A few days ago, I began reading Craig Dunham and Doug Serven's Twentysomeone: Finding Yourself in a Decade of Transition, given to me by my elder sister. I dove in, choosing to ignore the cheesy cover design (circa 2003), and couldn't wait to get to Chapter 3, which introduces a section on character and discusses a quality very close to my heart: humility.
This is not to say that I have mastered the concept of humility, by any means. If you know me well, you're laughing. It is, however, a quality that I consider crucial to quality human living and an imperative goal for Christians. This is one of those areas which will always fall into my "I'm working on it" category.
This afternoon, with ideas from Twentysomeone on my mind, I made the oh-so-coveted MARTA trek to the Atlanta Municipal Courthouse to celebrate my first speeding ticket with a mandatory Teen Victim Impact Program session. As senior portraits of teens who had been killed in car accidents flashed across the screen, I began to think about the photographs that each family had chosen to submit. The officer spoke of interviews with the victims' parents, who wanted nothing more than for their sons and daughters to be remembered. "Kyle and Brian were co-captains of their high school basketball team." "Caitlin was the head of the cheerleading squad." As I grew more and more irritated by the predictable profiles of the teenagers and their multi-thousand-dollar smiles on the Photoshopped glamour shots, I wondered what kind of photo I would want my family to give the press. If my entire life were to be represented in a single photograph, what would I want it to look like? Laughing with friends at a frat party? Nope. Smiling next to one of my paintings or on stage after a concert? Nah. Petitioning for political change or discussing apologetics at a student forum? Heavens, no.
I want to be the blur of a person faintly visible in the background, cleaning up someone else's mess. I want to be the one who isn't in the picture because she left the party early to be with a friend who needed a friend. I want to have a hard time finding pictures of me; I'd rather photograph others' victories.
On the return trip home, I met one of my favorite MARTA passengers yet (not as favorite as the Bulgari distributor or the Krispy Kreme lady). As I was waiting for my bus to get to the station, I knelt down to tie my shoe (espadrilles, not tennis shoes, naturally), and a nearby voice asked, "Are you okay?" Puzzled, I looked up to find a guy around my age looking at me, concerned. I smiled out of confusion, explained that I was simply tying my shoe, and he left me with, "Good luck reaching your destination!" It turned out that we were waiting for the same bus (of course), and as we chose seats, he near the front and I near the middle, I could hear him muttering, "I have a rare condition ... she's cute ... she's pretty ..." and it struck me that his "rare condition" was not unlike a multitude of TV and movie characters who speak their mind uncontrollably. It amused me, of course, because of the things he was saying, but then, I thought: What would I say if I spoke my mind without a filter? Isn't that the purest expression of the heart audible by man? Would I make fun of people? Constantly complain? Speak only of myself?
I want to have the kind of heart that would make me speak of things true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy ... and I know that I am far from this now. If character is a reflection of the heart, what would my heart say?
This is not to say that I have mastered the concept of humility, by any means. If you know me well, you're laughing. It is, however, a quality that I consider crucial to quality human living and an imperative goal for Christians. This is one of those areas which will always fall into my "I'm working on it" category.
This afternoon, with ideas from Twentysomeone on my mind, I made the oh-so-coveted MARTA trek to the Atlanta Municipal Courthouse to celebrate my first speeding ticket with a mandatory Teen Victim Impact Program session. As senior portraits of teens who had been killed in car accidents flashed across the screen, I began to think about the photographs that each family had chosen to submit. The officer spoke of interviews with the victims' parents, who wanted nothing more than for their sons and daughters to be remembered. "Kyle and Brian were co-captains of their high school basketball team." "Caitlin was the head of the cheerleading squad." As I grew more and more irritated by the predictable profiles of the teenagers and their multi-thousand-dollar smiles on the Photoshopped glamour shots, I wondered what kind of photo I would want my family to give the press. If my entire life were to be represented in a single photograph, what would I want it to look like? Laughing with friends at a frat party? Nope. Smiling next to one of my paintings or on stage after a concert? Nah. Petitioning for political change or discussing apologetics at a student forum? Heavens, no.
I want to be the blur of a person faintly visible in the background, cleaning up someone else's mess. I want to be the one who isn't in the picture because she left the party early to be with a friend who needed a friend. I want to have a hard time finding pictures of me; I'd rather photograph others' victories.
On the return trip home, I met one of my favorite MARTA passengers yet (not as favorite as the Bulgari distributor or the Krispy Kreme lady). As I was waiting for my bus to get to the station, I knelt down to tie my shoe (espadrilles, not tennis shoes, naturally), and a nearby voice asked, "Are you okay?" Puzzled, I looked up to find a guy around my age looking at me, concerned. I smiled out of confusion, explained that I was simply tying my shoe, and he left me with, "Good luck reaching your destination!" It turned out that we were waiting for the same bus (of course), and as we chose seats, he near the front and I near the middle, I could hear him muttering, "I have a rare condition ... she's cute ... she's pretty ..." and it struck me that his "rare condition" was not unlike a multitude of TV and movie characters who speak their mind uncontrollably. It amused me, of course, because of the things he was saying, but then, I thought: What would I say if I spoke my mind without a filter? Isn't that the purest expression of the heart audible by man? Would I make fun of people? Constantly complain? Speak only of myself?
I want to have the kind of heart that would make me speak of things true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy ... and I know that I am far from this now. If character is a reflection of the heart, what would my heart say?
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