Another year in my 40s is coming to a close.
I used to enjoy the holidays.
I gave a short message at church recently. The message was an adult version of “What I did on my summer vacation” but was instead discussing in detail what I had learned at a conference on Biblical Counseling.
I had a day to prepare, so I sat and thought and turned on some music.
1999 is a long time ago.
A quarter century.
The band Luxury released their self-titled album that year.
That album changed me. The lyricism and music merged in a way that, at my age of 17, resonated and continues to resonate with my soul.
The song Mincemeat, in particular. It was written in response to the car accident that almost ended the band and their lives. Once you realize that Lee Bozeman is writing about his created vision of God being destroyed by the true God… when the chorus hits, and the music swells.
It takes your breath away.
Luxury released a new album this year. Like Unto Lambs. The single Maker is incredible; the music starts rough but builds up. Three of the guys are Orthodox priests. One sells burritos. One, per his own X account, says he is a stay at home dad.
Nobody does this. They all do something else.
As I propel toward 43, I hide a gaping wound in my soul. When will I …?
Will I?
I feel I have creative talent but no outlet. Something inside screams for release but cannot be let out. I’ve spent almost 30 years looking for the spigot but nothing has worked.
Aging, I’ve become painfully aware of my impending death. This earthly tent is wasting away. I become more and more aware that my existence has been without meaningful output.I feel less and less aware of that output with each passing day. It isn’t there.
I am pressed by the common question of every man approaching his midlife crisis: what have I done with my life?
I don’t know.
I’ve been looking for that spigot. I can’t find it. I have something inside but no skill to let it out. I worry deeply that, when crossing the threshold, I will be the servant who hid his talent in the soil.
Oh, God, I’ve been looking for the hole that my key fits, but I cannot find it. Please redeem me. I cannot save myself from this life of uselessness. I have something that you’ve given me, thus I have something to give: but what is it? Have you told me, and I haven’t heard? Worse, have you told me, and I haven’t listened? If so, please forgive me, and in your steadfast love repeat it to me, over and over if necessary.
I know you put it there somewhere. It grows inside of me. The pressure builds up. I cannot take it much longer. I need some work, somehow, that would make use of this gift that I don’t know what it is.
But I must be careful. Staring too long into the abyss isn’t good. Eventually, it’s all you see.