This is Real

"This is real. This is happening. This is my life."

I spoke those words aloud to myself Saturday night as I was preparing to go to bed. The kids were with Grandpa and Grandma for the weekend, and I was in my bedroom fixing the sheets. All of a sudden, I was hit with a sensation that I have never felt before.

It was as though I was looking through someone else's eyes. I was looking into the life of some man going about his nightly routine. I had a flash of his mind and of all the things he had been thinking over the last week. It was all very ordinary stuff - going to work, taking care of his kids, cleaning the house, cooking dinner. There was really nothing exceptional about any of it. The whole scene was very strange, and it seemed like something was hanging in the air. There was a weight upon this man, only he didn't feel it. At least, he didn't seem to. He was just going about his routine. The man paused at this point and looked around. Familiarity crept in as I felt the quilted bedspread in need of a wash, the soft linen of the sheets, the floorboard that creaks right next to the dresser. It was then I realized I was in my own home, in my own bedroom, looking through my own eyes.

For that moment, I could not make sense of reality. I had seen through this man's eyes, and though he was me, I had no concept of what he was doing or why. Surely this was not how I lived, I thought. Do I really make up a bed only to sleep on one side of it? How long have I been going through these motions? Is this my life? It doesn't seem like it...

And then, more disturbing than these thoughts came the reality that, in fact yes, this is all real. I struggled to shake my doubts. Aloud, I said those words to myself.

"This is real. This is happening. This is my life."

At that point, I thought I would feel sad. Or angry. Perhaps frustrated. Even lonely. I felt none of these things. I felt like a chalkboard freshly erased, the remnant of what was written there still faintly visible, the dust not taken away but merely pushed around the slate, a cloudy image of something that once was clear.

I am coming to the understanding that it is easy to lose oneself in two extremes: routine and dreams. The former gives structure and makes sure things get done, but it lacks passion and zeal and an awareness of other happenings outside of the norm. Dreams certainly don't lack for passion or vision or excitement, but they deny that which is necessary to accomplish right now, and they ignore what is happening in the present. Combined, they miss reality, where one misses due to fixtures and the other due to fantasy.

I live in these two extremes. I require routine because there is so much to be done. Even with the help I receive, there is simply so much that demands my attention and energy and focus. I dream because dreaming lets me believe for the future, to hope in what is coming next. By themselves and in right balance, these two extremes are lovely dance partners. But without the music of reality playing them along the floor, they're just two lunatics locked in a deluded embrace.

Here is my reality: My name is Joe Ringle. I am 29 years old. I have two children, Audrey and Hudson. My wife, Christen, passed away 4 months ago. Life is difficult for us right now. But we serve a God whose goodness knows no end. He has rescued my family from certain, eternal death and given us, through Jesus, true and lasting life with Him, even if it isn't with each other here and now.

I will live in light of grace and not fetter myself to foolish delusions or denials of the truth.