An Ordinary Life

I quote Garrison Keillor when I say that I, "once was afraid, afraid of living an ordinary life." Now I pray for an ordinary life. I long to be an ordinary guy who isn't afraid to eat cholesterol for breakfast. One who doesn't quit running when an approaching car may see the fat guy on his morning jog. I want to be the ordinary guy who isn't filled with dread when the phone rings wondering what the next tragedy is. I hope to someday be ordinary enough to to say, "I don't care," when leveled with a critique from the one who feels privileged to tell the minister that he is not Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent clothed in a super suit.

I want to be ordinary instead of sub-par, and sometimes, self-loathing.

Too many people struggle against being ordinary because too many people feel they were born for some exciting purpose. To live a life created by a screenwriter and directed to perfection. The grand purposes have been true for some, but for others, their lives are much less grandiose than their dreams. But we're born ordinary, and we die ordinary. I've seen the wealthiest people I know die in plain hospital gowns, feet bare, and mouths wide open.

Ordinary is alright, and many folks would pray for an ordinary life.

Ordinary has different faces, but secure beyond tragic, worthless, or sad. I come from ordinary people; hard working and faithful, ordinary people. To me ordinary is different with each passing day.

Sometimes ordinary is watching my daughter sing on stage, or act in the lead role of a play. Other times it's watching my son in a pile of other little league baseball players after winning a championship.

Ordinary can be losing my breath when my wife walks into a room and I am stricken with the feeling that only she can cause within my heart and soul.

Sometimes ordinary means getting up in the morning, brushing my teeth, and washing my face with cold water. Brewing coffee while I shower, shave, and dress. Then putting one foot in front of the other all day long, doing what I am called to do that day.

When I was four years old I stole a wooden block from the preschool I attended. When my parents questioned me about the well worn wooden building block I said, "The school took us to a used toy store and gave us a nickel apiece to buy something." My parents were patient, but insisted that I return the wooden block the next day at the beginning of the school day.
I was apprehensive as I stepped from my mother's car and made the walk up the sidewalk to deliver my stolen good to the school principal and owner. She took it gracefully and I entered into a new day of school. Oh for the restoration principle to be so gentle and loving for those who have lived more days than children have.

The address of the, "used toy store," I conjured was at 50th and Utica. I now serve a church at 48th and Utica just a short jaunt from my childhood neighborhood. I believe that I work at that very used toy store that I lied about so long ago. The church is filled with, "used toys," played by others and left with made-up names, labels, and baggage that were given to them.