Way Past Bed Time for All Of Us (and I'm Writing Anyways)

I’ve always assumed that the person reading my blog was a lot like me. Someone looking for some insight somewhere out in the world, hoping that she (or he) wasn’t the only one feeling the way she did.

C.S. Lewis said it best when he said, and I paraphrase everything due to only having a minute before I’m interrupted by my six-year-old, who, on cue, just arrived. He should be in bed but he came begging for permission to go downstairs to get water.

Sure, no problem. 9:57pm is the perfect time to hydate.

Back to C.S. (also, if you aren’t a well-versed reader (like myself), than you probably only know him as C.S. Perhaps you didn’t even know that C.S. was a man. But, in the end, you’ll know you’ve arrived when your first and second initials are how people know you.), he said you know you have found your people when someone says something and you say, “me, too.”

“Me, too” is such an interesting phrase as even in that moment of connectedness, your “me, too” can be so exactly similar and yet, at the same exact time, so different than your friend’s “me, too.”

The Me, Too movement was powerful in my opinion. While Clive Staples probably didn’t think his memorable comment would transfer to a worldwide response to women being sexually abused, it served a powerful purpose. Women around the world found comfort as sad it was in knowing that other women (countless? women) had experienced some version of male-induced pressure that I personally figured was par for the course. Men are dominant. Women have to deal. That was kinda how I figured life was in my early years. But I also embraced the mentality that no man would ever control me. Until I married my husband, who proved that there are a few men who are good.

I digress.

You, reader, I’ve always figured was someone like me. Doing their best. Worried about their weight. Hoping to find a career that earned money while not having to compromise your values. I figured that you were exhausted by parenthood and broke from grocery bills. I figured you started your younger adulthood with some gusto, but now you snooze your alarm every eight minutes because you ain’t ready to get up.

But the older I get, the more I realize your “me, too” is simply a toss of a rope to a person who feels she’s floating out to sea. It’s not a one-to-one direct comparison where your life stage, age, number of children, and career perfectly align.

No. Your “me, too” is simply that whatever your weight is that bears down on you is heavy enough that you’re looking for someone who is willing to admit that this beautiful life - full of so many blessings and tiny red boats of waffle fries covered in chik-fil-a sauce - is just as equally difficult. And up until this point, the highs have outweighed the lows, but as we get older, this isn’t always true.

The highs are just as high, but the lows get tougher. Our parents get older, their problems get heavier as they inch closer to their finish line, all the while realizing that your finish line is starting to show up in the not so distant fog of the future.

This isn’t supposed to depress us, though. As my friend whose sole purpose is to encourage the women around her, or my doctor friend who fixes kids lungs, or my running friend who runs the power lines with her dog, or my older friend who tucks his dying wife into bed each night — I realize, that life is for the living — and we can’t be filled with wet sand. Dead weight has held too many of us back. We have to keep moving, every morning; take our fresh breath. Every goal scored, soccer game finished, History test failed, first taste of avocado, first family trip to Disney World, a sign that our kids are in the thick of their lives — and, as parents, as tired as we are, get to be there for it.

My six year old just showed up again to ask me if we had a stapler - which is my cue that it’s time to go.

But, for now, I’m clinging to God’s Word tonight. That every gift is from above, and with that, I think He means every breath. A gift.