My heart has raced a lot lately. Sometimes in the car before I arrive, or on the floor of my room waiting for her response, I panic (not that I mind all that much). I feel like I’m actually doing something with the time I have.
I remember a complaint I had years ago. I was sitting on my couch catching the afternoon sun each time the garage door was swung open by my dad. I hated that I was inside. I couldn’t just go out. I mean, I could, but I couldn’t. I was tired, I was bored, I was lonely, I was paralyzed. I recollect wanting friends real bad, but I was much too shy to search for them. (Though, I’m not sure many kids were like me at that age.) These were days and days of endless pondering, wondering if my loneliness was my life. Looking back, I realize it kind of is. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I know it now, that this being alone, this having no burden but that of the eyes, is a sort of freedom.
I took a walk through downtown Tacoma last night. I was alone, it was late, and it was empty sans the melancholia, and it took me back to those timeless afternoons of first grade recess. I would lay on my side and stare at the grass, I would walk the perimeter of the playground not looking up once, and I would always watch the kids at play, smiling to myself. I used to make fun of them in my head. Their immaturity made me laugh (as I drank glue and sported my light-up power ranger sneakers). I’m still that person though. I’m still very much a little boy who is outside looking in, or perhaps in, looking out. But at this age, I have come to see it all as a blessing. I love what freedom I have. I love the little steps He’s put in my life—those tiny aids that help me grow so much, the people that I have miraculously crossed paths with, and those nights like the last that remind me how real He is.
Lately I’ve been thinking that being alone is a freedom as long as you’ve got truth to live by.