In Keeping A Child

When I was younger, I would spend so much time outdoors, that later in life my sisters and I would tell stories about our mother locking me out of the house during the summer, knowing I wouldn't return anyways until dinner.

Dirt and mud, soggy shoes and grass-stained knees, none of these things bothered me. If my hair was greasy, or my shirt was noisome, I never knew. I ran everywhere for the thrill of the wind rushing past my ears, and the momentum in my bones--never to get anywhere quickly (unless it was a race, of course).

I climbed, and imagined without shame, and I unabashedly played with toys. If the sun was out, I was outside, and if it was rainy... I was outside then too; or, at least until my mom called me back.

When did I learn to worry?

Even at the age of twenty-two, I am adolescent, but I have matured noticeably each year. What's funny is that I'm coming to an understanding of maturity that is very different from what I had imagined.

When I was in middle school, I quickly learned that if I wanted to fit in, and be cool, I would have to dawn certain costumes procured at the proper locations; I would have to keep calm and seldom smile; and I could no longer watch cartoons, or play with toys, or anything associated with childhood. I used swear words for the first time in sixth grade, and I learned how to abandon people that would bring my reputation down.

Since that time, I have come a long way. Lately I have begun to understand that maturity is not in reserved action, complete rationality, or social stoicism. We are still mature if we climb trees, or chase each other, or imagine worlds. Maturity is not supposed to lance the child out of us. In fact, I have met many who have seemed to be completely without their inner-child, and yet could not be described as anything other than juvenile individuals.

Adult deals with age and status. Maturity deals with a recognition of responsibility and urgency towards the amelioration of the world around oneself.

Understanding one's inner-child, though, requires some necessary boundaries.

I am allowed to climb trees, but if all I ever did (even if just during my free time) was climb trees, I would lose track of maturity on some level. For what does climbing trees accomplish besides a fresh perspective? And not to say that everything requires an accomplishment for its justification. But if I define all of my times of rest, and/or all of my relationships, by climbing trees, something would feel out of place. And if it came to the point that all I ever talked about, and all that I ever looked forward to, was the weekend so I could once again feel bark on my palms, and the smell of wood in my lungs, would not my life look futile?

When I was a child, my obligations were different, and so my life was allowed to focus around play. As an adult, I have an agency[ies] to fulfill.

However, the child must remain, and when I play, it seems I should be allowed to do so without fear or judgment. I should be allowed to dream. And why the hell can't I play with Legos? And these shouldn't be things that I skip, either, for the purpose of always working. The one who always works, quickly forgets how to sleep. And the one who does not sleep can no longer dream.

Our society struggles with a strange tendency to equate adulthood with a loss of humility. One of the first things one is taught in Middle School about growing up is that goofing off is uncool. When we view the things we love and bring us joy as shameful, we are too proud. Children do not comprehend pride. A soggy shoe is fun to walk on for the noise it produces. And hair is just a little extra color on someone's head.

To live healthy and fulfilling lives, our child must walk with us. I think in that way, maturity walks in stride with humility.

"And calling to him a child, [Jesus] put him in the midst of them and said, 'Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.'"

Matthew 18:2-4

jonah Complex

There's a whole strand of disappointments that have wound through the beginning of this week.

Up until last week, I was overly confident in my control of things.

Things. Things. Things.

Seconds and hours, and all those things that somehow added into a past for my Mr. David Vincent Goodwin, resident of 1400 Bemis, Grand Rapids, MI, student of three years and one half of a semester at Calvin College, son of Karen and Lloyd, and older brother to Julia and Natalie.

But what am I really?

About a year ago, I knew it all. And while all of my adventures as of late have been something, where does my identity fit into all of this?

The weekend before this week was really wild. On Friday, I spent a lot of time with a bunch of people I was very happy to see. The next day, I cleaned sheep skins with Alexander, helped in cleaning the house, and then went with the same people as the night before to explore Art Prize. Sunday flew by as well. Church was useless, only redeemed by a great breakfast with some good friends.

And then yesterday. Seriously, where does one begin? There was the frigid rain, the numerous mental mix-ups making me late, a healthy load of house tensions, a mis-communication ending in my feeling rejected, and a total stranger challenging my running from God. Does God want me so badly? Or am I just stuck in a place where I can't escape busybodies?

I don't deny the completely wonderful smell of Autumn that fills my lungs everytime I step outside. And yesterday Henry was kind enough to go with me to the Hookah lounge and just listen. There was healing somewhere or another in the midst of those experiences.

But it is never easy to hear that the person who was once a massive part of your identity is now moving on to become part of someone else's. And that kind of hurts.

It certainly only rehashed my wrestlings with God from the day before. If I ever become a Christian again, I'm changing my name to Israel. Because God's hand is reaching for my hip, and I'm holding him until morning.