Have you been to the beach recently? While you were there, did you play in the sand? Did you build a sandcastle? Sandcastles have always fascinated me, but not because of their artistic appeal. That is not to say that I don't appreciate art; that simply is not the feature of the sandcastle that attracts me. No, what attracts me is its futility. Have you ever thought about it? Sand is one of the most temporary and changeable features of our planet, constantly shifting and redistributing from corner of the world to another, never staying in one place for long. And yet we try to persuade it to match the shape we dictate?
I was never really one for making sandcastles. The concept of an actual castle was too complex for me, with ramparts and parapets and spires completely beyond my eleven year old abilities. But I understood the concept of a fortress. You needed a keep first (where else would the prince live?), and then walls--very high walls--to protect the keep, and finally a moat to protect the walls. This was the basic layout of all of my "sandcastles," with modest variations based upon necessity or mood. I needed no frills and embellishments, and so my castles usually ended up looking like a network of glorified molehills. I was utilitarian at heart, building only that which would accomplish its intended purpose: halting the relentless march of the sea elves upon my peaceful castle.
That was the exciting part of building, to me. I always wanted to see if my miniature kingdom would stand against the forces of nature. There was a certain element of risk associated with building a fortress like mine, because I needed to harvest the damp sand left by the receding water in order to build a solid structure. This meant that I would build as the tides transitioned from high to low. By the time I finished, the tides had reversed and I watched in helpless fascination as the sea moved toward me.
I loved heaping more sand upon the walls, trying to shore up my dissolving defenses even as the water lapped against them. Without fail, the water would use my moats to eat away my foundation, my walls would fall into the rising tide, and my keep--a massive heap of hardened sand--would feel the full force of the sea's fury. It became an island, raising its head defiantly out of the midst of the horde, until finally, it would resign itself to its fate and sink beneath the waves.
This defeat was inevitable, but in my childish confidence I believed that I could reverse the typical progression of events, shout my defiance at the waves, and watch them part around me and my castle like the Red Sea around Moses and the Israelites. They say that doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result is the definition of insanity, but it is also a trademark of youth.
And perhaps they are the same thing, in a small way. It is considered a sign of maturity, is it not, to resign ourselves to the inevitable and the rational? As children, we dream of becoming astronauts, rock stars, bestselling authors... Then we grow up and become bankers, engineers, or insurance agents. We resign ourselves to the "real world" and trade our dreams for paychecks. And it is considered proper. It is considered a rite of passage, a ticket to the adult world.
Put off your insanity. Put on our reality.
"Life is not fair," we hear them tell us. "Work is not fun. Play is a reward for work. Ninety-five percent of your life will be work, and occasionally, occasionally, you will get the chance to relax and be yourself." Then they leave and go to see their counselors, throw back their heads and swallow their anti-depressants, go hang out at bars and then form support groups for alcoholism... And all the while they tell us that this is life, that this is our destiny, even that this is good.
We all know that they don't really believe it, but what can we do, except shrug and accept the burden?
I have always hated any sort of inevitability. Always. I hate the feeling that I cannot control my life, that I cannot change my fate. If we don't have the ability to choose our own path, what do we have? A long path of regrets stretching behind us, and an equally long road of unavoidable pain stretching before us. Call it my rebellious nature or my teenage male, coming-of-age, independence syndrome, but I refuse. I refuse to comply with this sawdust taste of resignation, for it is a taste far too close to despair.
And so I have a problem with God.
I am not Carrie Underwood, who calls out for her God to control her life. I have always sought to keep a tight-fisted grip on the wheel, a grip that I once swore I would never relinquish. My white knuckles have been my badge of honor, a symbol that I will never allow myself to become another old man filled with regret.
But it isn't a matter of disbelief. It isn't a matter of hate, or even of defiance. My problem is a problem with trust. My life is defined by fear: fear of the unknown, fear of helplessness, fear of loss... I have never believed that God has my best interests in mind. The whole idea of His sovereignty has always made me picture a puppeteer in the sky, moving around His pawns and acting out an elaborate story without any care for the characters within it. Trusting God has seemed like something for super-Christians, for religious people like my pastor, my parents, and many of my friends. I would always pull out the good old standbys to help a struggling friend, telling them that God has a plan for them, telling them to trust Him with their lives. I have become very adept at giving good advice, spreading hope, and persuading others to trust God.
Sometimes I even persuade myself.
Over the past few days I have had plenty of time for introspection, which usually takes the form of questioning myself. And the longer I question, the more I come to doubt my previous assumptions and experiences. There has to be a spectrum of living. There has to be some sort of variation besides merely black and white. There have to be more than two choices. I have to be able to choose something between resignation and defiance, between indifference and distrust. There has to be more to life than one or the other evil.
For I believe both are evil.
The fact remains that God does control our lives. I can rage away, I can shake my fist at Him, I can stamp my feet and scream my defiance, but that does not change anything. Nor does my tight grip on the steering wheel change the fact that the car of my life will always go where He directs it to go.
How do you escape from someone Who knows all things, Who is everywhere, and Who can do anything?
I think now that there is little difference between surrender and helplessness. The two go hand-in-hand, because you do not surrender to something until you realize that you are helpless to resist them. Is it not better to surrender than to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to your fate? At the very least, it is less undignified.
Perhaps that is the real mark of maturity. It is not actually surrender to a life we disdain. Instead, it is surrender to a plan for a life we want to be different. And that plan is not mine, that plan is not yours. That plan is His.
Do I know that He cares? No, I don't. Certainly, the Bible tells me that He does, but I have nothing to back that up. I can't guarantee that He won't turn around one day and screw me over with immense pain instead of the joy He promises. I can't guarantee that I even matter to Him, and so I keep my hands on the tiller of my life.
Or maybe not.
Is it better to sit at the back of the boat, trying to steer my life through the rapids? Or is it better to sit in the front of the boat, the breeze and spray of experience in my face, an experienced Captain at my back?
After all, life is a lot more fun if we loosen up a little. Is there risk? Well, yeah, but don't you find it exhilarating? Breathe it in, that fear. We're not driving anymore, so let's enjoy this speed. I have a feeling we won't crash.
Title is from "In The Dirt"
Lyrics by S. Carey
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