Yesterday I got a real smack in the face. Not a metaphorical
one, I mean a real smack in the face.
Let me set the scene for you: me and Sam moved to a new
Hostel today as was our plan, so we could be in a new neighborhood and have
access to a new group of people. We get there after a really long walk from the
bus stop, and we’re both a little bit cranky by the time we get checked in and
throw our stuff in the corner. The corner here is the only place there is to
throw things, as this is a significant downgrade from our last hostel. But, it
was the best thing we could get a reservation for in this urban part of town.
It’s silently agreed that the best plan of attack now is to lay down for a nap.
There I was, on the top bunk... and not a very solid top
bunk either. This is not a Dry Creek bunk bed, oh no no. This is what I’ve come
to call a European special. Being that we are not in America, I’ve finally come
to appreciate things that are truly “American made”.
There I was, on the top bunk. I was on the top bunk because
I had let Sam have the bottom. And by “let Sam have the bottom”, I mean he
quickly called dibs and I only argued a little bit. I had been asleep, laying
on my side, for something like an hour, hour and a half. When all of a sudden,
I was viciously attacked……… by a book. Mockingjay by Susan Collins to be exact.
Book or no book, it scared the fire out of me.
I knew almost immediately what had happened: just before I went to sleep, I had read a chapter of my book, then propped it up on top
of the night light just above my head. I felt certain that it was secure and
would not fall, although apparently, I was wrong. The book, which had a
charging, action-packed story with a healthy dose of psychological thriller
thrown in, had begun to make a significant impact on my imagination, although
now it made an even bigger impact on my face.
The thing that stuck with me the most was my own reaction.
The instant the book hit me, my eyes flew open and my mind knew what was going
on before the book even had time to tumble from my cheek onto the bed. My survival
instincts failed to get the memo however, and as my heart rate went through the
roof out of a dead sleep, my body went into the ‘attack’ portion of the fight
or flight instinct. According to Sam, from the bottom bunk where he was
restfully awake, it sounded like I “jumped a foot in the air and was trying to
fight off some kinda demon”. If my memory serves me, I did take a few swings
at… something, I have no idea what. Again, I was running off of instinct.
As the most striking thing that happened yesterday, by far, I
felt compelled to make it the central focus of my blog. The only problem was, I
had trouble finding any kind of spiritual lesson to pair it with.
And honestly, I still haven’t got much. Its grasping at
straws, but I can use it as an illustration in this way: What’s your natural
human reaction to things? When you feel threatened, what does your mind and
spirit default to? Do you panic, or do you have faith in God? I know for me, when I meet something that is hard to
overcome, my first reaction isn’t to look to God for strength, but to go back
to my crutches. When Sam doesn’t meet self-imposed expectations, he gets
pessimistic. Our human sides come out. This is a sign of spiritual immaturity,
but its something I feel is extremely common. Much more common than it should
be. Shouldn’t our basic instinct be to look to God, our savior and protector,
the guy who has the answer to everything? Yeah, obviously, but a lot of times
we don’t. That kind of basic trust is a sign of faith. Lack of trust would show a lack of true faith.
Food for thought: pay attention to your first reaction when
you meet troubles and danger, when it feels like the world is falling apart
beneath you. Gauge yourself and strive towards making dependence on God your
first instinct when troubles come.
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in
trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the
mountains be moved into the heart of the sea." – Ps. 46:1-2
-Ethan Bossier
Day 8 in Belfast
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