now. Not on this one.
I turned quickly on my heel, made a beeline to the front door, and walked out into the fresh air.
The empty, sunny, fresh air.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out
.
I walked past the row of cars parked along the front of our building, across the street to the park, and down a side alley. I didn’t know where I was going, but I really also didn’t care. It didn’t matter at this point. All that mattered was that I was alone, outside, away from the madness.
No, I wasn’t pounding my fists or stomping my feet or raging at anyone. But it still felt good, this moment of freedom.
I kept walking, aimlessly, lost in thought, the quickness and urgency in my steps slowing as I calmed down.
What I wouldn’t give for real freedom, I thought.
Freedom and passion.
I was twenty-four.
Twenty-four should have been a time in my life that I was newly embarking on my journey, building my future with someone—not having to rebuild so completely that it was basically from the ground up.
Twenty-four should not have had death rob me of the love of my life.
But there I was, and I had been working hard to remember who I was before all of this. Remember who I had been when I met Paul and who he had fallen in love with. I knew I’d allowed complacency to keep me in a job where I merely filled a cubicle and punched a time clock, coming home to finish out my days as alone as I began them. I’d been with the company long enough to have made friends at work, but none of them was really someone I would have socialized with even under the best of circumstances. We coexisted, and we cooperated. None of us was really interested in more than that, so none of us really encouraged more than that.
I had my client list and my schedule of tasks, and I did exactly what I was supposed to everyday. No more, no less. I certainly wasn’t on the fast-track to greatness, but I pulled my weight. Maybe I should have been more determined to find a job that I loved, but I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t even care. I wanted to care, but sometimes I wondered if exploring that part of my life too deeply might make me truly aware of just how unfulfilled I felt at work. And what changing that would entail.
Where would I go from there?
There were so many questions to be answered, so much damage to be repaired.
I didn’t live with passion anymore; and I had, once. I wanted that back. I wanted to wake up in the morning and know that I was doing something that made me happy, made me feel like I had a purpose.
My steps became slower and slower, and then I stopped. I looked right and left, realizing I wasn’t really sure of where I was anymore. Too many side streets, too many little areas to get lost. And I was most definitely lost.
I turned around, hoping it might help me get my bearings, and came face to face with a sign.
Not a literal sign, but a sign nonetheless. It was there, written in bright green words spray-painted across the brick façade of an old store. The words were
my
words—written by some unknown hand—just for me.
Live with intent.
The store sat vacant, lonely-looking in its emptiness, its picture windows wide open and exposed. A For Sale sign hung askew at the bottom left corner of the window nearest the front door, which was locked tight in what seemed a cursory attempt at keeping vagrants away. Such a shell of a building.
It was beautifully—strangely—metaphorical.
I realized there were tears running down my cheeks, unbidden tears. Not of sadness or frustration or anger. I felt as though someone had reached out and touched some deeply buried place in my heart, gently caressed some long forgotten part of me.
I didn’t know yet what I was going to do, but I was determined to make my time count. This was it. This was the jumping off point, the line in the sand. This was my billboard from God.
I was going to make my life
full
.
I smiled as I stood there, staring at the sad little brick building, and took a
I turned quickly on my heel, made a beeline to the front door, and walked out into the fresh air.
The empty, sunny, fresh air.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out
.
I walked past the row of cars parked along the front of our building, across the street to the park, and down a side alley. I didn’t know where I was going, but I really also didn’t care. It didn’t matter at this point. All that mattered was that I was alone, outside, away from the madness.
No, I wasn’t pounding my fists or stomping my feet or raging at anyone. But it still felt good, this moment of freedom.
I kept walking, aimlessly, lost in thought, the quickness and urgency in my steps slowing as I calmed down.
What I wouldn’t give for real freedom, I thought.
Freedom and passion.
I was twenty-four.
Twenty-four should have been a time in my life that I was newly embarking on my journey, building my future with someone—not having to rebuild so completely that it was basically from the ground up.
Twenty-four should not have had death rob me of the love of my life.
But there I was, and I had been working hard to remember who I was before all of this. Remember who I had been when I met Paul and who he had fallen in love with. I knew I’d allowed complacency to keep me in a job where I merely filled a cubicle and punched a time clock, coming home to finish out my days as alone as I began them. I’d been with the company long enough to have made friends at work, but none of them was really someone I would have socialized with even under the best of circumstances. We coexisted, and we cooperated. None of us was really interested in more than that, so none of us really encouraged more than that.
I had my client list and my schedule of tasks, and I did exactly what I was supposed to everyday. No more, no less. I certainly wasn’t on the fast-track to greatness, but I pulled my weight. Maybe I should have been more determined to find a job that I loved, but I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t even care. I wanted to care, but sometimes I wondered if exploring that part of my life too deeply might make me truly aware of just how unfulfilled I felt at work. And what changing that would entail.
Where would I go from there?
There were so many questions to be answered, so much damage to be repaired.
I didn’t live with passion anymore; and I had, once. I wanted that back. I wanted to wake up in the morning and know that I was doing something that made me happy, made me feel like I had a purpose.
My steps became slower and slower, and then I stopped. I looked right and left, realizing I wasn’t really sure of where I was anymore. Too many side streets, too many little areas to get lost. And I was most definitely lost.
I turned around, hoping it might help me get my bearings, and came face to face with a sign.
Not a literal sign, but a sign nonetheless. It was there, written in bright green words spray-painted across the brick façade of an old store. The words were
my
words—written by some unknown hand—just for me.
Live with intent.
The store sat vacant, lonely-looking in its emptiness, its picture windows wide open and exposed. A For Sale sign hung askew at the bottom left corner of the window nearest the front door, which was locked tight in what seemed a cursory attempt at keeping vagrants away. Such a shell of a building.
It was beautifully—strangely—metaphorical.
I realized there were tears running down my cheeks, unbidden tears. Not of sadness or frustration or anger. I felt as though someone had reached out and touched some deeply buried place in my heart, gently caressed some long forgotten part of me.
I didn’t know yet what I was going to do, but I was determined to make my time count. This was it. This was the jumping off point, the line in the sand. This was my billboard from God.
I was going to make my life
full
.
I smiled as I stood there, staring at the sad little brick building, and took a
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