Blog Post # 25
All stories
have a beginning, middle and end, including each of our personal stories. Most of us spend most of our lives in the middle of
our stories. Few remember the beginning, and the end is a mysterious, ambiguous
question mark quivering, mirage-like, somewhere in the future.
I believe
there’s a lot to be said for “the middle”—and, generally, I think we take middles
for granted.
The famous Tolkien understood the importance of the middle, creating the setting for his epic tale of Hobbits, elves and men in Middle Earth.
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| Map of Middle Earth as it appeared in earliest editions of Tolkien's books |
An entire period in history is named for the middle—The Middle Ages.
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| Middle Ages (Image: Public Domain) |
Even historical time is marked from the middle—when Jesus Christ was born—and is counted
forward or backward from that point.
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| Jesus Christ--born in the Meridian of Time |
So you see, middles are significant.
Other
prominent middles you may be familiar with are:
Middle of the road
Middle
ground
Being
in the middle of things
Caught
in the middle
In the
middle of nowhere
In the
middle of something
Middle Aged
Middle
Life (shortened to Mid-Life)
Middle Class
Meeting
in the middle
Middle
man
Middle of the night
Middle finger
Around
the middle (referring to the tummy area)
Middle
school
Middle
roll or slice of bread (This is probably not important to anyone, but me. Everyone
in our family knows how much I love the middle roll for its softness and lack
of crusty edges. They have been very respectful of this preference, and always
save at least one middle roll for me as they come out of the oven.)
You may agree
that some of these middles have more positive connotations than others, but
where would we be if there weren’t some kind of middle to things? We’d always
be on the dangling “ends.” I submit that there is an aspect of safety and
comfort to be had in the middle.
Take, for
example, one of the most prominent middles: The
Middle of the Road. When our children, grandchildren, and even a couple of
our nieces were learning to drive, my husband, Brad, like Frodo Baggins,
fearlessly stepped forward, volunteering to assist the hopeful, naïve drivers
in their treacherous journey down backroads and freeways to destroy their "ring" of
immobility. I was sometimes a passenger/companion in that fellowship down the
road, and I can honestly tell you: the middle of the road is best! We came
precariously close to trolls, dragons and orcs poised along the broken white
lines separating lanes, and the solid lines on the edges of the roads—knocking an
orc off the road here, and a troll off there. Several hair-raising (and
hair-graying) incidents stand out in my mind, but I’ll only mention one. Our
son was driving our old yellow Suburban along the freeway when a dragon of
enormous proportions came up beside us in the form of a semi.
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| I couldn't believe there is really a truck painted to look like a dragon! I had to include this picture I found on Pinterest! |
Sitting on the
passenger’s side of the front seat, (my husband Brad in the middle), I gripped
the car door as if brandishing a shield in my defense. At the point when I knew
if I stretched my arm out the window I could polish the scales on the dragon’s
skin, Brad, meaning to encourage our son to drive ahead of the semi, said,
“Move closer.” Of course, our son understood his meaning as “move closer to the
truck,” and began sidling across the line towards the dragon in the lane to my right. I was
scrunching down into the car floor with fear, at this point, certain if I ventured
to stick my fingers a hand’s length out the window, the dragon would have
bitten them off at the nub. Brad, as calmly as if he were ordering a
cheeseburger and fries, told our son to move forward, not to the side, and our
son corrected our route before sheering off my side of the Suburban.
Afterwards, our son admitted that he couldn’t understand why his dad would want
him to nudge up next to a fire-breathing dragon spanning the dotted line on the
perimeter of his lair, but being the obedient son, he followed directions and
nearly got us all killed or maimed. It would have been far safer for said
“fellowship” to brave the middle of the lane leading to Mordor rather than flirt
with danger lurking on the periphery.
The middle of
the road is reliable and trusted for other reasons, as well. Any time you get
precariously near the fringe edges of things there are risks lurking in the
shadows. It is along the edge that one finds cliffs, soft shoulders, bridge
railings, ditches, bodies of water, trees, and granite walls. Guardrails are called
“guard” rails for a very good reason. It is their specific mission to prevent
the risk of danger or accidents. Reflectors imbedded into some guardrails flash
a warning at you that you’re veering off the path of safety into dangerous
territory. If you opt not to heed the warning, you may find yourself careening
down a cliff, or plunging into a swiftly moving river.
