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.