Writing to you live from limbo, I’m sitting outside on a nice patio deck on the second floor of a cozy little Denver apartment watching the setting sun shine off the roof of the apartment building across the grassy breezeway and the clouds drift by, lazy afternoon interlopers on their way home from a Sunday drive.
I’m tired, and I think I’ve finally reached the fuel light on my seven months abroad. Wearing myself thin by staying up late, then yesterday’s 13-hour volunteer event at the Kenny Chesney concert at the Broncos Stadium, and my Durango randomly losing battery power … I just want to curl up in some big padded something and disappear for a few days. Like a bed that filled an entire house, cushion everywhere but for small tunnels and slits that opened into other chambers, like a sponge for sleepers.
Mmm … sleep.
But I sit out here at 7:14 pm local, enjoying the soft quiet but for the occasional passing car and the gentle buzz of an A/C unit across the breezeway.
And I’m sitting in limbo.
It’s been a busy year, starting, if you could say starting, at the end of my four-month tenure in Montgomery last year with a head-long rush toward deployment, the deployment, the return, and now I’m here in Aurora doing annual requirements.
It’s been ceaseless, for the most power — even calculating in the weeks of “rest” and my long motorcycle roadtrip, but there was never just time to stop and do nothing. Time where I didn’t have to run errands or chores or anything of the like. Time I could just stop and BE.
What in your life has kept you from just BEing? We cannot dismiss our ceaseless fear of the quiet as one of those motivators to keep running, because we so very much fear the quiet.
It becomes a moment in which we must face ourselves, our other fears and our shortcomings, and none of us wants to do that. It eats at us and we fear we will have nothing left after it’s through with us.
Truth is, it’s never as bad as we fear, and tomorrow is never as bleak as we worry over.
I am not afraid of tomorrow, but I am in limbo.
In the next few weeks, I hope to find out if I’ll give five months of orders to stay on Buckley. I would like to stay — I want to be in Denver for a bit, get away from the South (which I do love) — see new and different things. Get back to writing my Peter Pan series. Get some voicework done. And…
Figure out what next.
I was in my deployment thinking I might get a commission and roll into a officer spot somewhere and … that didn’t work out.
Then I thought about taking a long time and get Scroll Media up and running in earnest.
But I don’t want to run a business.
I like some of the military stuff I’m doing, but I am tiring of it. Not of traveling, but of several aspects, to include traveling alone, working for different bosses with different missions.
And on top of all that comes an underlying worry — that I’m supposed to be getting a “real job” and build a “real family.”
One of the conflicts rises because I have no concern about the kind of family I want. I want one that I can travel with, one I can shape with the right woman into something unique, something rarely seen in these American parts.
But I question myself as any responsible man should: How will I provide and care for them?
I write novels and I do voicework and I want to do music and eventually radio and public speaking … but will those things provide enough when I need them? When can I be a full-time, and still non-starving artist?
Do I really have the drive to do these things fulltime? Because honestly, when I sometimes have the time to do nothing and not work, I don’t really feel like getting up and running after creative jobs, either.
Nor do I not want to work.
Perhaps I just want to do what is most fulfilling, and I do not yet know what that is.
So today, I write to you from limbo. A place of uncertainty. Not so much fear, but a human concern for how tomorrow will unfold. Or perhaps, by the very unique nature of my own faith and relationship with God, this becomes yet another opportunity to stop worrying about tomorrow, and concern myself only with listening for His voice.
Yes, I think that the wisest of courses. To trust, even in silence, that He yet walks beside me and is prepared to mold myself into something great, something that molds exactly with the internal yearning of my heart: to not be settled, to not worry over provision, to have a family, to express to the fullest extent the creative outlets God has blessed me with, and to change how people think.
I am in limbo, but I will wait. He is worth it.