Before Jennifer Lawrence became the girl on fire, I read the Hunger Games series. And I reread the books just before the release of the first movie.
Around the same time the Hunger Games film came out, a friend lent me a book. “If you loved the Hunger Games, you will love Divergent,” she assured me.
Another young adult novel about teenagers holding the fate of a postmodern dystopia in their hands? Oh you mean a poor man’s Hunger Games, right? Got it.
Everything in me wanted to skip ahead and get to the meat. Forget all the preliminary mumbo jumbo and setting the scene stuff, I wanted to feel the emotions, and know the end of the story. I wanted to know the characters in the new book the way I knew Katniss and Peeta.
Recently, I moved to a new city and started a new job. I am slowly trying to create a life here.
I am not slowly trying to create a life here. I am in all-out, super-speed, lightning mode to create some kind of life here in Austin.
I got a job, joined a small group, volunteered with an organization, found roommates, and located the nearest Trader Joe’s ASAP.
When I came to Austin, I had a handful of friends already living here. Since being in the city, I have made quite a bit of acquaintances, and find my schedule quickly fills with shows and groups and coffee dates and dinners.
But I am still lonely.
For awhile, I couldn’t figure it out. I have plans every night of the week, when did I have time to feel lonely? Between work and church and CASA and pure-Austin living (read: live music, coffee shops, food vendors, and the outdoors), I don’t even get enough sleep.
I began to doubt my decision. Because surely if it were God’s will it would feel better and not so lonely. At least back there I had my people. At least back there people really knew me.
And I realized I am judging this season’s beginning off another season’s end.
Like starting a new book, I didn’t care about character development or plot lines because it wan’t the Hunger Games and these aren’t my people and they haven’t had my experience. I wanted to feel at Divergent‘s beginning the way I felt at Hunger Game’s end. And it just seemed like too much effort to get through all of that again.
“I just wish I could speed this whole process along,” I lamented to a friend. “I just want to be known the way you know me.”
I want to pick up the remote of life and fast-forward to the good parts, just skip ahead a few chapters.
The community I had in Georgia was a rare, beautiful, messy, hard-fought gift. When I really think back on it, all that mess we went through together created the camaraderie we shared. We didn’t go from shaking hands to sobbing on the couch together in an instant. Life happened in between. Real, raw, messy life.
The moments when it all fell apart were the moments I had people come alongside me, and believe with and for me, and when the time came, we celebrated the heck out of each other. In feast and famine, we loved each other the best we knew how—but it was the famine that made the feast taste so good.
Some of the great friendships of history—Woody and Buzz, Milo and Otis, Leslie Knope and Ann Perkins—birthed out of a journey trekked together. Upon meeting, they shared no instant bond, some of them even disliked each other.
To wish away the time is to skip over the cultivation process—the gestation of new life, the fermentation of good wine. I want to surrender to the process and live fully in the in-between. I don’t want to skip ahead to the end, I want to save the last for last. And live the best today and everyday.
There is something about experiencing life together, the good and the bad, that brings us closer. If you ask me, it’s vulnerability.
“A year ago that’s the last thing you wanted, to go deep,” my friend laughed at the irony of my sorrows.
“See what you people did to me!” we both laughed into the screens of our facetime call.
Experiencing the journey is what makes reaching the destination beautiful and worth it. I am not going to miss out on that.