I confess to you, my brothers and sisters, that I am sojourning with two anti-saints in this “Messy Middle” of life. Having recently turned 38, with children on the cusp of their ninth and twelfth birthdays, I find one companion urging me to look back while the other whispers that there must be a faster way to a less stressful future. Between them, they conspire to pull my attention away from the only place where life can actually be lived: the chaotic present.
Brian Preston of The Money Guy podcast calls this stage of life “the Messy Middle”: the years between young adulthood and middle age, when responsibilities multiply faster than time and money and you are stretched in every direction. Careers advance, children arrive, mortgages are signed, parents begin to age, and community obligations accumulate. Unlike the seasons of the year, the Messy Middle is all four seasons all at once—think Katy Perry’s “Hot N’ Cold” on repeat, every hour of every day.
When I look at the calendar on my phone, each day is more color-coded than a Christmas tree; I cannot recall how long I have told myself that it will start to get better next week. But next week has never arrived. Each day I am a living sacrifice to those appointments, meetings, practices, and games. I do not know if my two companions found me, or if I found them, but when the calendar’s chaos and ubiquitous overwhelm arrive, so do Lot’s wife and Simon the Magician.
I have an affinity for Lot’s wife—she is best described as salt of the earth (Dad jokes are age appropriate for Millennials now, and those in the Messy Middle). Perhaps you know her? She is leaving behind her former life in Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 19), an angel instructed her not to look back, but she does, and there she remains, as a pillar of salt. Walking into the unknown can be scary and feel like a risk, but here in the Messy Middle we know that it is even riskier to turn back. The past bears fruit in our memories and in the lives we now inhabit. But as nostalgia, that fruit never ripens. You cannot live in memories no matter how comforting. My children are about to be nine and twelve, and I have to love them as they are today, not as they were six years ago. Likewise, at 38 I can no longer hold myself to the standards of energy and stamina I had at 28 or 18. After physical therapy for lower back pain, the temptation to gaze backwards and not move forward, the temptation to preserve my life as it was rather than let it go is lessened because I really do not want to twist my neck, back, or anything else that would now lead to days of pain and physical therapy.
Simon, too, is someone I could grab a beer with, even though beer now adds to my “Dad bod.” In Acts 8, we learn that Simon used to practice magic. Like many parents, I used to practice magic, too. No rabbits out of a hat. I simply had the superpower to make time for anyone, and I could make believe with my kids. Years ago I could tape cardboard toilet paper rolls together, call them unicorn binoculars, and take the kids to the forest preserve to go unicorn hunting. Alas, we don’t have time for that any more, and even if we did, the fledgling sarcasm my eldest has developed would likely come into full bloom. Eye rolls and all.
Knowing this, Simon tempts me in the opposite direction of Lot’s wife. He observed the apostles conferring the Holy Spirit on those around him; he was impatient and thought it a magic trick. So he offered them money thinking they could cut to the chase and let him in on their trick. No waiting places or dithering in liminal spaces for Simon. Just get to the point. In like manner, if only I could skip to the good part, the calm place, and move puberty along for my kids so the years of body odor and awkwardness are compressed and over. He was rebuked, harshly, for trying to buy the offices or gifts of God. The gifts of God cannot be bought. Time with family is a gift; peace and tranquility are gifts from God I seek. But, in the Messy Middle, peace and tranquility are hard to come by. It’s a reminder, especially when this sojourn of mine winds through a desert place and my faith wanes, there really is the chronos time we all live in and, simultaneously, God’s time, kairos. It is frustrating that I cannot speed up that which I dislike, or slow down that which I want to savor. I’ve just got to live through it, chronos and kairos both, and trust the right things will happen when they ought to happen.
Taken together, Lot’s Wife and Simon are buffers, keeping me out of the ditch as I follow the path of life. They remind me that even though the days are long, looking back ossifies my presence, and finding shortcuts wastes time; both inhibit human and spiritual growth. As the cliche goes, getting there isn’t half the fun, it’s all the fun. And so, in spite of the exhaustion, frustration, and chaos in this season of life, I will attempt to heed the directive that St. Paul gave to the Romans: rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, and persevere in prayer. So, pray for me, please! My anti-saints continue to accompany me. One whispers to look back. The other urges me to cut ahead. I suspect holiness lies somewhere between them—in the only moment God has actually given me: this one. ♦
Mark Piper resides in Chicago with his family and holds a master's in leadership and policy studies from DePaul University and a bachelor's from St. Xavier University. He is the author of Interrupted Presence: Eleven Stories of Finding God in Times of Trouble (ACTA Publications, 2021).