Finish Strong

Pixel #3: ...?

Ok.  Writer's block.  Kind of.

I've been working on the Pixel #3 post off and on all month.  It was a post I started back in 2014 and never finished, so I picked it up again at the beginning of May.  Frustratingly, though I have plenty of thoughts and content, I can't get it to come together.  A more accomplished/experienced blogger would have moved on to something else in order to revisit it another time, but "accomplished/experienced blogger" doesn't accurately describe me and finishing is something in which I take pride.  So, instead,  I plowed ahead for 4 weeks writing and rewriting.  The fruit of this persistence?  I still have a two-year-old, unfinished post, haven't posted for a month, and am moving on anyway.  (Inexperienced and prideful are not the best of attributes.)

However, I did move on finally this week.  I still can't get that post to come together, but moving on caused me to think about why I have such a hard time doing it.  And it really boils down to what I alluded to above: I am a finisher.

Pixel #4: Finishing

I don't know if I am a hard worker, but I am definitely a finisher.  That isn't to say that I don't work hard.  I do, but it is the finishing that drives me.  Work is just the means to get there.  Work isn't to be feared or avoided.  It is to be embraced.  It gets you where you want to go.  But work for the sake of work?  Value in work in and of itself?  That's always been harder for me.

building a deck for my future in-laws

My dad stressed(s) the value of hard work with us.  He stressed not setting limits on what you may accomplish through effort and determination and perseverance.  Earning the moniker "hard worker" is among the best compliments you can receive from him.  Somehow though, whether my dad emphasized it, or it was implied, or I just connected the dots between work and finishing, I definitely picked up finishing as a value as well, or maybe instead.

I'm not sure how it happened, but, at some point, I concluded that work done without finishing is just dust in the wind.  It is meaningless.  A hard working sculptor who sweats over a mass of granite, who hammers and chisels chunks off of the whole, has done nothing more meaningful than the sledge hammer wielding prisoner in a quarry if he doesn't see the work to completion.  If the sculptor doesn't finish, he hasn't brought art out of stone.  He has only smashed rock.  Similarly, a runner that races the mile and stops after one lap hasn't run the race.  It doesn't matter how well she did up till that point.  Even if she worked her hardest, ran herself to exhaustion, and was in the lead when she stopped, stopping, not finishing, negates the effort.  Success in the race is only measured of the finishers.  Hard work is important, but only in the context of finishing, because the value of the work is directly measured by the value of the finished product that the work produces.

Right?

As I said, I'm not sure exactly when I figured this out, but I do know one of the experiences that shaped this belief.  When I was six years old or so, my dad signed me and my brother up for a track program called Rainbow Runners.  We went to a couple of practices, and because I didn't like running (still don't), I decided that my event would be the shortest one: the 100 yard dash.  Also, I was pretty fast, so I figured I'd do well (because being one of the fasted of the 19 kids in my 1st grade class clearly should translate to winning a city-wide sprinting competition).  

Unfortunately, besides being logically challenged and potentially delusional, I was also the youngest kid in my age group by a couple years, and for those of you who don't know, age makes a pretty big difference in speed when you are six.  Regardless of whatever relative athleticism I possessed, when you race a six year old against an eight or nine year old, the result is fairly predetermined. 

on my Kindergarten soccer team

And, by the way, I was a little "chunky".  I wasn't exactly fat, but never in my life have I been accused of being lean.  Even when I was wrestling in high school at 130 lbs, I still had love handles.  

Oh, and I'm a red-head; with all the pasty white goodness that goes along with it. 

And, while it is mostly irrelevant to speed (unlike the translucent quality of my skin), we were kind of poor.  Store bought clothes were a luxury.  The majority of my clothes were either free (explain that one another time... Maybe) or made by my mom.

So, let me paint you the picture: We entered the 10,000 seat Everett Memorial Stadium for our first meet. There I was, an absolute vision of raw power and speed: a fleshy, red-headed, pale specimen of intimidation decked out in speed inducing, skin tight, 1970's era, polyester short shorts, a wee-too-small t-shirt, striped socks ending just shy of mid-calf, and a pair of well-worn, off-brand, tennis shoes.  Pretty much what you would expect to see in the Summer Olympics.

I really didn't want to be there.  Did I mention that I didn't like running?  (Did I mention that I still don't?). I was extremely nervous, but luckily my dad talked me into it.  I think his irrefutable argument went something like, "You are going to run whether you like it or not."  So, I worked up the nerve and got ready to run.  

Then, I saw my competition: sleek, tall, lean kids that just oozed speed.  Spikes on their feet.  Loose fitting, light weight tank tops.  Those shorts that only real runners wear.  You know, the ones that are made of gossimer fabric, slit on the side for maximum movement.  You know, the ones that make you almost drive into oncoming traffic as you uncomfortably try and look away as they jog down the roadside.  And to top it off, they were tan.  (You may not think so, but black or brown or sunburned red; whatever it is, color matters.  Because, nothing looks slower than white.  On a car or a plane or horse or a person, white looks slow.)

And that was it.  Panic.  Whatever resolve I had worked up, I lost it. "Dad, please don't make me.  I don't want to do this.  Please.  I really don't want to run."  

As a father now, I understand the turmoil that was probably in my father then.  I get it.  There is a tension in fathers that exists between allowing discomfort for their sons and protecting them from it.  Between throwing in the towel and pushing them back into the ring.  Weighing the value of the experience against the pain of it.  And on this occasion, I think my dad decided that the lesson learned by not running was potentially worse than the embarrassment of running.  Regardless, I ran.

