My St. Petersburg

I'm an English teacher. This job casts me into one of two categories: people who love literature, and people who hate children. A quick look at my resume will prove me unqualified for the latter group, so you can use process of elimination to decide where I belong. Literature is all about stories. There are certain elements that every story contains: theme, character, plot, structure, setting, point of view, and style. If you examine your life, you'll find that your own story fits this model quite well. We may not realize this in the middle of a particular chapter of our story, because life in real-time tends to look more like a sporadic collage of events than a linear, structured tale that can be shared around a campfire or written down in a book. Yet, when we look into our past, we can connect the dots enough to see the picture that is formed by our choices and actions. And what we see can be pretty astounding.

One element of my story that has been the topic of much of my thought lately is setting, the where and when of a story. If you're like me, you've spent most of your life taking your setting for granted, thinking your setting isn't a variable in the same way that your plot and supporting characters are; it's just the pages upon which the story is written. I recently realized that this isn't true. In my favorite novel, Crime and Punishment, Russian genius Fyodor Dostoyevsky spends much of the first chapter painting the picture of his setting. He describes the slums of St. Petersburg thoroughly, including color, smell, organization, sanitation, weather, use of space, and attitude.

Dostoyevsky takes these pains because he knows that we can't understand the story's protagonist, Raskolnikov, until we understand his setting. Think about your setting. What kind of area do you live in? What kinds of places do you go? What kind of people do you come into contact with? What is the general atmosphere of your surroundings? Now, think about the main character of your story--you. How are you shaped by your setting? What does your setting make possible in your life? What does your setting hold you back from? You are who you are because of where you are. And if you haven't been in your present setting long enough for that to be true, if you stick around long enough, it will become true. Because again, setting is not a non-variable facet that the rest of the story is thrown onto; it is a carefully crafted ingredient that is crucial to the story's plot, from start to finish.

Raskolnikov's setting made him an axe murderer. What will your setting make of you?

The Starting Gun

I spent the last three summers serving at Camp Hebron.  For over two months each year, I would spend my days ministering to children, families, and fellow staffers, all the while “connecting with God, nature, and each other” through games, theme meals, cooperatives, adventure trips, lots of yelling, powerful prayer sessions, and so many other ridiculous activities.  Without a doubt, I have not yet experienced the kind of freedom and abundance of life that can always be found just below Peter’s Mountain in Halifax, PA anywhere else.

Since the end of my time on summer staff at camp, I’ve been in an ongoing struggle to figure out the secret to finding such a rush of adventure and true joy every day in what I reluctantly refer to as “the real world.”  I’ve had plenty of theories.  But a theory that isn’t put into practice will never become more than a theory.  And I’m not looking for theories, I’m looking for fulfillment.

I realize that my use of the word “fulfillment” here might rub someone the wrong way.  After all, if my heart is in the care of Jesus, my fulfillment is in him, right?  Well, yes, ideally, but I know myself well enough to know that is the case much less often than it should be.  I got to hear one of my favorite authors, Donald Miller, speak last week.  He told a story (as he does so well) about a friend who once complained about the meaninglessness of life.  To this jaded negativity, Don boldly, but tenderly, suggested to his friend, “Perhaps all life isn’t meaningless, just your life is meaningless.”  It’s quite a point, and one that has resounded with me.  If at camp I feel alive and free in ways that I can’t seem to find elsewhere, I could resign to the idea that camp is different than “the real world” and it will never be the same.  From time to time, when I tire of trekking uphill, I take this route.  But there is another option:  recognize how such an environment is created at camp, and recreate it wherever I go—because, as the theme song from my first summer so eloquently and energetically puts it, “wherever we go, that’s where the party’s at.”

While each year of college and each summer at camp contained gradual changes, it’s been a few years since my life has undergone a serious and sudden transformation.  Suddenly, I find myself on the brink of simultaneously taking on what my fiancée was recently told are the three largest transitions an adult will experience, this side of the birth of a child:  marriage, moving to a new location, and beginning a new career.

So as I dive into this new adventure, or perhaps this compilation of adventures, I’m pondering what will bring that fulfillment I spoke of earlier to each new day, good or bad, simple or rough, laughter or tears.  I’m considering how to avoid a meaningless life, remembering that I have titled this blog after the idea that living such a life is entirely improbable in the world we live in.  Last night, a new inkling entered my neurological highway:  what if the key lies in the way I began the journey?

Think about it.  Doesn’t the start of a trip determine so much of the outcome, especially in regards to the way we are affected by the journey?  And as I chewed over this idea, I remembered what I was doing exactly a year ago—I had just moved into a new apartment, and for a month leading up to camp, I had no job or responsibility.  What started as the embrace of a break from schoolwork quickly turned into laziness, which grew exponentially.  Many days, I didn’t leave the house.  I wanted to.  I wanted so much more than this, but I guess not enough to do something about it.  Of course, I was able to immediately flip the switch to “adventure mode” as soon as the fresh mountain air filled my lungs at camp, but some considerable damage had already been done.  Not irrevocable damage, but it was enough to make the rest of year quite a fight.  My life in this apartment had already become associated with settling for a stifling, stodgy existence.  As awesome as my roommates were, and as much fun as we so often had, once I got back to the apartment, I could only feel indifference to the adventure of life I had so recently been committed to.

There was no reason for me to not live a fulfilling life.  I spent every day teaching literature to high schoolers, which may be vomit-inducing for you, but is ever-so-lovely to me.  Or at least I always thought it would be.  And I’m certain that it would have been, had I chosen joy.

And all this is okay.  I didn’t waste a year.  I may have not even strayed from the path of my journey.  But the blazes marking my way led me through some thick brush and sharp thorns that taught me what to avoid when I start climbing uphill.  As I enter these transitions, this time of drastic change, I’m making it a point to start strong.  To take risks.  To stop relying on comfort.  To let my surroundings become associated with adventure.  I think it will pay off.