Door Number One was not my choice. Mom and Dad opened that one, my birth launching me into this world. Door Number One was all shock and some dismay.
Door Number Two was all about me. It was about my independence from those Door Number One parents. I chose my friends, dreamed impossible futures, fell in love, and found a career—actually, several of them. Later, I discovered it was also about others—my kids, my aging parents, and my friends. Lots of responsibilities and lots of decisions.
Door Number Four is the last door—the end of the trail and the beginning of the greater, Eternal Trail. A life well-lived finds its peace in God, beyond Door Number Four.
Wait a minute. Back up. I skipped Door Number Three. Door Number Three is the journey connecting Door Number Two with Door Number Four. It’s the door of today. It’s the door of now. It’s the door that lets in the neighbors. It’s the door that stoops to serve, and stands to acknowledge. It’s the door of endless, life-injecting possibilities.
At each morning’s dawn, Door Number Three awaits my choices, allowing each day to become an expectation-filled, God-pleasing pursuit.
Recently, I’ve noticed that my Yellow Zone has been shrinking. Not overnight, but there’s been a long, slow withdrawal from the Yellow Zone. The Yellow Zone lies between the Green Zone and the Red Zone, as a sort of virtual buffer.
To help explain, let me introduce the Green Zone. It’s all the stuff that is enjoyable to me: the kinds of activities that I like, the people whom I find agreeable with my perspective, the brands I like, and the values I endorse. I’m comfortable here, in the Green Zone.
At the opposite end is the Red Zone. It holds everything that I know is wrong and that I find despicable: murder, thievery, dirty streets, phone solicitations, many politicians, and everything that is evil and vile.
The Yellow Zone is reserved for everything else. Things that are perfectly acceptable. Things that don’t deserve judgment. Perceptions that aren’t important. Words spoken in ignorance. Unintended actions. The Yellow Zone is a place of comfort.
The recent events are troubling, but true. Recently, my Yellow Zone has been shrinking, even as my Red Zone is noticeably bloating. More and more stuff is migrating towards the Red Zone because more and more things are aggravating me. “Why did he say it that way?” “Doesn’t she know better?” “They always act that way!”
I wasn’t always this way: over-correcting, under-appreciating, judging, strangling the tiniest, most unimportant and innocent details. Doggone it, I have the right to be Right, and to be sure that They know it!
But life in the ever-smaller, constricted Yellow Zone is now becoming miserable. The life of quick reactions, self-righteousness and hyper-criticism is pushing everything into the Red Zone. With so much leaving, It’s getting lonely in the Yellow Zone.
But now I’ve had enough of the Red Zone! Now I’m going back to the Yellow Zone. I’m going to renovate it. I’m going to make it more liveable, less conflicting, less judgmental. I’m going to put leaden weights all around the perimeter so the edges don’t roll in.
Then I’m going to set up some easy chairs smack dab in the middle of the Yellow Zone. I’ll send out invitations.
The Yellow Zone should now be big enough for us all.
Neon signs are made of tubes which can be bent to create graphic images or letters. When electricity runs through them, their light can create bold statements.
They may direct us to explore a used auto dealership’s well-worn wheels where we could hope to stumble across a treasure. Or, imagine the red outline of a cross, beneath it, in gaudy, bold fluorescent turquoise, “Jesus Saves”. Down the alley, we may spy a flashing pink arrow directing toward a dim stairwell; a suggestive woman’s profile beckons downward.
When we were young, our parents tried their best to bend and shape our lives. They hoped to turn our lives, like neon light tubes, into things of beauty. Like all parents with young children, they were amateurs in this light-bending child-rearing project. At some point, they were done. It was up to us to add and shape more beauty into our lives.
Some people are good at doing this. In my old yearbooks, I can show you pictures of those who have done really well for themselves. Their lives are artisan work, really–a neon light panoply of synchronized flashing images in a tasteful palette of colors.
In a small classroom in a dingy part of town, I teach academic skills to folks who have felony records. They haven’t done so well. Their neon light tubes have become twisted, flashing feebly and erratically. A lot of restorative work is required.
In this world of relative luminescence, most of us are somewhere between these extremes. We may lack the peacock-beautiful neon displays of on-off, on-off, with flashing hues of purple and gold that some lives seem to exhibit. But neither are we in total tube-broken neon disrepair. Between these extremes, we have a few lighting flickers here and there, weak spots in need of repair.
Those flashing neon signs–they are intended to provide compelling and directive messages.
I am reminded of a song we sang as children. It goes like this: “This little NEON light of mine, I’m going to let it shine…”
I don’t know if the phrase “a life well-lived” is in your vocabulary yet, but I suspect at some point that thought enters us all. A young tabebuia tree stands at the edge of our patio. Without yet possessing a strong trunk, she relies upon the two poles beside her to support her until she gets stronger. The two poles are the trunks of two other once-living trees, now being used to train and bear up a new generation of trees. Perhaps, like these trees, our well-lived lives will strengthen others who will follow.
If I speak plainly about what I do to earn my monthly paycheck, I will tell you that I work day in, day out, with folks who are on parole. They are all felons. I try to teach them remedial reading and math skills so they can move their lives forward.
They are the people with failed lives. Failed relationships, failed ambitions, failed life choices, failed vocations. Some have been incarcerated for as little as 18 months. Others have served more than 30 years for murder. The latter are the tenderized ones who have very little fight left in them. They want to simply live out their lives peaceably in some sort of decent housing; they can’t know where those resources will come from.
During dinner overlooking San Diego Bay, it was impossible to know what thoughts Dad filtered through his ninety-nine years of life experience. He reminded me that the old computer axiom “garbage in—garbage out” need not apply.
With each passing year, bitterness need not take root. Instead, by choice, life can grow sweeter.
