The Death and (hopeful) Resurrection of Ben Price
I am an optimist. So when change happens, I am inclined to look for the best. I recently celebrated my 29th birthday with my two kids and wife, in a house that I own, and I counted by blessings. What I haven't done is taken time to mourn all that I have lost as these changes have transpired.
They say the first stage of loss is denial, and I think that those with an optimistic bent are the masters. This whole time while I have trying to embrace this new life of adulthood, parenthood, homeownership--whatever the life change--I haven't let go of all the things that can no longer be part of this new life. Or more precisely, I haven't let go of the expectations I have held in my former life.
So I am trying to live this new life and carry around the remains of my old life, insisting that I should be able to have my cake and eat it too. But instead of embracing the new with joy and passion, I have, on too many occasions, found myself conflicted, frustrated and angry. After wrestling with these emotions for more than a year, this is my simple observation: I cannot embrace this new life fully without mourning the loss of my old life fully. And I have not finished mourning because I have failed to declare the old life dead. So the following is the eulogy of Ben Price as he once was.
Change is Slow
In sports, they talk about teams that can "turn it on" whenever they want. So a team can come out flat and get behind, only to flip a switch and surge past their opponent. Of course, inevitably, teams that begin to believe this myth about themselves, in the moment of truth, cannot, in fact, "turn it on" (as evidenced by my beloved 2006 Pistons). This is the epitome of denial. "I haven't lost a step, I'm just saving it for when I need it." "I am not out of shape, I have learned to work smarter, not harder." "I only need to be one step faster than the other guy."
My old life was lived in a series of sprints. I turned it on when I needed to, and laid back the rest of the time. Every project, every ministry, every relationship was an all or nothing, balls to the wall dash. And, to be honest, I had the skills to back it up. But this new life, it is hard and constant and all the little things bleed together into one, long, uphill marathon. If I live this new life like my old one, I am gonna burn out in the first 500 yards.
So I am killing off my expectation of instantaneous results and acknowledge that change is slow; and any meaningful change is going to be hard and take a serious commitment to slowly walk in a new direction for a long time.
Flexibility is Less & Responsibility is More
A long time ago I was on a family vacation to the Locks in the UP of Michigan. One of the tour people was explaining how these huge tankers had to plan their next move miles out because it took so long to turn or slow down or speed up these ships because of the enormous weight they carried.
My old life was like a WaveRunner. I could change direction on a dime, speed up, slow down, whatever, and do it all with little planning at all. I could do it because I their wasn't much weight to my vessel. Just me and my hopes and dreams. Then I got married and turned in my WaveRunner for a sailboat. Another person's life and hopes and dreams--a little more weight. But man, we could still move. We went where the wind carried us and it was smooth sailing as long as we were communicating with each other. Now I have two kids, more lives and hopes and dreams, neighbors, financial responsibilities, a community I am responsible to, even a dog. So, while I may not be a tanker yet, this new life is a pretty big boat.
This all sounds silly, but there is a point: Every decision I make in my new life carries a lot of weight. I don't have the luxury of changing directions at the last minute--too many people have boarded this boat with the expectation that I am going to deliver. So I am killing this old expectation that I can chase every fancy and pursue every option. The sky is no longer the limit--the limits are real and I need to acknowledge them.
It's Not About Me
It is tempting to say that I have always known this. And on a theoretical level it is true. We know that the universe doesn't revolve around us, but it doesn't stop us from living like it. I don't mean we are self-centered or unaware of the people or problems around us. It is just that in my old life, I set the agenda. I plotted the course and as people's lives intersected mine, I interacted and tried to help and paid attention. I listened and learned and changed, but all the while, I felt like it was my life I was leading; people had their influence, but my life was really still about me.
Then I had kids.
I never really appreciated Paul when he said, "the life I live is not my own . . ." I don't know that I am yet really living for Jesus, but I know this, I am no longer living for myself. It is like I have become a passenger on someone else's boat. (Should it frighten me that it might be piloted by a two year old and a six month old?) Well, I am not just a passenger, I am a sailor. I still have work to do, I still have responsibilities and decisions to make. But it isn't about me. I might even be the captain, but this isn't my boat anymore. (Oh, that I could say that my love for Jesus was as real as my love for these little ones. Maybe that is what they are here to teach me.)
No, the old life is dead. I have killed what was left of it. Now I can properly mourn what I have lost. I know some of you will think this is elementary and no big deal. "Get over it and grow up like the rest of us." And yes, I know I am stating the obvious. But that is the thing, the obvious was there all along, and I just kept pretending it wasn't there. So I have named my fear. I am Peter Pan. With a family that needs me to grow up. I will certainly miss Neverland.
