Hello, Future Me!

An open email to myself,
five years in the future.

To make sure I get it, I'm also
sending it out at FutureMe.org.

______________________________

Dear Future Me:

I can see you today, when I close my eyes. You're driving a blue pickup truck on an open highway. All I can see is the part that shows through the window, but you have that long braid down your back -- the one I've been trying FOREVER to grow -- your shoulders are narrower, your face more defined and prettier, and there's a lot more room between you and the steering wheel than I have now.

You're on your way to the next city, to set up another After School Club, or maybe a Cottage School, for homeless kids. The first fledgling program, at Joshua Station, starts in a couple of weeks (my time) -- but by the time you read this there may be a dozen or more. When you get to the city, you'll make connections; you'll speak and write and meet and do whatever it takes to gather a community around the cause of education for homeless children. You'll work with those new friends to create something beautiful. Again. And again at the next place. And again and again.

Behind the truck you're towing a tiny house, with a bicycle on the porch. God only knows (and I look forward to finding out) what's inside the house: a guitar, a djembe, a spinning wheel? A telescope, maybe some canvases and paint? It's going to be fun to see what stays, what goes and what is added as I pursue and define the lovely, simple, mobile life I long for.

There will always be resistance, and it may never get easy, but from here your life looks so sweet. Here at the beginning of the story, there's mostly paralyzing fear. Fear of failure, fear of hard work, fear of being alone in the hard work and also failing alone. Fear of the thing I've never been, however beautiful it might claim to be. What if I heard God wrong? Fear that when I get to heaven he'll shake his head and say something like "What were you thinking?"

The smile on your face today says you fought through it. You're doing what you were born to do, and you know it. If it's possible that it works this way (and some of my friends who are WAY into physics think it might be), please pray for me. No one but you and God knows what it's going to take to get from here to there, but it's do-able, and it's worth it. This much even *I* know.

Some "inciting incidents" were put into motion recently, before I even knew what an "inciting incident" was. The Shrink-A-Thon is probably the most obvious, public one -- 400 of my family and friends are watching via Facebook as I lose this weight, and a bunch of them are actually pledging money per pound to benefit the After School Club at Joshua Station. Yikes. At the very least, it's keeping me from quitting on the good food and exercise. And having other people's money flowing toward the education program means that quitting on that isn't an option, either.

Future Lori, if you're still struggling, please don't give up. You do *not* want to end up back where I am now. If you're ever tempted to turn around, think about Griselda's face when she read her first whole sentence, or Marco's laughter when he realized he could actually *do* addition. Or you can think about any of the (hundreds?) of kids you've worked with in the time since I wrote this.

And, dear one, remember Dad's story. There were some great scenes...the children's home, the tutoring, the way he encouraged us to see our lives as blank slates on which anything could be written...but his last chapter was long and boring and all about sickness and death. And his death was long and boring and stupid and tragic. I can say that because I know he's okay now, and if he can see what I'm writing he agrees.

I'm standing at a crossroads, with a choice between your story and Dad's. I choose your story, Future Lori -- I choose Beautiful You.

The doctors all say that my diabetes is reversible, so you probably don't even have it. You're healthy and active and you get down on the floor with the kids. You say "yes" when friends invite you for hikes and on trips, you can go on the rides at amusement parks, and you explore the cities you visit on foot and on your bike. You have time and energy to sew the clothes you've always wanted to wear. You have space on your lap for the children you love.

And there's so much more to come -- eye has not seen.

I'm going to go and copy this off to you at FutureMe, but before I do I want to tell you two more things:

1) I'm sorry it's taken me so long to make the choices that will bring you into being.
2) You're welcome.

-- Lori, 2010

P.S. When we meet, let's write an email to Old Lady Us. You can probably see her a little more clearly than I can. All I can make out is a long, gray braid down her back, her bicycle, and her smile.

_____________________________

Last year Don Miller came through Denver, talking about his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. He pretty much gave away the store in his talk, inspiring us all to "live a better story," and it hit me hard. I really got it. I thought I probably wouldn't need to read the book.

Since then I've stayed stuck in the same depressing story, so last week I bought the book anyway, and I read it in one sitting. I haven't done that since I was nine years old and the book was Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Here's a hint: if the table of contents makes you cry, you need to read the book. A Million Miles in A Thousand Years provides language to talk about what we all really want to do -- live a GREAT story -- and courage to get up and do it.

In September Don is hosting a conference called "Live A Better Story," and I'm not making the same mistake again -- if there's more to soak up, call me Spongebob. I'm especially interested in taking some focused time to come up with specific action steps.

This post is my entry in a contest to win a trip to Portland for the conference!

Here's a link to information on the conference: Living a Better Story Conference

And here's Don himself to tell you all about it:

Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.