On Being Awake...

"The word I kept hearing in multiple places this morning is "awake." I'm curious what it means for me. Anything for you?"
~ Winn Collier, as his Facebook status

"short answer... it's a state i wish i were in today, more than just physically. it's better than texas. :-)"
~ my too-quick, but still true, response

* * * * * * *

I probably should've thought more about my answer before I posted a comment, but I didn't have the energy to articulate, at that moment, what being awake means for me. So I got to have a little bit of freshly prepared foot* for lunch, but that's okay. As a "transplanted Texan" (see below**), I stand by my claim that being truly awake is better than Texas any day.

And now I shall explain.

For me, being truly awake is far more than a physical state. It's a matter of willingness, awareness, aliveness... where I pop my head out of my little prairie-dog hole and realize that the world, and God in it and beyond it, are far larger than I understand them to be.

To be awake means:
- seeing and listening, with more than just my physical eyes and ears, to God and the world around me
- anticipation, not complacency ~ keeping watch, as in Matthew 25
- letting go of my little life for the sake of loving and serving God and my neighbor
- spending honest, unfettered time with my heart laid bare to Jesus, who has rescued me
- asking hard questions & thinking hard through the possible answers
- encountering the world honestly, genuinely
- remembering what is true
- loving well wherever I find myself - whether work, school, or community
- working well wherever I find myself - whether work, school, or community
- allowing myself to be loved by others
- something God calls me to be
- and much, much, MUCH more...


If I am honest with myself, I don't spend much time awake... and that, my friends, I lament.



* * * * * * *

* - I don't like to stir things up, so I stuck my foot in my mouth. Perhaps unnecessarily. I'm still evaluating that one...
** - Though born in Texas, I grew up in SC, and thus went through all of SC's state history shenanigans. So... when I came home from school in the 3rd-ish grade calling myself a "sandlapper" (the name for a South Carolinian, I guess), my mom went to great lengths to explain that I am not in fact a "sandlapper," and should not call myself that... I'm a "transplanted Texan." I guess it stuck.