They say the first stage of loss is denial, and I think that those with an optimistic bent are the masters. This whole time while I have trying to embrace this new life of adulthood, parenthood, homeownership--whatever the life change--I haven't let go of all the things that can no longer be part of this new life. Or more precisely, I haven't let go of the expectations I have held in my former life.
So I am trying to live this new life and carry around the remains of my old life, insisting that I should be able to have my cake and eat it too. But instead of embracing the new with joy and passion, I have, on too many occasions, found myself conflicted, frustrated and angry. After wrestling with these emotions for more than a year, this is my simple observation: I cannot embrace this new life fully without mourning the loss of my old life fully. And I have not finished mourning because I have failed to declare the old life dead. So the following is the eulogy of Ben Price as he once was.
Change is Slow
In sports, they talk about teams that can "turn it on" whenever they want. So a team can come out flat and get behind, only to flip a switch and surge past their opponent. Of course, inevitably, teams that begin to believe this myth about themselves, in the moment of truth, cannot, in fact, "turn it on" (as evidenced by my beloved 2006 Pistons). This is the epitome of denial. "I haven't lost a step, I'm just saving it for when I need it." "I am not out of shape, I have learned to work smarter, not harder." "I only need to be one step faster than the other guy."
My old life was lived in a series of sprints. I turned it on when I needed to, and laid back the rest of the time. Every project, every ministry, every relationship was an all or nothing, balls to the wall dash. And, to be honest, I had the skills to back it up. But this new life, it is hard and constant and all the little things bleed together into one, long, uphill marathon. If I live this new life like my old one, I am gonna burn out in the first 500 yards.
So I am killing off my expectation of instantaneous results and acknowledge that change is slow; and any meaningful change is going to be hard and take a serious commitment to slowly walk in a new direction for a long time.
Flexibility is Less & Responsibility is More
A long time ago I was on a family vacation to the Locks in the UP of Michigan. One of the tour people was explaining how these huge tankers had to plan their next move miles out because it took so long to turn or slow down or speed up these ships because of the enormous weight they carried.
My old life was like a WaveRunner. I could change direction on a dime, speed up, slow down, whatever, and do it all with little planning at all. I could do it because I their wasn't much weight to my vessel. Just me and my hopes and dreams. Then I got married and turned in my WaveRunner for a sailboat. Another person's life and hopes and dreams--a little more weight. But man, we could still move. We went where the wind carried us and it was smooth sailing as long as we were communicating with each other. Now I have two kids, more lives and hopes and dreams, neighbors, financial responsibilities, a community I am responsible to, even a dog. So, while I may not be a tanker yet, this new life is a pretty big boat.
This all sounds silly, but there is a point: Every decision I make in my new life carries a lot of weight. I don't have the luxury of changing directions at the last minute--too many people have boarded this boat with the expectation that I am going to deliver. So I am killing this old expectation that I can chase every fancy and pursue every option. The sky is no longer the limit--the limits are real and I need to acknowledge them.
It's Not About Me
It is tempting to say that I have always known this. And on a theoretical level it is true. We know that the universe doesn't revolve around us, but it doesn't stop us from living like it. I don't mean we are self-centered or unaware of the people or problems around us. It is just that in my old life, I set the agenda. I plotted the course and as people's lives intersected mine, I interacted and tried to help and paid attention. I listened and learned and changed, but all the while, I felt like it was my life I was leading; people had their influence, but my life was really still about me.
Then I had kids.
I never really appreciated Paul when he said, "the life I live is not my own . . ." I don't know that I am yet really living for Jesus, but I know this, I am no longer living for myself. It is like I have become a passenger on someone else's boat. (Should it frighten me that it might be piloted by a two year old and a six month old?) Well, I am not just a passenger, I am a sailor. I still have work to do, I still have responsibilities and decisions to make. But it isn't about me. I might even be the captain, but this isn't my boat anymore. (Oh, that I could say that my love for Jesus was as real as my love for these little ones. Maybe that is what they are here to teach me.)
No, the old life is dead. I have killed what was left of it. Now I can properly mourn what I have lost. I know some of you will think this is elementary and no big deal. "Get over it and grow up like the rest of us." And yes, I know I am stating the obvious. But that is the thing, the obvious was there all along, and I just kept pretending it wasn't there. So I have named my fear. I am Peter Pan. With a family that needs me to grow up. I will certainly miss Neverland.
posted by ben price at 11:00 PM
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