Kimberlee K.

For the last month or so, I’ve been playing a game on my iPad called Arrows.

It’s a puzzle game where you are trying to clear the arrows one by one, being careful to only click those with a clear path off the screen. Clicking one that collides with another both turns the arrow red and costs you a heart, of which you are given three.

And for the most part, it’s relaxing.

There have been a handful of levels where, upon losing a few times, I find I’m playing with perhaps a tighter jaw, but otherwise it’s been a nice way to unwind.

The other day, as I was working my way through a harder level, I kept coming back to a specific corner of the puzzle, wanting the cluster of arrows to be cleared. It just seemed like there should be something over there that could move, but everything was boxed in.

And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like there was a metaphor in there.

Because how often do we get caught up wanting a specific area of our life to change, improve, or simply start. We can feel uneven, unsteady, embarrassed that there is a whole corner of our playing field that hasn’t been addressed. And it can be frustrating to look at, to sit in, to hold onto.

In the game, I hate when I make a mistake and the once neutral black and white pallet of the board is interrupted by a long stripe of red.

WRONG CHOICE it says every time I look at it.

It is evidence that I tried to untangle something that wasn’t ready to be untangled. A reminder that even though I wanted that part of the puzzle sorted out, there were other parts of it that had to be solved first.

It is a game of patience, and requires a willingness to look over the puzzle slowly, carefully, in search of the paths that can be chosen safely. And sometimes, it is a game that requires you to start over again and again and again.

At the end of the day, I know it’s just a game, so if I can’t figure out a level, or if I keep making mistakes that require me to start over, I can eventually just put it away.

But in real life, I’m not so quick to offer myself and my walk the same grace and patience.

It is so easy to fall into the comparison trap, to try and “catch up” to friends and peers by rushing my way through, when the reality is, the path through my puzzle might just be a little bit different.

And while the game might give out cute little badges for winning on the first try, or clearing levels without making any mistakes, life often rewards us just for trying, even if it means failing. As a result, I’ve often felt bursts of pride in winning games where the puzzle was marred with red arrows as I fought my way through. Because they didn’t mark me as a failure so much as someone who simply found a handful of not yet’s.

Not this arrow yet.

Not this path just yet.

And when I close the game I feel that mindset stick with me, be it in the daily challenges I face, or in those stretching across seasons of my life.

We’re all working our way through, finding the yes’s, no’s, and not yet’s, and the unique order in which our steps will unravel them.

And there’s no hurry.

We’re all playing our own game.