little inconveniences

Drip drop, drip drop.

I’ve heard it a million times from a million people before.

“Oh, there it is again, the stupid sink dripping water all night long, waking me up in the middle of the night, keeping me where I can’t sleep. I’ll ask him to fix it but he’ll probably forget, or when he does fix it the next thing will pop up, probably on my way to work–it’ll be the engine, but when I get to work it’ll be my phone or when I get home from work it will be the big, loud fat drops of water dripping from the ceiling onto the kitchen table–or is it the sink again?”

Drip drop, drip drop.

Every day something new pops up–a new inconvenience to my ordinarily smooth-sailing life, a new form of drip drop, drip drop, drip drop like the incessant noise all night long from the sink, slowly letting one drop hit the bottom before the next one crashes out, staying with me all night long, echoing in the back of my mind.

I think about how that little inconvenience feels so huge–how that little inconvenience, all those little inconveniences daily, add up to a life riddled with inconveniences of the smallest scale. The person who doesn’t go immediately at a green light. The 30 seconds too long I popped the popcorn. The glass bottle I dropped and shattered and now have to clean up. I’m constantly inconvenienced.

But then, I think of what I could be hearing: that barely-there whisper of the drip drop, drip drop, drip drop, except this time it isn’t the sink slowly letting out water on to the drain, but the IV bag slowly, carefully, measurably dripping poison into my veins. It’s the IV bag keeping me alive, resisting desiccation, or tumor growth, or infection. An inconvenience so large that I must rely on it to live–suddenly, I think of all those other inconveniences–the broken phone, broken engine, broken roof, broken glass, broken house, and suddenly they all become overwhelmingly insignificant compared to the prospect of a broken body, a broken soul.

I’ll be thankful for my little inconveniences every day.

identity

What if your identity

Is not found in the big city

But in a small town

Where few people are brown or black

But mostly different shades of white

And every day the sun shines down as they

Continue to fight the good fight

To pay the bills

And maybe some buy the pills

Just to get the thrill

To survive.

Not thrive, because that would mean breaking out

Of the shell that looked like hell

But to others looked like a quiet Main Street

And a few stop lights

And county fair nights

And a simple, little peaceful town.

Sometimes your identity is not in

Prestige and honor and fame

But in the sincere scene of a gathered team

To pray before a game

Or a group gathered to cry

Over a blown out flame of someone loved

Who just lost the fight.

The good fight.

What if your identity isn’t in big city skies

But catching fireflies

In the evening light

And yelling hey to the neighbor who just passed by

And leaving your doors unlocked at night.

I’m learning, though,

Your identity isn’t where you are

It’s who you are

It’s the stories you carry within you

Not the culmination

Of your awards and accreditations

But your soul

Your sense of why

Your sense of who you are.

No matter how far away you go,

Hold onto your identity,

like a rope,

steadfastly.