but my world was not always confined to this.
I was young once. Free—once. The impish, curly-haired elf that used to be me could giggle, dance and dream—free to be herself! She was never concerned with the complicated arenas of the kosher or expected. She knew not the agony of this frigid sphere that has become my home.
That era is dead, frozen stiff by the despairing winds that mock me…that mock my search. Awaking to a larger world has revealed that individuality is shunned. Tolerance is extended only to conformists. I have come to accept this bitter reality: only the valuable and loveable are accepted.
And so I sought. If I were to finally attain significance and—Oh, blessed thought!—love, it seemed that I must first be accepted. These are goals worthy of sacrifice. So my quest became an altar, upon which I was to brutally massacre my own freedom. There I slew my expression, my personality, my dreams, my gifts—and, indeed, every aspect of my life that would not oblige that faceless mass I so desperately wished to please.
This icy world was once a warm haven! This orb was my answer, the means to obtain significance and love. My friends, herein lies my tragedy. Who I am is now defined by this arctic sphere. I have relinquished myself to the currents of social consensus. This world now limits the extent of my self—the debris scattered about these walls of ice testifies to all I have lost. I have truly lost; an exchange never occurred. I have been jilted by a lie.
Alas, but now I have been enlightened—ha! To call it that is a devilish irony, for I have gained only cynicism and despair from this demon-spawned enlightenment. I embraced bondage to attain acceptance; I failed. Bitter are the instances in which I could not attain the acceptance I fervently sought. More agonizing, however, is the realization that whatever acceptance I have garnered fails to grant me what I truly seek.
Thus is my destiny: a groveling existence within this orb of conformity. I cannot forfeit the shred of significance and imitation-love I have managed to glean; thus, I remain.
Worthless. Unloved.
.......................................
My own world is aloof to me. This ruthless cell makes no concessions to my desperation. Oh, to force through these walls, away from the screaming winds and swirling hopelessness. Leave me now. My saga is ended. I recoil no more. I have resigned to the seeping bitterness of living-death. I am tired—too tired to fight.
As if sensing my surrender, the storm intensifies. Even my stiff eyelids do not protect me from the dazzling white, and the winds seem to moan my name. Mockery. Yet my arm is limp. I cannot shield myself. My name again!
“Let me sleep! Please, only condoling sleep.” But the voice persuades me. Through crystal-crusted eyelashes I search the whiteness. Agitated curtains of snow vacillate to reveal the unthinkable. A grey silhouette—within my world! The storm has no effect upon his confident stride. I try to resist the thought, but I know. Certainly…surely, only Death could posses this strength! He overshadows my huddled bundle of humanity. His outstretched arm pauses, mid-air. I wait, quivering. We are alone—in silence! Nature’s tantrum has been pacified. The storm is no more.
I cannot meet my own dare to gaze above the powerful torso of this unexpected stranger, bristling with armor. Fear wrestles with curiosity. Do I want to see his face? I am compelled by curiosity. Apprehensively, I glance up—only to behold the face of the only stranger whose name I already know.
Perfect Love. I would never have professed to know Him. I could never have painted His portrait—but I know the steely determination of his jaw, the knowing compassion of His eyes, the regal mercy of His smile. My disbelief staggers me, but His bracing hand is quick. I am strengthened by the warmth in His light.
I stutter, stranded in stunned confusion: “What…how…why?—why are you here?” His presence defies all reason and plausibility. No one had ever bounded the icy barricades; no one could. Moreover, I know the law. Nothing is free—particularly Love! I was born neither perfect, nor loveable…and I have described my useless attempts to attain these. The sentence stands: I have no right to call upon Love. I cannot pay.
Yet there He stands, unaffected by the stench of my worthlessness and poverty. Could He know my nakedness? Can He comprehend the pain represented by these streaked scars of rejection and failure? No! Not He.
Around me the snow begins to dance in a gust of returning despair. I am startled, but his knowing gaze reveals what I should have known: that storm was my own, a reflection of my soul. He also knows my cry! My heart wrenches with my cry: “I want to be free—alive! Death to this conformist prison, to these restraints of my quest for freedom! Let me live!”
My eyes widen as He unsheathes a terrible sword. “I offer you this: the Sword of Truth. My mission is of my Father, but your decision determines my success. You may live now, retaining your limited control in your attempts to find freedom. You will die. Or, you may condemn your autonomy, self-dependence and pride to execution, and live.”
I choose…Life. The double-edge pierces my heart, plunging to the very hilt. The lie that holds me writhes as Truth’s voice rings out: “You are the enslaver. You have transgressed. The wage is hell.” The sword withdraws as Love and Truth ring out: “But, my child, I was sent that you may live. My life became the price tag of your soul. You are made in my image. Your value is unimaginable. Everything you are is found in Me.”
My Lie has died, but I rise—yet not I, but Love in me. Now I see His soul! He too has been wounded. As my weeping Savior reaches for the wounds in my chest and back, the diamonds in His palms match perfectly those in my body. His wounds have healed me.
