I don't really know what I'm doing here.
Yes, this is what I say:
Any time I get underneath my car with a wrench.
Attempt to bake something.
When I first kissed a girl
When I tried watching rugby on TV
When I held my daughter for the first time
When I learned that there are a specific couple of days when my wife is angry and gets emotional when she sees cute dogs or babies on TV.
I say it a lot.
I can make light of it. But what about those moments when I "really" say it? For example, when I'm a 32-year-old father who's seen more tragic days, frustrating days, beautiful days, mundane days, joyful days, days I never want to forget, and days I do.
And then I say it: "I don't know what I'm doing here." Here here. Planet Earth, here.
I make stuff. I'm a writer, a filmmaker, a podcaster, an amateur poet, and I dream of playing Tom Petty songs at an open-mic night someday.
It behooves someone whose life is so outward-facing to think about why they share their life in those ways (and why they use the word behooves).
Most days, I don't know.
Sure, I know the shorthand: I'm a Christian, so everything inevitably leads back to the glory of God. But I've heard that phrase abused by people who didn't care one lick about a reality-defining significance of their creator God who loves them to death and back. They seemed like they were repeating the ideological line they were supposed to after winning a golf tournament on TV or finding a parking spot at Lowe's.
And to my understanding, glorifying God isn't really up to me. He is just glorious. It's written into the fabric of reality and it's all of our mission statements.
I've always been told to be specific. So, specifically, what am I doing here? Why do I make stuff, imbue it with my feelings and words like imbue, and then ship it out into the world?
I don't really know.
Sunday, I was at work (I work at a church), and my friend Suzanne was standing in the lobby. She asked me how I was, and I said, "Fine, but having it rough with allergies. How are you?"
"I'm okay."
"Just okay?"
"Well, it's been about 10 years since my husband passed. And that song, “10,000 Reasons”, that song song we sang today we sang at his funeral."
"I'm so sorry."
"Grief. It's a backwards-facing gift," she said. Her eyes beamed through her glasses.
"Wow, I need to chew on that one for a while," I said. I had no catergory for that.
"Well, it is. And you know, everyone who calls me Suzanne never knew him. Everyone then knew me as Sue. Ken and Sue."
I believe everything that's happened to you and me will end up good. We tell our stories to try to see that good. We don't always get there, not with everything, not in this life; much is left to the burden and beauty of mystery.
But someday, God willing, we will see.
Until then, we're letting allergies lead us into conversations and learning why some people call Suzanne "Sue."
Also, I use the word behoove because it's fun and whimsical.
I love something as simple as allergies leading us into vulnerable conversations, and I too like the word behooves LOL