Looking back at that sentence I find many things wrong with it. The most glaring problem though is that phrase resting leisurely in the middle: trying hard to believe. Is that even possible? To try and believe?

On the surface it’s supposed to be pretty straight forward isn’t it? Very Yoda. You believe or you don’t believe. I think that it’s like this with most people. Belief is as simple as choosing your pants for the day. Pick them out, put them on, and get on with your life.

I’m not trying to minimize beliefs or be critical about anyone’s thoughts on the subject. It’s only an observation. Despite stories of the prophets, I don’t see anyone wrestling with their beliefs these days. Maybe I don’t listen enough. Maybe I’m being dramatic. It’s really simple to self-fulfill your own prophecies or make your reality a part of your beliefs (and vice-versa). Beliefs are kind of made to try on and test out. That’s not a bad thing (maybe you’re supposed to experiment). I guess I just think that most people never change their outfit once they get the first one on.

Take my daughter, who watched me delete an email from her account that said specifically that if you don’t forward this email on to 15 people and you delete it, you’ll have three years bad luck. Her next two days at school and home were hell: a falling christmas tree, a broken blender, fights with her brothers, tripping on the stairs. All because of the email curse that was going to ruin her life for the next three years. It got the the point of tears a couple of times. The second time she began to cry I felt guilty for deleting the email, and then I wanted to punch the one who created it in the face.

I wanted to track them down for forcing me into a ridiculous moral moment and turning my daughter into a superstitious sentimental.

But that’s not what I want to believe. I’m not sticking to my point. I want to believe that I’m here, alive, on planet terra for a reason.

See, my grandpa should have died around age 40. The doctors couldn’t make sense of why he lived. They pronounced him dead at his home before they lazily loaded him into the old ambulance and took him to the ER where they performed CPR on him for hours and hours and burned him with new defibrillators. Growing up, I heard this over and over again, “Shawn, your grandpa is supposed to be dead.”

So, because he isn’t dead, there must be something he’s supposed to do. There must be some purpose he needs to accomplish before he calls it quits. My grandpa believed this too: “I’m here for a reason and it must be a good one. I better do good things until I figure out what it is.”

It might be a little selfish, but I like to think that I was the reason. Was there something he was supposed to do for me? Some example he was supposed to set? I try to think about what this might have been. What did he do in the year before he finally died? The days before? He told me the nurses were good looking at the hospital. Was this it? Some cryptic message about keeping a sense of humor and recognizing beauty? Who knows?

Regardless of the reasons, I do think this is a great philosophy to live by even if I’m not sure I believe it. Even if I only try to believe it:

“I’m here for a reason and it must be a good one. I better do good things until I figure out what it is.”

I’ve been obsessing about this for weeks.

I walked for 15 miles in the middle of the night–in the middle of the desert–with a guy who set out to run 100 miles. I joined him at mile 45. We had a full moon, headlamps, and plenty of pretzels every five mile to keep us company. And he was breaking down, his body had stopped tapping into any of its reserves. His only energy came from whatever food we got into him. We walked and walked and walked and shuffled and walked.

We got to know each other pretty well. We quoted Weird Science a little too much and talked a lot about a girl who was dressed up like Rainbow Brite. We created our own religion–it gets goofy out there. He can quote Pulp Fiction from beginning to end. 6+ hours later he finished the race at 100 kilometers. He didn’t finish the 100 miles, but he went further than he ever had before. Up until this race, the furthest he had gone was 38 miles. He did 62.

This is what amazed me. There was nothing in him that said, you can’t do this–you need to prepare more. Keep planning, keep thinking about it. Somewhere he decided that 38 miles was good enough to try for 100 miles. He had been running, he had been training, and then he just did it. I admire the way he believed in himself (and still believes in himself).

Me? I debated doing the 15 miles with him. I wasn’t sure if I could deliver a noteworthy performance. I knew I could finish, but I didn’t know if I could finish without being laughed at? I knew I could finish, but would he regret taking me on as a pacer as he struggled to keep me at his pace?

I plan too much. I think about what’s next too much. I worry about how I’ll look or what people will think too much. It’s left me questioning my goals. It’s left me, at times, wondering who I am. What is it I really want? Because, I reason, if I really wanted it, I would have already acted on it. Right? So I guess I don’t really want a whole lot.

6 hours in the desert with this crazy guy gave me some perspective. My “it-must-not-be-what-I-really-want-attitude” is crap. I wouldn’t plan and obsess and think about it if it wasn’t what I really want.

I have a favorite word in Polish. It’s już. In Polish, it sounds like “youshzz.” It doesn’t quite translate into English, but the closest word is “already.” It can mean I’m coming, I’m there, I’m here, too late, or it’s happening. I need to say this word to myself more in relation to what I want and what I want to do. Sometimes, I just need to stop preparing to do something and remember that I’m ready to do it.

Run 50K. Już.
Get an audience. Już.
Write a book. Już.
Write a novel. Już.
Be a father. Be a friend. Już. Już.

If I ever get a tattoo, this will be it. Don’t worry mom, I’ll put it somewhere professional. Unless you know me, you’ll have no idea I have it.