Taking Stock

It's 11pm on an average Tuesday night in July. I hear crickets, the occasional car sputtering down the street, and my mind wanders to worrying about how early I have to be up in the morning. I question how well I will function on such little sleep. I don't focus on the fact that I have my own bed with soft, clean sheets. I don't appreciate the sound of crickets rather than gunshots. I'm not conditioned to appreciate the space I call my own room. I expect these things. I know this place. It's all so familiar and too commonplace to be appreciated. I did little to earn this spot in society. I was given a body that walked and talked and was fit enough to work. I was blessed with a mind able to comprehend my surroundings and make educated decisions. Why then do I feel so entitled to all this? How could I ever fail to appreciate eyes that see, ears that hear, a mouth that speaks, a heart that beats, a brain that senses, and a soul that seeks.

For a moment I'm struck with the fleeting nature of this life. The twisted uncertainty of this sinful, broken world sneaks up on us when we least expect it, where we are least prepared. In cars, in homes, in towers and in movie theaters. We carry on in the most unassuming ways in the least threatening locations yet somehow we never cease to be surprised by terror. I don't want to be surprised anymore. I don't want the unexpected unless it means that there is a good which will arise from the ashes that no one could ever have expected and makes all who witness such tragedy realize there is an opposing, and dare I say, far greater good than evil residing in this world. I hope this is the case. I hope with all my heart.

Some people call that being naive. Some believe no great thing can be done without first greatly compromising one's character. I know a man who would beg to differ. He keeps me going when hope seems scarce. He has Risen like no one else could hope to Rise. He is my shelter while the world promotes cheap thrills and apocalyptic flings. The world has no answer for the darkness. It has no comfort for the widows. Utter silence abounds when questions seek reasons for life and loss. Purpose muses the philosophical and stays hidden in shadows of intellect. There is no hope for a true worldview if the world is blocking our view. The world begets darkness.

"Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies." Shawshank never spoke truer words. But this thought is unfinished, unrefined if you will. Where does true hope come from? Can it reside in something so dark as this place, or is it drawn from light that is simply not of this world? I cannot help but hope that there was, and is, and is to come just such a light. This light has reminded me time and time again about the bed, the room, the house, the car, the legs, the eyes, the ears, the mouth, the mind, the friends, the family, and most importantly the love that have all been laid before me...

With this in mind, reinstated by force of will, I can finally sleep peacefully.