One day, a little over ten years ago, I decided to run a marathon. I started training at once with nothing but a pair of worn running shoes, a Wikipedia page worth of marathon knowledge, and a whole lot of determination. Looking back, I would have been a textbook case of what not to do when training for a major race. I am still amazed that I somehow did not get injured. My race was in May, and I spent much of the preceding winter running in the snow. I remember running for hours on end navigating icy sidewalks, pushing against frigid gusts of wind, and trying to ignore the fact that every muscle in my body was screaming at me. The only thing that kept my feet moving that winter was the image of the finish line. I dreamt about the indescribable moment I would realize I had actually done it, run every single step inside of forty-two kilometres.
The funny thing is, ten years later I have almost no recollection of that moment. I do remember some other things very clearly. The random bystander who committed to wearing a heavy Darth Vader costume for four hours, waving a homemade sign that read “may the course be with you.” The man who put his arm around his struggling friend to physically push him on for the final two kilometres. My older brother running beside me for the last five kilometres in his jeans and work boots. My eighty year-old grandma Doris standing outside for hours to cheer me on for a few minutes at the finish line. Eating the best Big Mac of my life with a group of family and friends after the race.
In her latest book Waymaker, Ann Voskamp uses the term EPS, or Expectational Positioning System. Our minds often latch on to destination points, places we dearly hope to find ourselves one day. They might be tangible, like yellow tape drawn across a finish line or a framed college diploma. Or they might be more abstract ideals, like the perfect marriage, an ideal body, a fulfilling career. Sometimes we are conscious of our desired EPS destination; other times we may not even be fully aware until our lives veer off-course. And sometimes the smallest most ordinary moments can be the most poignant reminders of broken expectations. An obliviously happy and tired mother with a newborn baby enters a café and sits across from a couple that has struggled for years to conceive. An enthusiastic running group passes a man with chronic pain, just struggling to go for his daily walk. A young divorcee sees an old couple holding hands in companionable silence. These small moments, so ordinary to the rest of the world, can feel like a sudden dagger to a broken heart.
When I read through the book of Psalms in the Bible, I imagine that David experienced many of these trigger moments. The man who was supposed to be a father-figure and mentor turned on him out of jealousy and tried to take his life. People that he thought were friends stabbed him in the back. The woman that he was engaged to married another man without any notice. Instead of becoming a king like he was promised, David spent years as a fugitive. His writing gives a little insight into the depth of his pain as he wrestled through these moments: “How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul, with sorrow in my heart every day?” (Psalm 13: 2) “I am in deep water, and the floods overwhelm me.” (Psalm 69: 2) There is a beautiful point in each of these psalms where David’s gaze shifts from horizontal to vertical, finding communion with God. “I will trust in your unfailing love” (Psalms 13:5) “Let all who seek God’s help be encouraged, for the Lord hears the cries of the needy” (Psalm 69:32-33).
Later in Waymaker, Ann Voskamp writes “The moment you let go of your expectations, much suffering lets go of you.” What does it look like to release an expectation? Broken dreams can be incredibly painful, and the process of grieving can even feel akin to mourning a death. And grieving very seldom looks linear: even years later unexpected triggers or dagger moments can make the loss feel as fresh as if it happened yesterday. Carl Rogers once wrote: “The good life is a process, not a state of being. It is a direction, not a destination.” We were not created to reach destinations, but rather to form relationships through the process of joy, pain, stability and uncertainty. As a follower of Jesus, I believe that our hearts were ultimately formed to find communion with Him by walking with Him through every season of life.
Ironically, the moments of deepest pain can lead to the moments of purest comfort and connection. My one-year old daughter typically does not stay still for longer than five seconds at a time. However, occasionally after having a big fall and sobbing, she will spend some time in silence nestling her body into mine and resting her head on my shoulder. And these are the moments that I desperately wish I could stop time. I truly come to know “the God of all comfort” when I choose to bring Him my hurt and pain (1 Corinthians 1:3). When I feel rejection and loneliness, my heart has a deeper capacity to wonder that Jesus would willingly enter these feelings to their greatest possible intensity out of love for me (Isaiah 53:3).
Sometimes I wonder how I will view my life now in ten years. Will I even remember dreams or destination points? Or will I be left with all the little moments of connection along the journey in the form of tearful prayers, joyful worship and silent meditation? During points along the way of navigating broken expectations, David came to realize that communion with God was all that his heart truly desired. “My soul thirsts for you, my flesh longs for you as in a dry and weary land without water… Because your loyal love is better than life, my lips will praise you.” (Psalms 63:1, 3)
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