People laugh at me because I am very predictable. In many ways, at least. Every year, I make innumerable New Year’s Goals. Every month, week, sometimes by the day, I write schedules and lists. I have made menus since I was 15 or younger. I schedule out my life as much as possible. I pursue every single interest – but rarely until it is mastered because the next thing grabs my attention and I move on. Oh, yes, there are people who laugh at me. Not cruelly, but . . . accommodatingly . . . almost patronizingly. They know it is me – it is what I do. I am a Type A. I live off schedules, I try the next fad to lose weight, I make goals, I . . . well, you get the idea. It always hurts a little bit whenever I sense that laughter in someone’s tone. The underlying, She’s at it again, when I discuss my New Year’s Goals or the multitude of checklists I’ve made in an attempt to FINALLY reach them. The amused shake of the head as I buy another notebook, another self-help book. It always hurts – just a little, strikes at some place deep down inside that I then bury so I can laugh along with them – often even cracking my own jokes at myself for trying that next thing, that next attempt to master life. All the while, wondering inside just how much of a failure I am for always, always trying, and rarely succeeding.
But. When I allow myself a moment of Grace. When I step back and look at all my frail attempts at – everything. And most especially when I read L.M. Montgomery’s Emily books, I know exactly why. It’s because of this:
I italicize the last verse because that in particular makes something in me swell up. With tears, and hope, and desperation, and ambition, and . . . understanding. Someone somewhere understands.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t actually care if I get “fame” – it’s more the writing my name with true and honored fame. And I don’t care if it’s on earth or heaven – it just means that . . . I’ve climbed that path. I reached that goal. I’ve succeeded.
At what, you might ask? Well, at life. There is so much life everywhere. It’s why I try so hard to do everything. Because I might miss out on something otherwise. Music makes my heart fill up, so I try to learn music. Stars make me remember the glory of God, so I attempt to learn constellations. Miniatures bring me sweet memories and gladness, so I finger them in passing, thinking about how someday I will collect and even make miniatures. Dolls remind me of dress-up and dreams, so I collect them. And writing. Well. Writing makes me feel like I can live a thousand lifetimes, and experience all the world, and bring someone else that thrill of joy and hope and escape, and it makes me feel like it’s the only time in my entire life I can say things the right way. And, yes, I realize there isn’t a syllable there about glorifying God – but – the thing is, I almost feel like ALL of that is glorifying God. Every piece of that joy and experience and heavenliness makes me look up and say “God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world” along with Anne of Green Gables and Robert Browning. When I write, when I ask God to guide my pen, when I legitimately try – I feel the pleasure of God. I feel a rare peace fill my soul.
I guess I just want to do my utmost to live the life God has given me to its fullest and the only way I can see to do that is by checklists and schedules, and trying new things, and always trying – even when I don’t succeed. Even when others look on in amusement.
I’m not saying I have done things right. I’m not saying that I’m not a failure for having never succeeded at any of my hobbies. But I am saying that . . . I know why I keep trying. And that, I think someday I will succeed. That God is working with me on the staying part of trying, and someday it will happen. Even that, in some sense, I am succeeding just because I am trying. But until then, and even through then, I’m going to keep climbing the Alpine Path.