, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

imageGod, they called us slackers
And those without direction
And angsty
As if Wynona or Kurt spoke for all of us.
Maybe they did… a little.

We wondered when the world would blow up
Who would send the missiles first-
Us versus them.
There’s still a piece of our souls
That cringe when we hear “war” or “bombs” or “nuclear.”

It’s the end of the world as we know it…
But we couldn’t tell if we felt fine,
Or if we didn’t.  Meh.

Maybe it was melancholy that we became accustomed to.
Maybe we stopped hoping.

And yet, we weren’t slacking
We’re just trying to listen for our call
To know where to go
And embracing meaning in everything we do.

We worked.
We kept moving forward.
Moving through the motions as we waited for life to start
Or end.

We couldn’t be as cool as the generation before
Or the generation after.
We’re the middle child, living in the shadow of our older brother Boomer
And eclipsed by our younger sister Millennial.

We are the generation in the wilderness
Wondering if we’ll make it into the promised land.
From crisis to crisis
Our story is a journey
Never a destination.

Sometimes, God, it was tough to find you
And we lost some sisters and brothers along the way.

And now, as adults,
We only know resilience in despair’s face.
We lament, God, as we may never understand our true purpose
Or accomplish what we had hoped for.

Now in the early evening of our lives,
We wonder if we’ll live the dream
Or continue to move through the motions.