In Pursuit of Slow Things: The Track

I’ve been in the fast lane lately.  The fast lane of striving.  This old car is taking me for another spin on the track.   Fear, is the fuel.  Comparison, is at the wheel.  Pride and insecurity hit the gas pedal to the floor.  How did I end up here again, in the backseat while envy and desire take the lead?  On the track again that leads to nowhere, just round and round again. Do more, is the perpetual finish line.  Do more and then what…? I tell myself it’s a fresh wave of excitement over a mid-life awakening of who I really am. That’s why the wheels are spinning, the gears are shifting, and the race is on. It’s not all bad becoming who you were meant to be.  

But then there is the noise of the crowd cheering from the stands,  “compare, compete, GO!”  Fear seems to lead me straight into the walls, with a slam right into discontentment and ungratefulness.  Fear makes me work harder to stay up with the pack, racing around the same track.  But this desire wars with the still small voice, ringing true and deep within me.  Is contentment really the prize that awaits after I do so many laps?  Or can it be here, and now?

But everyone is watching, so it feels.  Everyone is judging, so it seems.  The crowd lies and tells me that the world is owed to me, that ’it’s all’ up for grabs, and my “identity is at stake.” If only I could keep up. There is always more and I never seem to be enough. I  have been swept up into the fever pitch of the race, swept over by this generational, cultural, inevitable love affair with achievement.  Faster, harder, do more, be better.  The speedometer is climbing, my breathing is heavy, my face straining, mind whirring.  But panic sets in as I realize that this race will never end.   I’m tired, deep in my soul I am tired. Fear was never meant to fill my tank.  I was made to be filled with something better, something lasting, something that will never run dry. Someone.

His still small voice beckons.  I almost didn’t hear it in the noise of my insecurities and the din of the crowd.  “Come.  Rest.  They don’t see you.  I see you.  I made you.  You were made for me.  I chose you.  This world is not enough.  It never will be.  You will never be satisfied as long as you race.  The finish line will forever move.  Be satisfied in me.  Sit.  Be still.  I am near.  I am all. Come away with me.” 

Strange how worldly defeat and spiritual victory can hit me at the same moment. How submission and release can feel so similar to crossing a finish line. I slow down.   I get out and look around.  He’s right.  No one noticed that I stopped racing.  I look. I fall at His feet again.  He is better.   I am filled by true love itself.  I’m free, light, I’m made new and whole again.  I throw down the keys and slam the door. You are my salvation, sweet Jesus.   You are my redeemer, O Father.  You are my rest, dear Spirit.  You are all I need. 

The race rages on and it calls to me, ever still. But for now I am worshiping a different savior.