"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." Theodore Roosevelt

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Remembered Trails

My head hits the pillow in my old bed. It's strange, the smells of the thanksgiving turkey fresh off the grill is the same as I remember, the Abby Road and Auburn poster still are hanging proudly on my wall, and I can hear my dog snoring the same snore at the foot of my bed. This is my home, this is my room, but this isn't my life anymore.
I love coming home to Huntsville. Being able to instantly immerse myself into the familiar trails and mountain paths and lose track of time again while stepping on crunching leaves and the joy when I rediscover the same spiderwebs painted with new patterns of dew on the same rocky cliff faces. The comfort of the safety the familiarity of my mountains, my house, my room bring is intoxicating. It would be so easy to slip back into this old town living again. But, at the same time nothing about any of this seems real anymore. The familiar rock faces and whispers of the leaves seem to still, to much unchanged by time. I am not the same person I was when I left two summers ago, or even last summer, but this town is the same. For this I find reason to give thanks, for this I am also cursed. I love Huntsville, Alabama with all my soul. The memories I cherish of growing up come from here. Every street holds a different story, every mountain trail or lake a different memory. But, as I walk through the same trails and streets I find myself unable to re-enter my tales of a short two years ago, the ghosts of memories haunt and tease me as I try to run along side them again. But they are not real. This strikes a fire in my soul, an unquenchable thirst I know I must fulfill. New mountains, new trails, new mist, new spiderwebs, new oaks to hang my hammock from, new ponds to tame and claim as my own. I thirst for adventure, my throat is itching to be wet. I am ready to go! Peru is calling to me, yet I can't help but feel it is but a threshold, a door to the rest of the world if you will. "Change the world for me, make my name known among the nations, reach the unreached peoples of this Earth I have given to you, do this all for me and my glory. Prepare, and go." Not for my sake do I thirst to go, there is absolutely no plausible way to justify saying a soul as broken and decrepit as mine could ever concoct such an all encompassing desire for such a journey. I believe this thirst that is groaning and growing within daily is from the Lord. I believe he is preparing me to go forth and out for His sake. Terrifying? To say no would be either denial or a lie. This post is a reminder to me the reason I am in school, the reason I am stuck in the mundane for now. It's part of the preparation, the training I need to successfully accomplish the task ahead. To remind myself nothing I do should be for me, it all should be for God, his glory.
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