Passion. At
times it feels that the very act of passion is something that I’m passionate
about. Somehow it seems that I
have grown to be passionate about everything. Well, surely not everything, but certainly not just one
thing. My dear husband has expressed
to me that my passion is a part of me with which he fell, and continues to
fall, in love. Makes me blush a
little :) Being passionate, however, does have its
potential hindrances. For one, I
tend to get a little fiery. Jordan
can tell you all about that as well.
There’s a reason fire has it’s very own Smokey Bear, and that fuzzy
finger of his seems to be pointing right at me. “Only you…”, shall we say, “can prevent coming across as
being stubborn.” Or perhaps, “Only
you can prevent people from feeling like they need to defend themselves around
you.” Indeed, my ears need to
constantly adjust to hear far more than I like to speak, even in those cases
where my words need not budge… because a humble listener does not need equate to being
easily swayed. Simply stated, it
is worth recognizing that fiery passion can be a wonderful asset to
accountability, convictions, encouragement, even inspiration, but with passion
comes the responsibility to remain immensely humble, constantly discerning, and
never brought to a boiling point.
We’re not cooking pasta here.
So that’s me.
That’s the beauty and risk of passion. Though it seems I have again been swallowed up in a world of
my own, or at least a world that does not spark true for all. I forget that for some, passion does
not extend over every element of life.
As a matter of fact, for some, not one thing can be named. Passion? Sure, Jennifer, you speak of passion over many things but I
cannot think of a passion I have for even one thing. A dream? My
priority is survival. I know what
I’m good at, or at least semi-good at, but is it my passion? Not really. My way of life, perhaps. A hobby, maybe.
Something that sparks my soul to where I feel like my insides are on
fire? A conversation, or even just
a word, that makes my hands tremble and my stomach flutter in a way that is far
deeper than first-date butterflies or too many greasy fries? No. But I want it.
I mean, if indeed it’s worthwhile.
Mind if share my heart with you? I mean, literally.
Not physically. That would
be a bit odd, not to mention impossible.
Okay, perhaps the synapses in my right brain are uniquely active, or
perhaps I have some deep childhood experience that has shaped my unquenchable
drive. (FYI: neither of which are
based on any sort of scientific or psychiatric reasoning.) Here’s where I know passion to spring
from, and all of its beautiful repercussions. Jesus. I’m not
talking occasional church-going, hypocritical living, judgment giving,
every-once-in-a-while Bible reading Jesus following. I’m talking letting the only true God… not Buddha, not
Heavenly Mother, not Muhammad, not the Imperial Household…. thoroughly invade
your heart. To the point where you
become so passionate about Him, that He gives you passion in everything. Passion, in it’s purest and most
beautiful form, is pointed far from self and yet satisfies the self like
nothing else. So when life becomes
nothing about you, and everything about something deeper, you no longer need to
search for passion. Passion
becomes a part of you. And your
days will never be void of life again.
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