Open-Window Mornings

Or “Take a look around sometimes”

The past few mornings, here in Pennsylvania, have been remarkably cool. Temperatures in the low 50s, when I get up to take Mini out. Chilly for any time of year, but for July it seems like a miracle. Is it always this way, around the Pittsburgh area? Summer just lasts a month or so and we’re back to jacket weather? I’m used to the Texas heat oppressing me and sucking all life from me for half the year.

One thing Kara and I did last night—something we’ve rarely done and rarely think about—is open our windows. We slept with the windows cracked and the fresh, chilled air coming in. And it was wonderful. After a month or so of sleeping a bit on the warm side, it was like taking a sudden dip into a natural spring.

There’s something about the energy of a room, when it has free and fresh air flowing into it. There’s a tingling on the skin. A scent of something you can’t quite identify. The sounds of birds and life outside wafting in like an aroma of flowers. It’s fresh and wonderful and nostalgic.

When I was a kid, in Wild Peach, Texas, I would come home from school in the Fall and the Spring and sometimes find that my mom or my grandmother had the windows open. This was the feeling of the room then—like the air itself was wrapping around me, as if it were the most comforting blanket in the world. I could feel it. My soul could feel it.

So it’s nice to have that here, in this moment. I don’t know how long it will last, so I soak it up, stretch myself into it, take it on like a cloak.

These days, for a lot of reasons, I feel so very tired. Weary, that’s the right word. There’s a Sisyphus-like struggle happening within me, shoving a boulder up the side of the mountain, hoping I’ll reach the peak soon. A struggle. Sometimes the struggle is to get ahead and succeed, but more often it’s a struggle to simply be. To be who I am, who I was built to be. To be the best version of myself. To be better than I was yesterday. To be a good man, a good husband, a good child of God.

It’s a shame, really, to fail so often and so badly at such a simple thing. It’s a shame that it’s not all that simple, after all.

At least I have an open window and a chilled breeze to remind me, to wrap around me and comfort and console me. How bad can life be, in such a state as this?

Sometimes I think God isn’t paying attention. I start to feel self-pity. I feel malaise, sadness, depression.

Then I’ll take a walk. I’ll take a drive. I’ll play some music. I’ll open a window.

I guess the lesson is something comforting but uncomfortable—God doesn’t owe us an explanation for our wait time, and our joy is a choice we make.

During times of struggle, it’s hard to take comfort in the idea that “God’s got this.” It’s hard to surrender. It’s hard to stick to our principles and keep improving our character. But we have to. That’s the gig. That’s what we came for.

I’m glad for open-window days. For cool mornings and sun-dappled landscapes and big oak trees casting their shadows on the lawn. For the smell of flowers and the sound of birds. For a tiny dog cuddled next to me, and a big dog wanting me to play tug-of-war. For long walks through tree-lined paths, and overheard conversations between dads and their little girls.

We yearn for what’s lost sometimes. But we cannot and must not forget that there is life happening all around us, and we are a part of it. If we choose. And, oh yes, we should choose.

We should open a window.

FAST-PACED, HOPEFUL FICTION

That’s the tagline. That’s how I describe the novels I write. And with more than 70 of them in print worldwide, that’s a lot of action and adventure and hope to take in.

Find your next favorite book when you visit me at KevinTumlinson.com/Books.

A NOTE AT THE END

I don’t talk about it much, but a couple of years ago I was officially given a diagnosis of depression.

I suspected that was true, long before I sat on a couch in a therapist’s office. Not because I felt sad, which I did. Nor because my moods could rapidly shift—sad, angry, okay maybe a little happy, now I’m anxious and afraid and I feel alone. All of that was a good sign of a bad thing.

But I knew that I was depressed when I stopped feeling hopeful for anything. When I stopped being able to take joy in a moment, or to even notice anything to be grateful for.

If I’m honest—and I should be—I still feel that, pretty often. I feel it right now.

This is a confession, I guess.

I have a tendency to take on my struggles and challenges all on my own. Because I don’t want them to be a burden to anyone else. That would just make me feel worse. I have a hard time just functioning as it is, and the thought of causing someone else to feel even a little of what I feel, that disturbs me.

But beyond that, I honestly don’t think I could handle people trying to help. Doesn’t that sound crackers? I think I just can’t face the idea of people looking at me, thinking about me, or behaving around me as if I am to be pitied. I am so damaged that they have to feel sorry for me.

This is definitely a confession.

But I heard once, maybe more than once, that something people don’t talk about enough is that struggle. And that they should, because there are OTHER people in the world who may be dealing with the same trouble. The same burden. The same heartache and loneliness and misery.

I don’t want anyone, ever, to feel like I have felt. Like I often feel.

I confess that as much as I am pursuing, chasing, working very hard for my dream—for this work that I know with absolute certainty is the work God has given me—I’m struggling. I’m finding it nearly impossible to do and be. I’m feeling exhausted, sad, angry, anxious, worried, lonely.

Maybe you feel that, too.

At this moment I’m supposed to offer some encouragement, a piece of wisdom or advice that will make you feel like you are definitely not alone, and that someone loves you, and that there is someone out here who wants to help you.

That’s all true, I believe. But it’s also true that there are times when the only thing we can do for another hurting and aching soul is tell them that we feel the same way. We feel alone, so we can feel alone together. We hurt, we feel sorrow, so we can share that pain for a while. Silently. Without a word spoken or a gesture made. Sometimes that’s what we need.

Not action. Just knowing.

My instinct is to offer myself to you, if you’re hurting like that. But I can’t. Not at the moment. I’m as weak as you. I’m as torn as you. I can’t lift you up. The best I can do is float here beside you. So at least neither of us is in this alone, regardless of that nagging feeling we have.

I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes sharing is the only way to tell the world that it’s okay anyway. That it all hurts, it’s all heavy, it’s impossible to breathe sometimes and impossible to drum up any more empathy or sympathy, but it’s okay anyway.

You’re okay. I’m okay. We’ll be back, and we’ll love and encourage and help again, sometime soon.

It’s okay that, for now, we can’t.

God bless you. I pray for you. Even though.