Focus

When I was in eighth grade, I handed in a masterpiece to my English teacher. I, of course, did the entire assignment the night before its due date, but it was nonetheless a masterpiece. I filtered through several different fonts before deciding on BankGothic (my signature font) for the headers. I meticulously laid out each page to look just right. I think it was, by far, the best-looking assignment I had ever done. I didn't understand why my teacher didn't love it quite as much as I did. Each page consisted of the header, in my fabulous font, alignment just right. So what was the problem?

''It seems that your focus was a little off,'' she told me.

What are you talking about? I spent hours working on this!

Um, you didn't finish writing some of the essays. You stopped in the middle of a sentence.

Yeah, but isn't it pretty?

I've been accused, on occasion, of being oblivious. I was almost hit by a car once. I didn't see it coming, and I didn't see it swerve to miss me, either. That is, until the driver got out to ask if I was okay. Uh, yeah, why wouldn't I be? Did I miss something?

My freshman year of college, I was sitting in the lobby of my building. I saw someone sitting next to me, but thought nothing of it until I noticed an expectant look aimed in my direction. Turns out he had been there for several minutes. He had tried talking to me. He tried asking me out. I didn't hear a word of it.

Oblivious? I contest that accusation. I'm not oblivious, I'm focused. My mind wraps itself around an idea, clings to it as if it were the one piece of wreckage left afloat after a ship goes down. It mulls over it, turns it over, views it from every possible side. And allows nothing else to interrupt the contemplation until it's satisfied it has abolutely, completely, without a doubt, torn it apart to the point that there is no semblance of an idea left for contemplation.

When I was in high school, I decided to reevaluate my priorities. I made lists of activities that were and were not appropriate for the Sabbath. I timed my scripture study to make sure that I allotted a full 30 minutes, and not one second less. I timed the start and end of each fast to ensure that it was, in fact, 24 hours. On fast Sundays, my family would gather in the kitchen after church to eat, talk, and laugh, while I consigned myself to my room to find more righteous activities to add to my list of righteousness so that I could officially crown myself the Righteous Queen and scorn the heathens who would dare eat and, heaven forbid, laugh less than 24 hours after beginning their fast. Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little, but you get the point.

A friend once told me that my focus is a gift, a blessing even. It can be, I suppose. It's what, in part, allowed Peter to walk on water. He focused on the Master, refusing to allow distractions from the tempests raging about him. Then he lost focus. And sank. Or, if his mind works anything like mine, he didn't so much lose focus as he did change his focus. He focused on the waves ravaging around him, on what he should do to keep himself from sinking. And forgot that it wasn't his power keeping him above water to begin with.