We got in the blocks.  (Well, they got in the blocks.  I didn't have blocks.  I made sure that the rubber sole of my shoe wasn't completely detached from the toe so it wouldn't flop under me as a I ran.)  The hand of the starter went up.  The gun went off.  And we exploded down the tracks.  

Roughly 20 seconds later, it was all over.  Sleek, tanned body after sleek, tanned body leaned across the finish line.  As with most difficult circumstance, in life those 20 seconds went by incredibly quickly.  The next 15 seconds, however, were among the longest of my life, because while the other runners were crossing the line in all their loose fitting, light weight glory, I was still just over half way finished.

But I ran.  I ran as hard as I could.  As fast as I could.  And even though it felt like the entire stadium was watching me (because it was; I was the only runner on the track at that point), I finished the race.  I didn't want to.  I wanted to quit.  But I'm a finisher.  There was no way I was going to add to the shame of being publically destroyed on a track by petulantly quitting mid way.  I was not going to acknowledge my failure.  If I was going to do the work, I was going to make the best of the outcome.  So, I crossed the finish line, walked back up into the stands, and burst into tears.

As embarrassing as it was, I've always taken a little bit of pride in that story.  It's a little bit of a badge of honor.  I finished, and that was what mattered.

Or so I believe(d?).

Disclaimer: I think I still believe this.  I'm not sure if I should abandon this belief or not, but either way, I'm not ready yet.  It is too ingrained in me to let go of easily.  I recognize the value of not quitting, of diligence and perseverance.  Especially in tasks.  Finishing a job or a race; following through on a commitment; these are good things.  These are valuable qualities and the alternatives (quitting, irresponsibility, un-trustworthiness) are definitely not admirable, so I can't rule out the value of being a finisher altogether, but...

What if not finishing isn't an option?  What if finishing is an illusion, a manipulation of our perception?  

Take mowing a lawn.  I like mowing my lawn.  Not because I love gardening or have an immaculate lawn.  I like mowing my lawn, because it is long, then it is short.  

Just like that.  I work.  I finish.  I see the results.  I feel good.

This works beautifully when the weather cooperates.  However, I live in western Washington and rain has a way of delaying lawn mowing.  Three weekends in a row of Pacific Northwest, Spring rain has a way of reminding you of the incessant nature of growing grass.  It never stops.  And while I can fool myself after a month of beautiful whether, the truth is that you are never done mowing your lawn (unless you pave it).  All you do is maintain it.  You mow so you can mow again, because if you don't, it will get unmanageable.  If you don't, the work just gets harder.

But you never finish.

So, instead I redefine finishing.  I change my perception of how finishing is defined.  On a busy weekend, finishing is a quick mow.  Another, it may include edging or weeding.  

Just like that.  I define it.  I accomplish it.  I feel good.

But changing the parameters of finishing does not materially change the reality of the process.  The work is constant.  It is my perception of the work that changed.

Maybe this is why Christ died for us.  So, when he breathed his last and said, "It is finished," (John 19:30) it really was.  He took the incessant growth of grass and capped it at 3 inches.  Mow for the sake of mowing.  Mow to produce beauty, bless others.  Mow to walk the grass with your father.

But I can only do this if I can rest in the knowledge that the lawn is going to be ok.  There is no rest if my rest produces more hardship.  There is no enjoyment in the mowing if it is something I just need to get done.  I may get so focused on mowing, on finishing the job, that I don't even notice that my father is walking along side me.

Phillipians 1:6 says that God "who began a good work in you, will carry it on to completion..."  I can't help but notice that I am immediately drawn to the hope that comes from the fact that God will finish.  I can rest in the fact that God's hand is on the outcome of who I am, but there are three much more important promises in this verse:  God has begun a work in you, the work is good, and He will carry it on.

The good part of this promise isn't that it will be finished but that the work is good!  Furthermore, the true hope of this promise comes from the fact that the work is already begun and that God is faithful to continue the process.  If you aren't convinced that the value isn't in the completion, read how the verse would go retaining the completion but changing the rest:  "God, who may or may not do a work of indeterminate value in your life, is sure to finish it, if he starts it."  Can I get an amen?

I'm not trying to diminish the importance of finishing.

We take comfort in the fact that God won't leave us hanging, that He will finish.  There is safety in that. But God guarantees the finishing and that the outcome is worthwhile.  That you are worthwhile. 

He shifts our perception.

Our awe and joy comes from knowing that the God of the universe takes notice of each of our lives and uses the circumstances and experiences of our flawed and often hurtful existence to shape us into something good.  And if the outcome is promised to be good (the work is a good one), then the trials and the traumas and the hurts and the disappointments can be tolerated in the knowledge that while these things may not be part of God's plan for our lives, He does have a plan, and He is working it to fruition.  

We don't have to finish, because we aren't on our own. 

The sculptor that quits does so in full knowledge that someone else will come and pick up the chisel.  The runner who stops after one lap does so knowing that another runner will carry the baton on.  Beauty will be brought out of rock.  The race will be run.

And when we walk shamefully off the track, in full knowledge that we have fallen horribly short of success, He meets us, and says, "There is no shame in losing a race you can't win.  Your value is not based on where you finish, but in how you ran.  

"And you ran hard, son.  I'm proud of you."

There.  Finished.