In Between

I find myself in a strange little place today.

I've been here before.

Every couple of months, actually.

All of my schoolwork is submitted.

The grades aren't all in.

My next classes don't unlock until Monday.

There is absolutely nothing I can do about either one.

Epictetus opens the Enchiridion with an idea I've been trying to get better at living.

Some things are within our control.

Others aren't.

Simple.

Not necessarily easy.

My assignments were within my control.

I did them.

Submitted them.

Revised them when they needed revising.

Recorded the podcast.

Wrote the papers.

Answered the discussions.

Did the work.

The grades?

Those belong to someone else now.

I can't change them.

I can't improve them.

I can't stare at the gradebook hard enough to make them appear faster.

Believe me.

I've tried.

The next classes aren't any different.

They're sitting there.

I know what they are.

I'm excited about them.

But they're locked.

Monday is Monday.

Today is Friday.

No amount of enthusiasm on my part changes that.

There is something wonderfully frustrating about having absolutely nothing useful to worry about.

Marcus Aurelius wrote about not allowing the future to disturb us because we'll meet it, when it arrives, with the same reason we use to meet the present.

That's harder than it sounds.

Especially for me.

I like markers on the horizon.

Goals.

Plans.

The next thing.

Give me somewhere to march and I'll start moving.

But every couple of months, school forces me to stop.

For a few days...

Tomorrow refuses to accept any work from me.

I've actually grown to love that.

Because if there is nothing I can do about yesterday's work...

And nothing I can do yet about Monday's work...

Then my attention has nowhere useful to go except today.

Today has plenty for me.

Work, for one.

This afternoon is one of my favorite meetings with my leadership team.

Every other week, we hold our council meeting.

There is usually an agenda.

But the agenda isn't designed to maximize time.

It's designed to maximize conversation.

I don't want presentation after presentation.

I don't want everyone reading slides to one another.

There are a few things I need to hear so I can carry information upward.

There are a few things I need to give them so they know where we're going.

But mostly...

I want us to talk.

For a little while, they can take off their manager hats.

I can take off my director hat.

And we can have an honest conversation about where we are.

What's working.

What isn't.

What we're seeing.

What we should try next.

There are a few things I'll drop into their inboxes while we're talking today.

Some ideas for the next few months.

Some things I want them thinking about.

They've learned to fear the moment when I get creative and start sending PowerPoints.

They'll survive.

Probably.

But I'm looking forward to the conversation more than anything else.

Another space intentionally left open enough for something useful to happen inside it.

Then there's home.

The boys survived their first full day of school.

Today is their second.

There was a little tiredness this morning.

A little stress getting everyone out the door.

Nothing unexpected.

The starting line has officially been crossed.

Now we figure out the rhythm.

This weekend doesn't need to be spectacular.

Actually, I'd prefer if it wasn't.

Maybe we'll barbecue.

Maybe we'll make it down to the lake.

If I do, the ankle will be properly braced.

There will be some cleaning.

Some groceries.

The ordinary maintenance required to keep six humans and our increasingly ridiculous collection of animals alive.

But mostly...

I want us to catch our breath.

There is one more ending tucked into this weekend.

We'll make our last official trip to fill the food pantry.

For the last few years, that has been part of our family's weekly rhythm.

Week after week.

Showing up.

Helping fill what needed filling.

Doing our little part.

We're not walking away from service.

We'll still help from time to time.

But that weekly cadence is ending.

Something else will eventually take its place as we explore a new church and discover where our family can serve there.

We don't know exactly what that looks like yet.

And maybe we don't need to.

That's another in-between.

One rhythm ending.

The next one not quite established.

Nothing wrong.

Nothing missing.

Just space.

It's strange.

I spend so much of my life moving toward the next thing.

The next assignment.

The next project.

The next school year.

The next goal.

The next idea.

Today, none of those things need anything from me.

The work is submitted.

The grades will come.

The next classes are locked.

The boys are at school.

The weekend hasn't started.

The next place our family serves will reveal itself when the time comes.

For a few hours...

I'm simply here.

In between.

And for as strange as this little place is...

It's become one of my favorite places to be.

We spend a lot of energy worrying about things that are no longer ours to change or aren't ours to do yet. Sometimes we've already done the work and the outcome belongs to someone else. Sometimes the next opportunity simply hasn't arrived. There is wisdom in recognizing both. Waiting doesn't always need to be filled with more planning, more worrying, or another task. Sometimes the space between one thing and the next is exactly where we're supposed to be. We can finish what was ours to do, trust what comes next to arrive when it arrives, and give our attention to the people and responsibilities actually in front of us today.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.