What happens when we forget that we are adventurers?
For real, y'all, what happens?
Because I notice that I've forgotten.
The space around me seems to have closed in. That's because my eyes can't look in front of my feet. It's because I can't look up.
My mama always tells me: Look up.
When you've forgotten what the sky and the air feel like, look up.
When you've neglected to look at the world around you, when you are not looking for the way God's grace surrounds you, when you have not seen the beauty of the world because you're trying to get stuff done --
Before the looking up, though, -- before it even occurs to you -- you notice the dull ache in your heart.
You recognize the impatient stirrings.
You have felt this before.
You have felt the desire for Adventure when there is nowhere to go, when you feel trapped in your little world.
Yeah, you built it for yourself, constructed all your walls and porcelain cages...
But dang if there isn't something out there that you want.
Something up there. True as blue and clean as day.
And you realize: you've forgotten.
Bilbo Baggins always said that you had only to step onto the road in order to be swept away by it, but you've forgotten that there was a road, or anything other than your cul-de-sac.
You've forgotten, you see, that you were created to be adventurous.
I've forgotten, too.
You start looking around. Start noticing stars in broad daylight. Start noticing little flickerings of magic and hope and silver-gold everywhere you look. There's sparkle in the air, somewhere -- you can taste it.
But you can't quite put your finger on it.
So you look down again. At your shoes. At the floor. At the ground you know so well, because you've studied it.
You look down, instead of looking for the magic and the mayhem and the mystery.
Instead of chasing it.
I've been guilty, y'all. I've looked down at my feet, hoping I won't be called on.
I've hidden in routine and the tasks right in front of my face, instead of glancing around and seeing the big wide beautiful world and all that it is and all the wonder bound up therein.
My inner monologue sounds something like this: Okay okay okay be sure you send this email and work on this one, and finish sorting the mail so you can get other things done, and be sure you eat, because you have a coaching after this, and you have rehearsal too, so you'll probably get to sleep at about 11, and you have to wake up at 5 to work out --
And all the while I can hear Jesus whispering to me.
I have come that you may have life -- and have it more abundantly.
When we forget we are adventurers -- when we turn into machines and executors and tall, walking checklists -- the color gets sucked out of the world a little bit.
We exist in black and white.
But then --
Oh, abundant Life.
It's always ever been Him, you know.
We remember that He loves us.
We remember that He made us to be adventurous.
And the world explodes in Technicolor and fairy dust and magic beans.
The color starts to seep behind our eyes, into our skin, down to the ends of our hair.
It's bit by tiny bit.
Remembering does not come all at once.
It comes in looking at the bracelet you wear as a reminder to be brave -- and then being brave.
It comes in doing a thing you never thought you would do.
It comes in speaking up.
It comes when you go outside and look around at the beauty of Creation.
It comes when you remember yourself -- because when you remember Him, you are always more yourself.
We're going to forget sometimes, sports fans. It's just part of being human.
The good news -- for there is always Good News -- is that we will remember, too.
Forgetting and remembering, forgetting and remembering. The cycle of humanity. It's why the Israelites built their Ebenezers: to remember. It's why I write this blog: to remember.
Look up and remember Who He is -- and in doing so, remember who you are.
You are adventurous, my friend.