Here at work, during schedules where we have full week
campers, there is almost always a skit night.
Accompanied by a drama class during their day, each cabin learns and is
in charge of performing a skit for the night.
One of these skits is entitled “The Reporter”. The premise is built upon individuals who
encounter each other on a bridge – all incapable of doing the things it makes
the most sense to be able to do – and so they are going to jump. It starts with the reporter who can’t get a
big story. Next comes a basketball player who can’t dribble. And then someone who works in an M&M
factory and gets fired for throwing out all of the W’s. Followed by any number of similar situations
(this week I was amused by “I’m a chef and all I know how to make are ice
cubes!” and “I’m a chicken and I don’t even know how to lay an egg!”) One after another they join each other until
finally; at last, they all jump. Except
for the reporter who declares “I’ve got it! This is my big story! Nine people
jump off a bridge!”
“That’s nice, Anika...but so what?” you might be saying
right now. “Or...thanks a lot for
ruining the punch line! I was scheduled
to watch that one next weekend!” Sorry?
The thing is...it has been six weeks since I last
blogged. I have been back occasionally
to stare at the screen and check the blogs I follow from my “So Noted”
sidebar. But I haven’t posted. I haven’t really written much at all.
I have a dozen excuses.
No consistent internet source for several weeks seems legitimate
enough. A crazy busy August could be
added to the list...including being back to work. The fact that my computer cable died leaving
my computer unable to be turned on trumps them all. Time, energy, and passion – or the lack there
of – has been the underskirt to my many excuses.
But in the end, I feel like part of the Reporter Skit (“oh!
So here is the ‘so what?’!” yep. Hold on
a second...). “I am a writer – and I
never write!” I could add to the list before mock jumping off the carpet. In the
reporter skit we encounter character after character because somehow they see
themselves failing at a huge piece of their identity. The irony of course being the discrepancy
between what they claim and what they do.
Can you really be a chef if all you can make are ice cubes? Can you really be a basketball player if you
can’t even dribble? Can you claim to be
a writer...if you never write?
Part of me gets defensive at my own accusation. “But I want to! I want to write! It’s just that...” I look at
the hours in my day...or the lack of them when everything comes to a close. I
come up with excuses. I contend that my
days have been so busy with work and people and one thing and the next that
something has to give. Except that for
me, writing is a very real part of who I am.
It is my escape, my release, my “me time”, the time I connect to Jesus
best. So I suppose my claim is legitimate enough...but in the end, a label isn't created on good intentions.
I guess not writing doesn’t make me feel very much like a
writer at all. It doesn’t make me look
very much like a writer. Who you are may
dictate what you do...but in many ways what you do cycles back to who you are.
And who am I really?
Sometimes I focus too much on the “be” verb. I want to be known not for what I do but who
I am. Who doesn't, right? Except who I am is known by what I
do. It confirms it. Maybe writing seems
petty. It kind of is. But what about the other labels I have been
given...or simply those I wish to claim?
Daughter. Sister. Friend. Leader. Employee. Coworker. Example. Mentor
Who am I? Do I
know? Does the world know? Or should the juxtaposition of identity
crisis be shoving me off a bridge...because what I do doesn’t match who and
what I say I am? What will I do to live
up to the calling I’ve received? And if
I do it on purpose? If I live and act and respond on purpose? What are the chances, I could change the
whole world?
Hey reporter, I’ve got a story for you...
Act
as if what you do makes a difference. It does.
-- William James
-- William James
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