Room for improvement

Written on February 17, 2011:

In the past eight months I have thought a lot about a lot of things. I think it’s no secret to my friends and family that I deeply cherish the time I get to reflect. My time at Open Arms has afforded me a lot of things (to say the least), but I find that one of the greatest is the sheer amount and depth of my reflection time.

It’s funny really, what extremes exist at Open Arms; it seems as though there are only two modes: loud and crazy, or silent and calm. The second the children get home from school, your mind starts racing, your heart starts pounding. You are flooded with questions, comments, complaints, jokes, and everything in between. You are grabbed, poked, prodded, hit, hugged, kissed, and sometimes even licked. You discipline and encourage. The world runs at a million miles per hour and often Pat, Rita, and I find ourselves leaning against the counter asking each other “Where did the day go?”

Of course, at night it’s the exact opposite. As I quietly trudge back through the grass to the Purple House at night the sheer stillness of the world really hits me. Nighttime here is so quiet. Crickets the size of golf balls provide the soundtrack until I put on the Norwegian Recycling CD Emily sent me (which I’ve listened to on repeat nearly every night for the past month and a half) and the stars and moon constantly take my breath away.

Oddly, the loud and crazy time of day and the silent and calm part of the day share something very much in common – that is, sensory overload. Granted, they come in very different forms. During the day it is external. You hear the shouting and the laughing and the hundreds upon hundreds of questions. You feel the children bury their heads between your legs, tug on your sweatshirt, pull your cheek toward them for a kiss. You see the older kids pushing the babies around on their scooters and children playing with the tap (even though they know they’re not supposed to). Of course, you can smell that distinct baby smell too. But at night, it’s more of an internal overload. You think about where these children came from, what you could’ve done better, what you’re going to do tomorrow. You wonder if you’re living a meaningful life, if there’s something you’re missing, if you’re doing what God intended you to do. You start a million different projects – essays, blogs, sketches, journals, books. You write letters and make phone calls home. You think about the past, about the future, about the present. You ask yourself if you’re missed at home and you question everything. I think it must be a side effect of being asked to explain everything to the children, but you really do just start questioning.

In my time here, one of my greatest struggles has without a doubt been whether or not I’m making a difference or if I’m becoming the person that I want to be. I battle over this every day and I’m not really sure if I have an answer. I’m not really sure if I’ll ever have an answer, but I have come to a few conclusions over the past few months nonetheless.

For as long as I can remember I have felt a great sense of unworthiness; a sense that I could be better, that I could do more, that I was falling short of my potential. And I realize that sounds remarkably bad, but allow me to explain; this is a good thing.

This sense of unworthiness isn’t depression or shame or anything like that. This sense of unworthiness is rooted deep in my desire to be the best that I can be at all times. It’s an intense confidence in myself that I can and should do better. They saying goes that “with great privilege comes great responsibility.” Well, I certainly have lived a very privileged life. And while I may not be the smartest or the most creative or the strongest or the funniest person on earth, I certainly have the ability, as I believe we all do, to love at all times.

So what am I getting at exactly? I’m getting at the fact that each and every day here I am trying to make every decision out of love and only love. Of course I don’t always. I still often make decision rooted in greed, jealousy, frustration, laziness, and all sorts of contemptible reasons. But the good news is that there is always that voice in my head reminding me: you can do better. And so each day I will strive to do better. I will strive to not lose my cool when the children push my buttons or cross that line. I will strive not to be jealous of those who have more. I will try to give up those things I don’t need. Open Arms has truly taught me that it’s OK to expect more of yourself and so here I go, listening to that unworthiness that I no longer see as a hindrance but as a simple reminder that every decision that we make ultimately builds into our character and that the first step towards being the best that I can be is realizing that I am currently falling short.

But as Mother Teresa once said (echoing a concept my dad often brings up):

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.

So while I will always use yesterday as a measure of how much potential for growth there is in my life and will always dream of what tomorrow will bring, I am now more consciously aware than ever that it is time to live in the present, to love these kids now, and work on becoming a better me today.