The Present

Growing up, I passed out a lot. A whole lot. I passed out at school when I had an assigned seat next to two boys who constantly said gross things about their food. I remember one of the boys (his name was Brad and he was actually a super sweet kid) — he said, “Look Amy, it looks like eye-ball soup! Hahaha!” That was all it took. I passed out and woke up in the sick room with Brad crying next to me and begging my forgiveness. Poor Brad. It wasn’t his fault. Well it sort of was— but who passes out that easily?!? I passed out from getting out of bed too fast, from standing up too fast, from being too hot, from feeling trapped, from being hungry, from thinking about passing out, and from empathy. Yes, from empathy. Example: there was a chipmunk my mom found outside who was hurt—not visibly but he looked kind of shaken up. I held him in my arms, wrapped in a blanket and prayed for his tiny little self to feel better. And as I looked in his eyes, I felt his pain… and I passed right out. But I did manage to hand the chipmunk to someone else before I fell over. I also passed out the first minute of the first hour of the first day of camp. And I busted my head and had to go home and sleep on my face for a week or so while I healed. Fun times.

Now that I’ve established that I passed out a lot, I want to tell you about the most peculiar sensation I had nearly every time I was about to lose consciousness. As the dizziness began and my hearing started to fade, I was overcome by this absolute certainty that I needed to get somewhere. “Where?”—you might ask. Always somewhere far away from where I currently was. For instance, if I was in church, standing up to sing, and realized I was about to pass out, instead of sitting down on the pew that was literally right there behind me, I might feel the need to get all the way out of the sanctuary and into the bathroom. Or if I was about to pass out downstairs in the kitchen I might be overcome with the need to get upstairs to my bedroom. The most extreme case was when I was at the beach, in the ocean. I felt that horrible feeling—I was going to pass out. So naturally, instead of just getting to shore, which would be the best plan, and a super soft place to pass out safely (as long as I landed on my back)— instead I was determined to get all the way up the boardwalk, through the hotel lobby, into the elevator, and up to the fifth floor where I could lay down on my bed. What?!? That is so dumb! And I always realized it was dumb AFTER I was feeling better. 

Here’s why I’m telling you this: because it crossed my mind the other day that it’s so easy to miss what’s right in front of you and always be focussed on something way out in the future. Some spot that you think you have to get to in order to have “arrived”. And all logic and comfort and hope is lost on you as you fight your way to that far off place. Nothing counts until you get there. And when/if you do get there, that won’t count either because your focus will have shifted forward again. Don’t you think it’s so easy to live like that? It’s sort of like how in junior high, teachers warn students that they need to be thinking about high school—“you’ll never get away with work like that in high school,” they say. And then in high school they’re all talking about college, and then in college it’s all about career, and then the focus often shifts to marriage and then to kids, and then retirement. And that chronic future focus leaves those whose lives are taking a different path feeling left behind. I don’t want to do that. I want to do my best right now because right now is important. God is here right now, whatever right now looks like. Hope and light and beauty are here right now.  And this couch that I’m sitting on right now is plenty good enough to pass out on.