I’ve never been one to master foreign languages.
When forced to pick one in high school, I chose Russian. As it turns out, I was one of three students who had selected the course (not meeting the minimum requirement) and I was asked to pick again. Without even the chance to create a brutish Russian accent, I begrudgingly moved to French. Oh, magnifique.
I don’t know much, but I do know this: If you want to torture a high school boy, put him in a class with a sixty year old French teacher and none of the popular girls. It was brutal, but in all of the years I spent in Mrs. Snow’s French class (Or was it Ms. Snow? I doubt she was married.), I learned one important thing:
Once you begin thinking in French, speaking the language becomes that much easier.
* * *
As a society, I think we’re vision deficient.
On a daily basis, millions of good natured people drag their feet every morning. They dread breakfast, followed by a dreaded commute to dreadful work. They’ll have a dreadful ham sandwich while getting dreadful arthritis in their hands typing that dreaded expense report. On any given day, millions of people are waiting for life to end, one steady dime at a time.
This doesn’t happen all at once, of course. It was a series of minor moments where the last leaking moments of our childhood told us to be sensible. Younger versions of ourselves tried to make grown-up decisions at ages like eighteen, twenty-one, and twenty-five. “Take a paycheck over your passion,” they said. “You’ll have plenty of time to pursue what makes you happy later.”
And so, like a lamb to the slaughter, we started giving away days. Days that turned into season-sized chunks, that turned into years. I don’t think that’s what God intended for us. Look to Joel 2:28…