Musings From the Basement

Eight Years Ago	Now
Lived in Provo, Utah Lived in my parents’ basement Spent lots of time at BYU in the Mechanical engineering department as a grad student Made as much money as a kid with a good paper route Spent lots of time hiking around the mountains Drove a six year old car with the check engine light on Felt hopeful of the future	Live in Provo, Utah Live in my parents’ basement Spend lots of time at BYU in the Mechanical engineering department as a faculty member Make as much money as a kid with a good paper route. Spend quite a bit of time hiking around the mountains Drive a six year old car with the check engine light on Finally feel hopeful of the future again.

 Returning to most of these I have done with a little grimace on my face.  But the last one—the hope—I wouldn’t trade for anything.  Hope is a strange thing.  It changes everything—it keeps you looking forward.  It saves you from being too focused on the present.  It’s what savings accounts and IRA’s and even the stock market exploit.  It’s why there are so many online dating websites (not that I would know personally, but I have HEARD), and it’s what ultimately keeps us sane.

I stopped by my friend Steve’s house the other day.  I hadn’t seen him for about six months and I like to keep my eye on him.  He’s got this great house in a rural part of Mapleton (as if it isn’t all rural) that he started building about eight years ago and has just about finished.  Everything in it is exactly how he wants it, of the highest quality, and beautiful.

Three years ago, when I was still living in Michigan, I remember visiting the house.  I hadn’t been there in a few years and I was interested to see the almost-finished product.  Steve took me on a tour.  He showed me the five bedrooms and the finished mother-in-law apartment in the basement.  He showed me the loft, complete with bookcases that looked over into the family room where his future children would play.  He showed me the office, which had been fitted with 5 study areas, each complete with its own electrical outlet and drawer bank, where his future kids would do their homework.  He showed me the piano that his future wife would teach their kids to play.  And finally, he showed me the quilting frames in the attic that he had built for his future wife.

I was astounded.  And a little bit angry.  How could he plan the rest of his life when he had no idea what it would look like?  Buying real estate for an investment was one thing.  Planning to the level that he planned was outrageous.  What if he only had three kids?  What if one of them was intent on playing the tuba instead of the piano?  What if his wife had no interest whatsoever in quilting?  How was he ever going to find people who fit neatly into the house that he had built?  I remember arguing with him and I remember that the conversation led to long months where we did not speak.

But the visit I made on Tuesday was different.  The piano is still in the front room and Steve still doesn’t play it.  None of the built-ins that belong to future children have changed at all—in fact, I think some have been added since my last visit. I'm sure the quilting frames are still in the attic. The difference about this visit, I think, was me.

The way Steve has lived his life and the house that he had built suddenly made sense.  I don’t think Steve is set on having five kids and I don’t think he really cares if his wife quilts.  What he was building wasn’t a blueprint for the only future he was willing to accept. What he was building was a physical manifestation of his hope.  Nothing else.  He hopes to be married and have a family.  He thinks about it and plans for it and it keeps him moving forward and looking forward.

It was an eye opener for me.  What do I have in my life that represents how I hope my future turns out?  And do I have enough faith to have a constant reminder of that hope in my life?  I don’t know.

But I do know this:  despite that my mentors think quitting my career just as I was making a name for myself was a stupid move, that in the past six months I have turned down a couple of pretty lucrative jobs and grad school, and that I still do not have a solid plan for how I am going to pay the bills after about October, I wouldn’t trade it.  Because those six months helped me to find my misplaced hope—my belief that there is something greater out there for me than fame and fortune.  The time I took has let me see that what I hope for isn’t achievable by working 80-hour weeks and traveling the world.  What I hope for takes me and God together.  How would I have ever learned that otherwise?