Big things put us in an uncomfortable place. They screw with our emotions and schedules and routines and relationships, and it’s anything but stable.
It shouldn’t feel stable. The very biggest things rock our world. They pick us up and shake us around like a smoothie that’s settled in the fridge overnight. It’s violent. It’s abrupt. It’s amazing.
Those uncomfortable Big places are where the most growth happens. That’s where we are meant to rest so that we can accomplish something equally as big.
Even knowing this, I have days where I miss just being stable. Coming home to the same routine and feeling the same way.
Reliable. Steady. Predictable.
I think about all the days I wish for stability again. When I’m laying on the floor like the grinch in the snow screaming “IMM FEEEELLINNNG!” imagining what I looked like a year ago, and I sometimes wish nothing had changed.
I wish that I came home every day to eat dinner, watch a movie, read a book, and go to bed. No questions asked, no emotions had. That I still carried my hyper-rationality, and when people I loved told me they were hurting I could give them a plan, rather than hurt with them. That God didn’t reach so deeply and often into my heart and remind me how much more work there is to be done in me, or how much more work I am still capable of doing for him.
The change feels too much, my heart feels too raw, and I want it all to just go away. Some days I want to give it all back, because this Big feels too big for me.
For real though? Do I really want to skip out on the Big that’s been shaking my life so violently? Do I skip seeing a mother during a rough week and telling her she’s doing great, and hearing her respond, “thank you so much. I needed to hear that.”
When I wake up in the morning wanting to call in sick on a snowy day, do I fully ignore feeling compelled to get my ass out of bed, pull my shit together, and take my students sledding? Do I miss that absolutely perfect day because I don’t feel that nudge, because I never let God in?
Do I give up the new people, and the reconnection with the old people, and the strength and courage and heart and soul that I now see and feel everyday, because it’s too big? Because it’s too hard?
I can hear my father like I’m in high school again, sitting on the softball field bleeding, his voice carrying lovingly from the bleachers, “rub some dirt in it, tape an Advil to it, and get back out there!”
What about that smoothie in the fridge? How nasty would that separated smoothie be? Without the shake and shimmy to reconstitute it, is it even worth drinking? In its separated form, do I even care to attempt to stomach it?
What’s the point?
Why drink a separated smoothie when an action as easy as doing a little upper body dance can make it drinkable again? Why leave the field for a minor injury and miss out on so much game to be played with my team?
There’s fruit in that smoothie that doesn’t want to be wasted; there’s a game to be played with a team full of people for support. Now that I know what’s out there, what’s the point of trying to go back just because I’m uncomfortable? Big feels uncomfortable for a reason. It’s meant to feel that way, because Big things require Big change.
Get up. Rub some dirt in it. Get back out there. It’s worth it. It’s so worth it.