Real Men tout their masculinity by riding bulls, eating undercooked beef, and journaling. Not many of you were aware of that, so I figured I’d let you in on that well-kept secret. In addition to these tough guy characteristics, the baddest of the bad and manliest of the manly spends time in the driveway with his kids blowing bubbles.
It is with this Macho Marlborough Man image in mind that I journaled the following…
Standing in the driveway, dipping the Bubble Wand into the tray of soapy water, waving it gently in the air. The bubbles have a shiny sparkle. Their micro-thin surface shimmers in a shawl of oily colors. The sunlight glints, reflecting off the crescent of each bubble.
A flock of sheen-y bubbles in flight, trailing one another. A slight breeze that I had not detected carries each bubble slowly, lightly.
Not so slow nor light are my kids. They give chase. Reaching. Jumping. Poking. Sometimes extending an open hand in hopes of catching a bubble, keeping it alive in their hand. Kids have soft skin, but not soft enough to catch a delicate bubble.
The world is full of empty bubbles. I chase after so many things that will not last, that cannot be kept alive. Any fun they offer is fleeting – a fun found in the pursuit, never in the catch. Somehow the word “mine” is not a soft enough landing for the delicate, shimmering things I wearily chase.
All breezes blow in the same direction – away. I walk, run, poke at, dream in pursuit of bubbles that lead away, never to. Away from home. Never to peace. Away from satisfaction. Never to contentment.
When the bubble bursts, I insanely begin the exact same process over again. I glance in the direction of the source of more bubbles: websites, stores, car lots, bookstores, cinemas, bars, sports. These are just a small sampling of bubble wands that are dipped in the soapy water of this world before being waved in the air, signaling the start of another race.
Manly men have been described as hunters and gatherers. If this is true, guys, we emasculate ourselves when we are tracking down empty bubbles. It’s an empty pursuit. It’s a wild game bag with a hole in it.
Guys, I think that maybe the toughest, grittiest Everest that you and I are called to summit could be a Mountain called “Contentment.” In a real world where fake men seek to have all they want, my Real God is calling me to be a complete man who wants all that he has been graciously given.