More

I didn’t see it coming. Surrounded by Wyoming mountains and covid-free air, I closed my eyes and gave thanks. Little did I know a storm was on its way, a storm of my own making, I suppose, and I’m happy to write this having weathered it, but only barely.

You see, I have a disease. There are many names for it, but the one that fits best is what someone described as “the disease of more.” Built on the sand of my own insecurity, fueled by a wild and uncontrollable imagination, I’ve always lived a discontented life. Blessed with more than a person deserves, I’ve always looked to what lies beyond. Whether in a career that had wonderful chapters, relationships made up of remarkable people, or possessions stacked high above my rooftop, I’ve always moved from deep appreciation to longing for more with lightning speed. I’m embarrassed to admit it but need to for my own sake and for the sake of those who’ve found themselves locked in the same prison.

It wasn’t enough to bask in the beauty of the west; I wanted to have a beer (or many) to make the experience even more spectacular. It wasn’t enough to meet wonderful people; I had to compare their lives to mine which, of course, did not measure up (I thought). And it wasn’t enough to spend time with family; I had to think about those who were not with us.

Jesus said to consider the lilies of the field. I think he did so to remind us of the insidious disease of more which makes us anxious and feeling like we need to toil when all we have is all we need. He also spoke of our captivity ending. Flying home, I couldn’t help but hope that day would come to me, and everyone like me, one day. May it’ll come today.