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| See the guy beyond the guardrail? |
The middle of the road can apply to smaller, less aggressive thoroughfares, as well. If you’ve ever wandered a path through the woods or meandered down a country lane, you may have noticed the fringes of the path lined with stinging nettle, poison ivy, rocks, branches, downed or standing trees, stumps, or weeds full of foxtails and cockleburs. The well-trampled pathway has fewer hindrances due to
excessive use, in most cases making it less hazardous--or perhaps to some, less
interesting. (I, personally, have never been one to find interest or
entertainment in trifling with risk, but I know some who do.)
There are always exceptions to this rule, as
I recall many times finding a less maintained pathway blocked by a fallen log. But stranger than nature causing obstructions are those man creates for himself! Here are two crazy examples:
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| Ahem....there's a telephone pole in the middle of the road! It would be best not to drive this street on a moonless night. |
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| Either the road should have been rerouted, or the tree planted elsewhere, whichever came first. |
When I speak
of The Middle of the Road, I am not
talking about haphazardly trekking over an imagined path across the middle of a perilous and fragile frozen lake, either. Shortcuts over thin ice are what the
Foolish or Lazy consider a time-saver, and indeed, that route may insure never
having to worry about going the long way around on solid ground again!
When I speak
of The Middle of the Road, I am referring to a road built on bedrock:
solid, steadfast, and immovable.
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| Wagon ruts in rock -- Oregon Trail. (From Wyoming Heritage.org) |
Other middles
that have proven useful are Meeting in the Middle, Finding Middle Ground, and Being in the Middle of Things. I am lumping together these middles because,
to my mind, they seem to hold hands and bridge gaps when put together. When I
was a child in grade school, I often felt myself on the periphery. If you had
asked me where I stood among my peers, I would have probably described myself
as part of a circle (the type of circle employed for a game of dodge ball, or
Duck, Duck, Goose), or perhaps more fitting, on the outskirts of the circle
looking in, not the child in the middle (the
chosen one). I was usually one of the last chosen for schoolyard teams, and
rarely chosen by the teacher to lead up a team. I wasn’t very athletic, nor was
I particularly popular. I was on the shy side, and completely average. I stood
in the wings, awkward, and relieved not to be the center of attention.
Sometimes I was observant. I learned to see and have compassion for others who
were also standing in the wings—who were “different” in the sense of not quite
fitting-in.
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| Duck, Duck, Goose, of course. |
Over time, I
learned a very useful lesson: how to find Middle
Ground where people who were “different” (or at least felt they were different) might meet and feel safe as part of a
unified whole (something I seldom felt during my elementary and junior high
school years). It wasn’t until High School that I began to feel a sense of
being a part of a united whole, as I found and honed some of my personal
strengths and offered them to my school community in the form of choir and
drill team. I didn’t need, or want, to be In
the Middle—the center of attention. I was content not to be a drill team captain or co-captain, and not to have the lead in the school
musical. I was content as a member of the team, or of the chorus—having the fun
without the worry or discomfort of having all eyes on me.
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| Drill Team back in the day (That's me: right center front. I'm almost always in the front row --what can I say? I'm short.) |
There were
times, however, when I enjoyed being In
the Middle of Things, meaning, being a part of the greater good, or the
greater whole to achieve something of worth. If you have ever enjoyed the uplifting
experience of singing “The Hallelujah Chorus” or “The Battle Hymn of the
Republic” as a member of a choir, you may understand the essence of what I’m
saying. As a choir member, a drill team member, a member of an orchestra,
soccer team, basketball team, dance ensemble, or any such group effort where
every individual contributes to enhance the whole, one may experience a sense
of synergy—creating something greater than the sum of the individual parts. One
needn’t be the center of attention to feel one’s value in creating something
beautiful and inspiring. One need only be a participant—a contributing part of
the whole. In this way, one is indeed In
the Middle of Things while being uniquely individual; a voice unique to
oneself, yet blending with the whole—a true sense of unity.
.jpg) |
| I'm in the front row again, far right of this picture. One voice in the choir--a part of the whole. (This is from college. I couldn't find a picture from high school.) |
One of my
favorite “middles” is not just being In
the Middle of Things, but being In
the Middle of Something. This is the story of my life. I am always
in the middle of something, or truer still, I am always in the middle of
several somethings at once! I laid aside some long-anticipated sewing that I
was right in the middle of to sit
down and write this post. I am not a slave to writing because, for me, it is
simply a thing I do for fun. But writing was calling to me. The thing is—the sewing
was also calling to me. Which do I answer first? Whichever calls loudest? No…. I
think I answer more to whichever calls to the innermost longings of my heart,
provided it doesn’t encroach on other, more important things—necessities, responsibilities, family, or service. One day, it may be sewing. Another day it may be time with my family—this
desire accounts for most days. Yet another day, it is writing. Tomorrow, it may
be sewing again. Or baking. Or going for a walk with Brad. Or building a puzzle
while sitting with my father. Or playing the piano. Or tending to the roses. Or
providing service. Or cleaning the house (yes, even cleaning the house calls to
me from time to time.) I could list a
dozen or more things that, most of the time, I long to do all of the time. One
may find oneself Caught in the Middle
of Being in the Middle of (more) Things at once than one can handle at one time. It’s at these
times, that I most long to run off to a place alone—In the Middle of Nowhere—where my mind can untangle itself, and quiet
the noise, rest, and rejuvenate (this is rarely possible).
