So I’m just going to kind of word vomit and hope that something comes out at the end.
I was five years old. The only child. An adventureous spirit. “Let’s go on vacation,” my parents say. “Let’s go canoeing,” they say. “For ten days,” they say.
That 10 day canoeing and portaging trip in Algonquin Provincial Park in Canada is still one of the most memorable trips of my life. I don’t know many (or any) parents who would take their five-year-old on a trip like this, but mine did. And I’m so glad that we went.
Flash forward approximately 17 years…
It’s January 4th, 2014. I’m standing on the step between my living room and kitchen, resting my elbows on the counter, and the tears start flowing again. Again. Gosh, since when did I become a crier?
I remember standing there, trying to commit every moment to memory, trying to remember the freckles on my sister’s face, my brother’s height, my house’s scent. Getting ready to leave for the Race was hard. I mean, HARD.
I was choosing to walk away from everything I love. Choosing. It was my choice. I’m not on the World Race because I’m sick of my hum-drum life, or because I need to get out of my dead end group of friends, or because I hate my 9-5 job (I never had one to begin with so…). It’s easy to walk away from a life you hate. It’s hard to walk away from a blessed, cherished, enjoyable life.
Back in the kitchen, my siblings just watched as I cried. They didn’t know how to comfort me. Heck, who even knows if they understood my tears. I certainly didn’t. And as they watched, my dad walked over and hugged me. “Ever since that first portage in Canada, you haven’t stopped going.” It was maybe one of the most profound statements my dad has ever said to me.
I’ve lived so much of my life diving face first into the world’s next adventure. Sports, college, camp, the World Race…
Something about that trip to Canada set a fire deep in my soul to run and run and run and run and run, to seek all the world’s adventures, to grab hold of everything this life has to offer.
I’ve lived a lot of life for only being 23. And it’s been crazy and fun and exhausting and hard and totally worth it. But sometimes it seems like moving is just a habit. Productivity, efficiency, hard work are just a habit. Like if I don’t have something to do, I’ll make something to do.
But what’s the point of running, of going non-stop, of never resting?
….
I mean really. Yeah, we run to get from point A to point B. We run to get there quickly and efficiently. We run from something, we run to something, we run for something.
But how often do we run for running’s sake?
How often do we fill our lives with busyness for busyness’ sake?
Busyness means productivity. Busyness means success. Busyness means power.
…at least, from the world’s standards.
But we don’t live by the world’s standards. So what’s the point of busyness now?
Because if it’s not running away from Satan or running to Christ or running for the Kingdom then I don’t want any part of it.
