I went out with some friends (Catholic) and their friends (non Christians) tonight. In one sense, it was an enjoyable night chatting with beer and nibbles; in another sense, it was… strange. I felt alien to the topics of conversation which inevitably turned to women and talks of dubious lifestyles. Our friend Universal was there too, and his undisguised facial expressions told me the same. It was strange, because it seemed like an abnormal thing to do yet it obviously is the “norm” and we felt out of place. It was strange because I felt like someone picnicking on top of a hill, watching others go up and down all the other hills like there was no choice in the matter (all the while looking for a picnic spot). It seemed so… laborious and unnecessary.
I guess I am not “normal” in the popular sense. I’m quite contented with the joys of a “conventional” life. I like to marvel and wonder at the scenery on the way to and from work. I enjoy chatting to the old people I meet during the day, and I find the greatest joys in familiar relationships. I find exuberance in trying to live a challenging and creative existence, to better myself and the world. I look at my life and think how blessed I am to be here and to know God.
If I’m not “normal” in the popular sense, I’d quite like to be “ordinary” in the sense that G. K. Chesterton understood it when he said the following:
“I am ordinary in the correct sense of the term; which means the acceptance of an order; a Creator and the Creation, the common sense of gratitude for Creation, life and love as gifts permanently good, marriage and chivalry as laws rightly controlling them, and the rest of the normal traditions of our race and religion.”
In such troubled times as this, a life lived out in this sense is, surely, “a life less ordinary”.