Two more middles and I’m done. First, being The Middle Child. Certainly, being the
middle child has been given a bad rap. When you are the middle child, you are
neither the oldest, nor the youngest, both of which are problematic. My own
experience as the middle child was instructive, providing plenty of evidence
that there are both advantages and disadvantages to this position in the family. The adulation that goes to the oldest, and the privileges that attend the
youngest are somehow lost on the middle child. This is not all bad. I had the
direct advantage of observing and avoiding the “guinea pigged-ness” of the oldest,
while inadvertently also avoiding the privileges of the youngest. My older
sister tested the waters, so to speak, and I saw what worked and what didn’t. I
understood at a young age what was required to maintain peace and avoid
contention through thoughtful observance of her experiences. On the other hand,
my little brother was born just close enough on the heels of my third birthday,
(the day after, to be exact), to give my parents virtually no time at all to
consider spoiling me, and plenty of time for my brother to benefit from being “the
only child” once my sister and I left home.
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| Me, my sister, and my brother. For as long as I can remember, the heads of my wonderful parents have been missing from this picture. Not sure why. |
I must add that the home in which I was raised was a completely loving and nurturing
environment. I had a virtually ideal childhood. In fact, it was a blessing for
me to be in the middle. Among other things, being middle child taught me to
save and budget my money, to be self-reliant and self-analytical, and to
observe and learn how to have good relations with my parents and with others.
(This is not to say that my siblings did not also learn these things. It is
only to say that I attribute the speed of learning such lessons to the tutelage
of being middle.)
Lastly, I would
like to speak from experience about Middle
Age—a middle through which I
believe I am gradually approaching the exit—or through which I have, in
ignorance, already passed. Having turned sixty last year, I recognize that I
have been very solidly engaged in Middle Age for many years, and that, although
it doesn’t feel like it, I am entering the period know as Old Age. Strange as
it may seem, my spirit gazing from the inside of this body out through
ever-youthful, sixteen-year-old eyes, has never sensed the aging process. No,
not for an instant! Having experienced Middle Age, I think I can safely say it
has been, for me, a place of security and comfort.
Some of the benefits
I’ve experienced during Middle Age are:
- Being rooted solidly in family and all the accoutrements of a full and fulfilling life with husband, parents, children and grandchildren.
- Having an understanding of ways I have been, and continue to be a contributing member of society.
- Enjoying the many gifts of Time.
- Having intact, faithful connections with friends, near and far, old and new.
- Feeling at peace and empowered by my beliefs and the strength of my faith in God and Jesus Christ.
- Continuing in the delightful process of discovering things that bring joy every day.
- Recognition of all for which I am grateful.
The edges of
life feel insecure compared to being cemented in the middle: there are
questions; there is anticipation; there is the strange, empty sadness of
impending or experienced loss; and the ecstatic joy of new beginnings. I look
at my ninety-two year-old father, and think that if I have inherited his genes
for longevity, I may still have another thirty years—half again the life I have
already lived—left in me, and I wonder about that. When viewed from that
perspective, I may at this moment, remain fixed in the middle of my Middle Aged
years. And yet, I do not know the answer to that any more than my father knows
at which moment he will pass into the rest of the eternal realm where he’ll
enjoy the companionship of his beloved wife and other family members once
again. I’m okay with this unanswered
enigma. Whatever the ending of my story will be, it was the middle that prepared me for what is to come.
The Middle of life has given me a sense of Eternity. Of Joy that knows
no limits. Of Hope for what lies in the future. Of Faith in a Loving Eternal
Father who is mindful of me and wants me to return home to Him. Of Love and
Family ties that last forever.
The Middle has strengthened me for the
boundless Ends.
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"And thus it was, a Fourth Age of Middle-earth began. And the Fellowship of the Ring,
though eternally bound by friendship and love, was ended." - J.R.R. Tolkein
From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear friends, for reading.
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| © March 16, 2015 |
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