I have always been smart. Stick me in a classroom or hand me a book, and I will spout out information to you as if I were born with a brain full of theology and mathematics.
Funny then that I am not a quick learner. In life, I take my dear sweet time learning lessons. I rarely learn from my mistakes, and more frequently repeat them leisurely.
This week, I am packing up my small set of belongings and preparing to move back to Smith 423, to my quiet little room with the view of a stairwell in Crowell hall. I'm sad for summer to be over and to be adding four miles to the commute to visit one of my closet friends who I've had the joy of sharing a room with for the past 3 months. Yet, I am the happiest packer you've ever met. As I sit putting hefty philosophy books back in boxes for a few days, I dream of the Fall and all it will bring. I think of my big plans: a floor with small groups, two ministry teams, Bible studies at Loyola, a new RA small group, elaborate cro-sis retreats, volunteering at my wonderful Covenant Presbyterian, running another 15k. I giggle with joy at the tasks I've lined up for myself and stifle any emerging fear of overcommitment.
Overcommitment is my recurrent sin. I am great at doing things. Horrible at moderating things. I run on overdrive until I kill my engine, get the flu and lie in bed unmovable for 4 days. Its my preferred method of control.
This time, my engine quit before I even took off. I had only recently started my upward climb to heavenly busyness when my back broke, and I was left screaming in pain in the ER and crying at the realization that I wouldn't be running for a long time.
I had made a lot of plans. I had charted my course for the following day, week, semester. I was scheduled, but my body chose to ignore it. Lying on the couch, sedated by heavy narcotics, I watched as my agenda cleared itself out. I lied there wondering what I would still be able to do. I cried everyday, realizing that my life was over.
I told Talia last night that I was sad — an emotion I usually deny I am capable of having. I told her that I felt like who I was had been stripped from me. I couldn't run – I couldn't even shave legs without help. I had no appetite, I had to give up my coffee shop, I had to spend my days lying in bed, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I have no idea what she said in response. In fairness, it was probably sweet and thoughtful. But admitting how I was filling was enough to trigger something — relief. I'm not happy to have chronic pain, but I am grateful.
Every day has been a lesson for me. I am learning about margins – slowing realizing that I need to be able to have the flexibility to collapse without everything falling apart in my life. I'm learning that I was not designed to be self-sufficient, but designed to rely on others. I was designed to live in community — which means asking for help moving and even asking for help to grab a book from the top shelf at Barnes and Noble. It means having the willingness to let someone else handle something without needing to perfect the details. I'm also learning about humility, as I hobble to the el and have to wait on the elevator while innocent passer-bys glare at me for being lazy. It means finding a sense of humor when the girl next to you on the train looks mortified by the grotesque bruise on your arm that looks like you've been abused, when really you just had a nurse with bad aim.
So, maybe this time I'll learn my lesson. We'll see.
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