Greshniku

This afternoon, I was sitting on my porch, in the shade, reading a biographical novel about John and Abigail Adams. I was perfectly content with my moment, and was enjoying a tranquil Sabbath.

This was suddenly interrupted with the wild howls of half-delight/half-terror of my neighbor. Startled out of my revere, I looked up just in time to see my five- or six-year-old neighbor boy, nearly naked, tucked into a ball precariously perched on a skateboard, which was noisily roaring down the natural slope of the street at impressive speeds. His fingers were tightly wrapped around the front of the skateboard, and he was managing to curl his thin body rollie-pollie style, with his chin bouncing off his tucked-in knees.

And he was having the time of his life.

Immediately, I thought of all that exposed skin and all of that rocky pavement. He was traveling much too fast allow himself any control of the board and was gaining speed with each driveway he passed. He had no way of stopping his vehicle of doom, short of dragging an exposed foot, knee, or hand along the pavement or crashing headfirst into a car, mailbox, shrubbery, or innocent bystander.

I looked at this crazy kid having a blast, and all I could think of was how this was going to end in disaster. I could imagine all of the possible injuries: full-body collision with the asphalt leading to an impressive arrangement of scrapes, burns, and bruises; a slip of his small fingers under the wheels of the propelling weapon; a disastrous incident involving my neighbor’s blond six-year-old and a tangle of arms, legs, and inevitable wailing.

And while I was picturing all the possible bloodshed, two things occurred to me. (1) It’s possible that boys are missing a crucial inhibitor in their brains that helps them imagine the possible ramifications of their adventurous decisions. (2) This quality makes them so much more likely to experience exhilarating terror and joy. They risk so much, but they gain a whole world that I’ll never have access to.

I’m really an optimist. I love adventure. But I’ve never completely thrown caution to the wind and pursued adventure recklessly and in the face of unavoidable disaster. I suspect that this is a good quality, but it also raises some pretty important life questions. OK, so, clearly throwing my body into certain pain and punishment for the exhilaration of thirty seconds of bliss would not be a good decision. But what about other risky things?

What about when God asks me for faith that seems dangerous? What about when He asks me to close my eyes and leap, when all I can imagine is disaster? What about when following Him will lead to an array of scrapes, burns, and bruises – but will certainly be the best journey of my life?

In the end, my skin-flashing, skateboard-wielding daredevil of a neighbor used the skin of his left foot to slow and stop the sled of destruction. He yelped for a good 2 minutes about how he no longer had any toes, writhing and sprawling on the ground in a well-deserved celebration of his manliness. And despite his proclamations to the contrary, I truly believe he was excited and even proud of the injuries he sustained.

And this, my friends, is why I can’t wait to have the faith like a half-naked little boy.

There are a lot of things that I don’t know. I don’t know the periodic table or the equations I learned in Physics. I don’t know the constellations beyond the Big and Little Dippers, and the ones I regularly connect in my mind. I don’t know Latin. Or Greek. Or, well, nearly every other language. I don’t know how to cook anything that doesn’t come in a box. I don’t understand any of the positions in football. I don’t know how to keep resilient house plants alive, and can’t even imagine attempting anything that requires more maintenance. I don’t think I can connect any famous painting with its famous artist. (Well, maybe I could get some of the Van Gogh paintings right, and maybe a Picasso or two.) I don’t know the names of my mayor, senators, representatives, or governor. When I go to the mechanic, I don’t know what they’re talking about when they mention the fuel filter, water pump, head gasket, fan belt, or intake valve. Or, well, anything else they mention.

While I’m generally willing and interested to learn more about these things, I am pretty comfortable with the truth that there’s a lot I don’t know. Because, well, I’ve always thought that at least I know myself.

I’ve lived with myself for quite awhile now. I know what foods I like and dislike, and have never tried but assume I don’t like based on texture, content, and previous experience. I know what music makes me dance despite all efforts to contain myself. I know my favorite authors and quotes and poems. I know that a twirly skirt will always brighten my day and a good thunderstorm will completely render me incapable of focusing on anything else, and that I’ll smile in spite of myself with every splinter of lightning that pierces through the sky. I know that my favorite relationships are the ones where we can be introverted socially – doing our own things while we exist in contented silence. I know that everyone makes me laugh and that I can generally make anyone laugh. I know that I’m a little imaginative and that I’m perfectly content to create elaborate stories around the most mundane situations. I know that I like attention, especially if I’m somehow in control of it.

I also know that I change sometimes. I know that in middle school, I was completely uninhibited and fearless, probably to a fault. I know that in high school, I was reserved and insecure.  I know that in college, I was a combination of those personalities.  I know that now, I’m a little more stable, but still not quite definable or containable.

Yes, it’s good to know that in the sea of all the things I don’t know, I’ve landed on a small, secure island of self-knowledge. I’ve been sitting here quite happily for some time now, but in the last week, I’ve been shoved off my island twice – into the salty, bitter waters of discovery.

In the last week, I’ve twice been voluntarily kidnapped and taken outside my comfort zone. I’ve learned about the ways I’ve been protecting myself and calling it “ministry.” I’ve unearthed lingering insecurities that have kept me at an arm’s length from everyone and everything new. I’ve rediscovered a long-repressed ability to genuinely and actively engage people in meaningful conversation.

And I learned that there’s still a lot I don’t know.