Making Room for Discomfort
Yesterday, about twenty minutes before we were slated to have supper, Henry asked for a snack. I told him no, since supper was so close. Then I told him "it's good for you to be hungry sometimes."
The phrase bounced around in my head for a long time afterward. I said it off the cuff, but I couldn't stop hearing echoes of it for the next few hours.
There's a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon in which Calvin's dad instructs him to go and do something he doesn't like because "it builds character." We say it jokingly to the kids all the time. But, really, there's an element of truth there.
There are a lot of things in our house that are anything but comfortable. We have a brand-new air conditioner, but most days we prefer to have the windows open and the breeze coming in. There's something about connecting with what's happening outside that means more to me than an ideal indoor temperature. Our dishwasher broke a while back, and so now it serves as a large drying rack. We'll replace it at some point, I'm sure. But in the meantime I've learned to appreciate the time it takes to wash dishes. If I'm by myself, I stop and look out the window, think about projects and ideas, or listen to music. If I'm doing the dishes with Micah, it's a chance to talk and share our hearts as the work gets done. In the winter we typically keep our heat set around 64 degrees. It's largely a cost and energy-efficiency decision, but it's much more than that. I'm bracing myself for winter at home full-time, and yet I'm almost excited about what the discomfort will grow in me over the next few months.
The reality is, it's not good for us to always be comfortable. If a baby never rolls off the bottom step of a staircase, though it may hurt or startle them for a moment, they never learn that stairs need to be climbed with caution or that gravity is a constant reality. Likewise, if they never stumble and fall as they're learning to walk, then they never learn to get up again after the fall and learn from their mistakes. When we are comfortable, we are content to continue on in status quo. We don't grow, we don't learn, we don't connect with others. We're like dormant plants: full of potential but nearly dead.
On the other hand, discomfort motivates us. It teaches us. It pushes us into action. It has benefits for us that so vastly outweigh the temporary uncomfortable moments.
For one, it makes us realize our humanity. When we are comfortable and insulated from hardship, we tend to imagine we're invincible. The reality, though, is far from it! The past year, especially when I was sickest, can be best described as "uncomfortable." Every part of it was a challenge, often a painful one. And yet coming face to face with my own limitations has been life-changing for me. I had been on a trajectory fit for a superhero or immortal being of some kind. I couldn't sustain the pace I was keeping, although I thought I could. Discomfort brought me face to face with reality--the reality that I am only human--and forced some major changes. A year and a half later, my lifestyle and priorities are so different. They are realistic.
Hardship also builds in us perseverance, grit. It teaches us that there will be a way through, even through hard things. It teaches us to hold the course, to double down and press on. As the popular saying goes, "We can do hard things." Hard things themselves teach us that truth.
Discomfort develops empathy. How can we understand what others are living when we ourselves live in an ivory tower? But when we walk through our own valleys, we understand firsthand the kind of hurt others might be experiencing. Hardship gives us a depth of experience and understanding that are applicable across an unbelievable array of situations. We learn to empathize with others, to meet them in their places of pain.
Seasons, moments, of discomfort teach us gratitude and contentment. It's when we have the opportunity to contrast the hardship with the good times that we begin to feel gratitude for the good in our lives. We become more deeply contented, more joyful, in the small things. We become aware of the realities of our lives.
It proves to us that we can live a full life even in a season of less. We may be living in a season of plenty, but allowing ourselves to experience discomfort reminds us that even if this season were different--even if we found ourselves lacking what we needed-- there would be life, full live, in that season too.
Life brings plenty of natural discomfort. We can never avoid it fully, and I hope I'm learning to embrace it when it crosses my path. But I'm also learning to seek out opportunities to allow discomfort in my life, to make room for less-than-ideal, to create places of need. It's not masochism or some kind of extreme doctrine. It's just that if I always have more than enough, abundant comfort, I miss the benefits of discomfort.
It's not a popular idea, and not one that can be taken to extremes. My children will never starve, and we will always maintain some level of comfort in our lives. But I hope we're learning to embrace the hard things, to leave room for discomfort. And, no matter how we experience it, I hope the benefit and richness of the uncomfortable things is never lost on us.
