By: Courtney Hollingsworth, PLPC
by Jonathan Hart, LPC
I grew up in Chicago watching the Cubs play baseball. As a kid, I remember hating the fact that baseball interrupted my afternoon cartoons all the time (this was before Wrigley had lights). I watched some of the games, and I remember sometimes getting excited when they would get ahead. But inevitably, they blew it in the 8th or the 9th, and the disappointment was bitter. In 1984 (Yes, I had to look that up: http://www.baseball-reference.com/teams/CHC/), they came close to winning it all, but they blew that, too. I haven’t “followed” them, or anyone else, since.
Because of recurring disappointment, I lost my enthusiasm for sports. I do not consider myself a “fan” of any team. There are few names and no stats that are readily recognizable to me. The only reason I know Pujols plays first base is because I live in Saint Louis, and I went to a game once when my son won free tickets for us. There are other factors that have influenced my lack of affiliation with the sporting world, but I credit the Cubs with most of it: one can only handle so much disappointment before shutting those feelings down.
The trouble is that I don’t experience the high of a close game, the joy of celebrating a victory pulled from the jaws of defeat. When the Cards suddenly hit their hot streak this year and pulled out a win for the Wild Card slot (I confess that I don’t really know what that even means), I nodded and smiled. When the Rays did the same (and I likewise confess that I didn’t know there was a major league baseball team named the Rays until earlier this year), I have friends in Tampa whose celebrations resounded on Facebook. I nodded and smiled.
A basic principle that is demonstrated by this story is that risk and disappointment seem to be inseparable from joy. We cannot shut down disappointment without likewise shutting down joy. Joy and pain operate on the same switch. We tend to protect ourselves from hurt, which is natural and helpful in the short term. When this shutting down becomes a way of life, however, it robs us of our joy in the long run.
People let us down. People harm us. Trusting others with our hearts and with our dreams often leads to pain. We rightly withhold ourselves from those who recklessly and selfishly feed upon us. When we generalize this distrust (“All men are predators.”, “All women are emasculating.”, “Trust no one.”, “Look out for number one because no one else will.”) we begin to lose our capacity to experience joy. We lose out when we do not risk entrusting ourselves to anyone out of fear that they, too, will hurt us.
It seems like the greater risk, the longer wait, and the deeper disappointment all lead to a reciprocally greater joy. I think of the Red Sox when they finally broke the curse of the Bambino (and I don’t really know why he cursed them). The fans spilled into the streets for hours and days. Smiles, laughter, and an entire city’s communal joy resounded. I can’t imagine what Chicago will look like if that ever happens for the Cubs. It will be a madhouse. I will likely smile and nod.
What parts of your heart are you withholding, and from whom? Where is your joy deadened? Is life kind of flat for you? When was the last time a celebratory shout left your lips before you realized it? When have you felt your pulse quicken, or realized that there was a goofy grin glued to your face? These are just some diagnostic questions to help you sort out the places you are hiding from risk and pain at the expense of your joy.
Will I ever be a fan again? Maybe. Honestly, it probably won’t be with the Cubs. I might risk it for a team that won’t interrupt my cartoons, or one that wins more than once a century. I do, however, envy those Die Hard Cubs fans if and when their curse is broken (or when the Illuminati finally decide to take pity and let them win, depending on your conspiracy theory subscription). I envy them the exponential joy they will experience. They have been waiting and hoping faithfully for a long time. The fans deserve it. Some call them fools, but I laud them for their persistence and loyalty. It will be a mind-bending ride.
By: Katy Martin, LPC
I’m sure that everyone, by this time, has heard that Steve Jobs, co-founder and former CEO of Apple, has passed away after a long battle with cancer. The news has been everywhere: websites, newsfeeds, facebook, emails, tv, etc.
I find it ironic that I heard the news via my husband’s AM radio as he listened to the Cardinals game, but that’s beside the point.
To be honest, I knew nothing about him prior to this week. Sure, I know he was a genius and that he was probably beyond rich. I’m sad that it was in his passing that I learned so much more.
Steve Jobs really was a genius, a creative genius, who worked hard and claimed to be living his dream. He had a family whom he talked about loving very much. He was adopted as a baby, given a home. He has had a huge impact on technology as we see it now. His creations and innovations were his passion and truly exciting to him. Media is painting the picture that he lived a full, rich life.
As I reflect on the impact this man’s life and passing appear to have, I wonder what kind of impact we are all making. Do you live with the same passion? Do you find joy in life? Are you accomplishing what you would like to accomplish? Or are you just trying to survive each day and maybe looking forward to the next big thing?
I didn’t personally know Steve Jobs, but I still can’t help believe that he really did love life and made the most of his time here on earth.
The good news: every day is a new day. We have the opportunity to create goals, fulfill dreams, and really love the people who are around us. We can seek forgiveness, give forgiveness, and find emotional healing.
The best news: Jesus states in John 10:10 that He came to give us life and life to the FULL. Do you believe this? What would it look like to invite God into the struggle you have to find joy and fulfillment?
What would it take for you to begin living a full life? After all, today is a new day and tomorrow begins a new week.