Apparently I need regular train rides to make any progress here.
Related: I really miss my bagel routine.
In other news, it’s officially summer—and, obviously, a summer unlike any other. When the world isn’t burning to bits, I tend to experience some degree of sudden-onset panic in the summer. Remember that one time I tried to reboot my life? Last summer, almost exactly a year ago.
Summer arrives with all its warmth and joy and shines a spotlight on my biggest fear: there won’t be enough time. Shorts at 7am and peak stone fruit season and the blurry beauty of opening your eyes underwater in a bright blue pool? There’s a time stamp on all of it, and it’s brief.
As you can imagine, 2020 has been an amazing wingman to this preexisting anxiety.
JK JK LOL NBD I’m just slowly turning into a zombie who scrolls Instagram as a coping mechanism.
I won’t pretend to have groundbreaking answers to any of this, but about a month or so ago, I did hear something helpful. I was listening to Brené Brown interview Jen Hatmaker while I was cleaning the house. And I could not tell you much about the context of the conversation because at that point I was doing more cleaning than listening, but at some point, I heard Jen say,
“Everything that matters will last.”
And that has stuck with me, because I really, really want it (need it?) to be true.
I want to believe that the things that matter most won’t be like rare, precious days of pink skies and perfect temperatures. That things like relationships and love and laughter, and hopefully also like football and jalapeño chips and these coveted summer days, will somehow last.
There’s similar comfort to be found in another quote from another podcast, this one from Kate Bowler’s interview with Dr. John Swinton:
As John writes, God’s time is gentle, generous. It moves at the speed of love. In God’s time there is enough, enough to sit down and draw a breath, to look more deeply into the eyes of people who we are lucky enough to love, and feel the secondhand of the clock stop ticking.
In 2020, time does not really feel gentle or generous. Sometimes, it feels like all of the hands of the clock have stopped ticking and that we live here now, indefinitely suspended in this new version of the world where we wash our groceries and watch Holey Moley as if it’s actual sports. It can also feel like time is moving so quickly that it’s slipping “like sands through the hourglass.” These are the super weird days of our lives.
So now that we’ve reached the height of summer and the halfway point of 2020, I need this reminder, and maybe you do, too:
There will be enough of everything that matters. And everything that matters will last.
At least that’s what Jen and John say. And I’m going to believe them, because the alternative is stress eating a pint of Chip Happens and I’ve done enough of that already.