Love takes me by the shoulder to face my world. Spring has come! The hopeless, angry drifts have fled. Something is missing. I turn quizzically, “Lord? …My prison—what has become of it?”
“Daughter,” he smiles, “You have released it. That world of misery was just your clutching to achieve the acceptance of others. You never needed their acceptance. The freedom you have sought has been given you by Truth. You need not search for acceptance, significance or worth. You have all these and more. Love Has Come.”
I was young once. Free—once. The impish, curly-haired elf that used to be me could giggle, dance and dream—free to be herself! She was never concerned with the complicated arenas of the kosher or expected. She knew not the agony of this frigid sphere that has become my home.
That era is dead, frozen stiff by the despairing winds that mock me…that mock my search. Awaking to a larger world has revealed that individuality is shunned. Tolerance is extended only to conformists. I have come to accept this bitter reality: only the valuable and loveable are accepted.
And so I sought. If I were to finally attain significance and—Oh, blessed thought!—love, it seemed that I must first be accepted. These are goals worthy of sacrifice. So my quest became an altar, upon which I was to brutally massacre my own freedom. There I slew my expression, my personality, my dreams, my gifts—and, indeed, every aspect of my life that would not oblige that faceless mass I so desperately wished to please.
This icy world was once a warm haven! This orb was my answer, the means to obtain significance and love. My friends, herein lies my tragedy. Who I am is now defined by this arctic sphere. I have relinquished myself to the currents of social consensus. This world now limits the extent of my self—the debris scattered about these walls of ice testifies to all I have lost. I have truly lost; an exchange never occurred. I have been jilted by a lie.
Alas, but now I have been enlightened—ha! To call it that is a devilish irony, for I have gained only cynicism and despair from this demon-spawned enlightenment. I embraced bondage to attain acceptance; I failed. Bitter are the instances in which I could not attain the acceptance I fervently sought. More agonizing, however, is the realization that whatever acceptance I have garnered fails to grant me what I truly seek.
Thus is my destiny: a groveling existence within this orb of conformity. I cannot forfeit the shred of significance and imitation-love I have managed to glean; thus, I remain.
Worthless. Unloved.
.......................................
My own world is aloof to me. This ruthless cell makes no concessions to my desperation. Oh, to force through these walls, away from the screaming winds and swirling hopelessness. Leave me now. My saga is ended. I recoil no more. I have resigned to the seeping bitterness of living-death. I am tired—too tired to fight.
As if sensing my surrender, the storm intensifies. Even my stiff eyelids do not protect me from the dazzling white, and the winds seem to moan my name. Mockery. Yet my arm is limp. I cannot shield myself. My name again!
“Let me sleep! Please, only condoling sleep.” But the voice persuades me. Through crystal-crusted eyelashes I search the whiteness. Agitated curtains of snow vacillate to reveal the unthinkable. A grey silhouette—within my world! The storm has no effect upon his confident stride. I try to resist the thought, but I know. Certainly…surely, only Death could posses this strength! He overshadows my huddled bundle of humanity. His outstretched arm pauses, mid-air. I wait, quivering. We are alone—in silence! Nature’s tantrum has been pacified. The storm is no more.
I cannot meet my own dare to gaze above the powerful torso of this unexpected stranger, bristling with armor. Fear wrestles with curiosity. Do I want to see his face? I am compelled by curiosity. Apprehensively, I glance up—only to behold the face of the only stranger whose name I already know.
Perfect Love. I would never have professed to know Him. I could never have painted His portrait—but I know the steely determination of his jaw, the knowing compassion of His eyes, the regal mercy of His smile. My disbelief staggers me, but His bracing hand is quick. I am strengthened by the warmth in His light.
I stutter, stranded in stunned confusion: “What…how…why?—why are you here?” His presence defies all reason and plausibility. No one had ever bounded the icy barricades; no one could. Moreover, I know the law. Nothing is free—particularly Love! I was born neither perfect, nor loveable…and I have described my useless attempts to attain these. The sentence stands: I have no right to call upon Love. I cannot pay.
Yet there He stands, unaffected by the stench of my worthlessness and poverty. Could He know my nakedness? Can He comprehend the pain represented by these streaked scars of rejection and failure? No! Not He.
Around me the snow begins to dance in a gust of returning despair. I am startled, but his knowing gaze reveals what I should have known: that storm was my own, a reflection of my soul. He also knows my cry! My heart wrenches with my cry: “I want to be free—alive! Death to this conformist prison, to these restraints of my quest for freedom! Let me live!”
My eyes widen as He unsheathes a terrible sword. “I offer you this: the Sword of Truth. My mission is of my Father, but your decision determines my success. You may live now, retaining your limited control in your attempts to find freedom. You will die. Or, you may condemn your autonomy, self-dependence and pride to execution, and live.”
I choose…Life. The double-edge pierces my heart, plunging to the very hilt. The lie that holds me writhes as Truth’s voice rings out: “You are the enslaver. You have transgressed. The wage is hell.” The sword withdraws as Love and Truth ring out: “But, my child, I was sent that you may live. My life became the price tag of your soul. You are made in my image. Your value is unimaginable. Everything you are is found in Me.”
