Adventures & Antidotes

I have a nine year old son who loves to read. Before bed, we’ll often grab a classic tale to read together. As I’m writing this, we’re deep into Treasure Island, enjoying the harrowing tale of a young boy named Jim Hawkins who winds up aboard a ship of marauding pirates. Jim has to use his wits to outsmart the mutinous crew as he seeks to right wrongs and avoid certain death. 

My son and I find ourselves drawn to the underdog hero, cheering his valiant escapades. We’re left wondering whether we could muster the courage to outwit the unscrupulous Long John Silver, whether we would put ourselves at risk to aid dying friends, and if we would be willing to undertake an arduous journey that would eventually lead to untold treasure.

We close the book after reading a few chapters at a time and find ourselves back in reality. I’ve somehow ended up in an uncomfortable sitting position, my back aching and my arm numb from holding the book in position for both of us to see. My son inevitably gets a second wind, wanting to talk about the book, about his day, about… anything. He simply doesn’t want to go to sleep though it’s well past bedtime. And I usually find myself deeply exhausted from the many tasks of the day, and ever more exhausted from having just fumbled through several chapters of old English pirate dialogue. I do my best to help my son wind down, at times, admittedly, with very little patience. There’s always a kiss and a prayer before I depart the room. 

Compared to the adventure of Jim Hawkin’s life, my life is rather monotonous. Much of what I do daily is a repeat of the day prior. I battle loads of laundry, not pirates. I sail down the road in my minivan to the grocery store for the 45th time in a week, but don’t find myself sailing the high seas. I encounter mutinies daily by small scallywags who share my last name and refuse to eat what I’m making. My husband and I routinely head out of the door to our jobs, having not yet discovered a chest full of gold doubloons that would free us from the need to work. 

I have so often found myself wrestling with how very simple and mundane my life is. I feel the pull that so many of us have toward striving to feel seen and appreciated, grabbing ourselves attention on social media platforms. We absorb the highlights reel of others’ lives as we look exhaustedly at the responsibilities and difficult relationships in our lives. In a recent survey done by an analyst group called The Morning Consult, they discovered that over 50% of Gen Z (ages 13-26) desire to become famous YouTubers. We’ve been conditioned to suspect that perhaps fame or fortune will truly help us feel wanted and loved. We scurry around anxiously wondering if our neighbors are outpacing us with wealth, stuff, or relationships. We imagine that the grass is greener just about anywhere else. We long for a life of more adventure, more heroic moments, more shiny treasure.

To assuage the anxiety of it all, we numb ourselves with substances, food, screens, pornography, overworking… the list of ways to escape is endless. None of us is immune to the pull to strive and covet. 

What is the antidote?

I believe the answer is bigger than this blog post can adequately cover, and philosophers and theologians have reflected on this in profound ways that I’m inadequate to relay. But the older I get, the more I suspect the answer is not so difficult to grasp. It’s found in the simple act of reading night after night with my son as we giggle at my truly awful attempts at pirate jargon, bearing the back pain and numb arm from having borne the weight of a young child. The decision to listen to my son recite his day, setting aside my exhaustion to honor his eagerness to connect while long-suffering his attempts to delay bedtime. The kisses and hugs that express tender mutual care. The prayer together that reminds us both that we are already loved, wanted and known. It’s the moments when I am able to be present in the simplest ways in my own messy, mundane and monotonous life that I can grab the clothes hamper as I exit the bedroom to scamper back down the stairs and recognize that I needn’t sail the high seas, for I am already in possession of untold treasure.

Enjoy the little things, for one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.

                -Kurt Vonnegut