The phrase bounced around in my head for a long time afterward. I said it off the cuff, but I couldn't stop hearing echoes of it for the next few hours.
There's a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon in which Calvin's dad instructs him to go and do something he doesn't like because "it builds character." We say it jokingly to the kids all the time. But, really, there's an element of truth there.
There are a lot of things in our house that are anything but comfortable. We have a brand-new air conditioner, but most days we prefer to have the windows open and the breeze coming in. There's something about connecting with what's happening outside that means more to me than an ideal indoor temperature. Our dishwasher broke a while back, and so now it serves as a large drying rack. We'll replace it at some point, I'm sure. But in the meantime I've learned to appreciate the time it takes to wash dishes. If I'm by myself, I stop and look out the window, think about projects and ideas, or listen to music. If I'm doing the dishes with Micah, it's a chance to talk and share our hearts as the work gets done. In the winter we typically keep our heat set around 64 degrees. It's largely a cost and energy-efficiency decision, but it's much more than that. I'm bracing myself for winter at home full-time, and yet I'm almost excited about what the discomfort will grow in me over the next few months.
The reality is, it's not good for us to always be comfortable. If a baby never rolls off the bottom step of a staircase, though it may hurt or startle them for a moment, they never learn that stairs need to be climbed with caution or that gravity is a constant reality. Likewise, if they never stumble and fall as they're learning to walk, then they never learn to get up again after the fall and learn from their mistakes. When we are comfortable, we are content to continue on in status quo. We don't grow, we don't learn, we don't connect with others. We're like dormant plants: full of potential but nearly dead.
On the other hand, discomfort motivates us. It teaches us. It pushes us into action. It has benefits for us that so vastly outweigh the temporary uncomfortable moments.
For one, it makes us realize our humanity. When we are comfortable and insulated from hardship, we tend to imagine we're invincible. The reality, though, is far from it! The past year, especially when I was sickest, can be best described as "uncomfortable." Every part of it was a challenge, often a painful one. And yet coming face to face with my own limitations has been life-changing for me. I had been on a trajectory fit for a superhero or immortal being of some kind. I couldn't sustain the pace I was keeping, although I thought I could. Discomfort brought me face to face with reality--the reality that I am only human--and forced some major changes. A year and a half later, my lifestyle and priorities are so different. They are realistic.
Hardship also builds in us perseverance, grit. It teaches us that there will be a way through, even through hard things. It teaches us to hold the course, to double down and press on. As the popular saying goes, "We can do hard things." Hard things themselves teach us that truth.
Discomfort develops empathy. How can we understand what others are living when we ourselves live in an ivory tower? But when we walk through our own valleys, we understand firsthand the kind of hurt others might be experiencing. Hardship gives us a depth of experience and understanding that are applicable across an unbelievable array of situations. We learn to empathize with others, to meet them in their places of pain.
Seasons, moments, of discomfort teach us gratitude and contentment. It's when we have the opportunity to contrast the hardship with the good times that we begin to feel gratitude for the good in our lives. We become more deeply contented, more joyful, in the small things. We become aware of the realities of our lives.
It proves to us that we can live a full life even in a season of less. We may be living in a season of plenty, but allowing ourselves to experience discomfort reminds us that even if this season were different--even if we found ourselves lacking what we needed-- there would be life, full live, in that season too.
Life brings plenty of natural discomfort. We can never avoid it fully, and I hope I'm learning to embrace it when it crosses my path. But I'm also learning to seek out opportunities to allow discomfort in my life, to make room for less-than-ideal, to create places of need. It's not masochism or some kind of extreme doctrine. It's just that if I always have more than enough, abundant comfort, I miss the benefits of discomfort.
It's not a popular idea, and not one that can be taken to extremes. My children will never starve, and we will always maintain some level of comfort in our lives. But I hope we're learning to embrace the hard things, to leave room for discomfort. And, no matter how we experience it, I hope the benefit and richness of the uncomfortable things is never lost on us.