My Lie has died, but I rise—yet not I, but Love in me. Now I see His soul! He too has been wounded. As my weeping Savior reaches for the wounds in my chest and back, the diamonds in His palms match perfectly those in my body. His wounds have healed me.
Love takes me by the shoulder to face my world. Spring has come! The hopeless, angry drifts have fled. Something is missing. I turn quizzically, “Lord? …My prison—what has become of it?”
“Daughter,” he smiles, “You have released it. That world of misery was just your clutching to achieve the acceptance of others. You never needed their acceptance. The freedom you have sought has been given you by Truth. You need not search for acceptance, significance or worth. You have all these and more. Love Has Come.”
Afraid to Fall
The ice has a deceptive beauty. Her persuasive sheen bids me, “Come!” Yet, as a wary student of experience, I approach her with respectful caution. Not once do my blades graze that frigid glass without the conscious or subconscious renewal of our pact: “Marjorie is upright on the ice. Any failure to maintain this status will result in an encounter on the most familiar of terms.”
Afraid to fall. “Why am I so afraid to fall?!” My questions draw perplexed mutters—“Why not fall? Are you touched in the head!?” Nevertheless, I ponder. Why not? Will falling hurt? Quite possibly. Will I look stupid? Undeniably! Is it weird? Admittedly, falling is frequent enough—joyful anticipation of it is not!
Are these reasons defendable? Some avoid any danger simply because of the possibility of pain or difficulty. Will I abandon the doorway to vivacious living because it is guarded by these stern realities? Or am I willing to attempt a feat that will entail hurt and discomfort? Is there anything worthy of this cost? A particular philosophy makes this claim: “It is ludicrous to go through any discomfort or challenge whose rewards are not comfortable, predictable, and painless.” My fellow theorists, I must confess… I disagree.
To those who avoid all things adverse, I offer my sincerest regrets—you irritate me. Fear not, my disapproval is far from disastrous to your reputation; however, what should concern you is this dangerous, naïve submission to bland familiarity, bored existence and flabby character. Even my callused heart pities you.
Please do not misunderstand: it is not the actual pain or discomfort for which I am clamoring. It is the strength of character produced by the self-motivated discipline and courage that defies its own fears to accept a challenge of pain and inconvenience. This is the insignia of the warrior.
Though my fear may be that of an icy catastrophe, a public performance, or the discomfort of disciplining myself in mind, body, and friendships, I have no right to shun these opportunities. I did not use this word unintentionally—I meant opportunities. We are to assault our difficulties, not whiningly shirk them! The fears we have may be instinctive, perhaps even Divinely-implanted. They are not, however, meant to keep us from striving to conquer. Fears are simply the first—and most critical— of many hurdles. Our life is an arduous regimen designed to tone the physique of our character. We must simply accept the first challenge.
He who now prevails has already fought the most important battle in the arena of his heart.
He has broken and bridled a treacherous winged-dragon: his own fear.
Afraid to fall. “Why am I so afraid to fall?!” My questions draw perplexed mutters—“Why not fall? Are you touched in the head!?” Nevertheless, I ponder. Why not? Will falling hurt? Quite possibly. Will I look stupid? Undeniably! Is it weird? Admittedly, falling is frequent enough—joyful anticipation of it is not!
Are these reasons defendable? Some avoid any danger simply because of the possibility of pain or difficulty. Will I abandon the doorway to vivacious living because it is guarded by these stern realities? Or am I willing to attempt a feat that will entail hurt and discomfort? Is there anything worthy of this cost? A particular philosophy makes this claim: “It is ludicrous to go through any discomfort or challenge whose rewards are not comfortable, predictable, and painless.” My fellow theorists, I must confess… I disagree.
To those who avoid all things adverse, I offer my sincerest regrets—you irritate me. Fear not, my disapproval is far from disastrous to your reputation; however, what should concern you is this dangerous, naïve submission to bland familiarity, bored existence and flabby character. Even my callused heart pities you.
Please do not misunderstand: it is not the actual pain or discomfort for which I am clamoring. It is the strength of character produced by the self-motivated discipline and courage that defies its own fears to accept a challenge of pain and inconvenience. This is the insignia of the warrior.
Though my fear may be that of an icy catastrophe, a public performance, or the discomfort of disciplining myself in mind, body, and friendships, I have no right to shun these opportunities. I did not use this word unintentionally—I meant opportunities. We are to assault our difficulties, not whiningly shirk them! The fears we have may be instinctive, perhaps even Divinely-implanted. They are not, however, meant to keep us from striving to conquer. Fears are simply the first—and most critical— of many hurdles. Our life is an arduous regimen designed to tone the physique of our character. We must simply accept the first challenge.
He who now prevails has already fought the most important battle in the arena of his heart.
He has broken and bridled a treacherous winged-dragon: his own fear.
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