46 His words elicited the crowd’s reflective “hmm,” likely prompting families to defend their Sundays a bit more strictly and, in cases of stark conviction, withdraw from the weekend youth basketball league. Yet when it rang in my ears, a sadistic admiration warmed in my heart: a shameful desire to applaud this man who sucked every opportunity from his 29 years. I find comfort in someone like McCheyne: a co-laborer, who, like me, has ascetic threads woven thick in his bones. I’m sure he coughed through sermon-preps and feverishly led Bible studies, avoiding naps that could have extended his years. I would’ve shed tears of pride at his funeral, championing his ability to produce. But did McCheyne collapse because he out-worked sustainability, or because the average lifespan in the early 1800s was 44? I know the Baptists want to canonize Piper’s every syllable—and I indulge, too, when it’s theologically opportune—yet I detect a false parallel. The bornagain American, listening to a playback of a Piper sermon whilst soaking in their jacuzzi with a flute of Prosecco, next to a 19th-century countryman with roots in the generation that couldn’t outwit cholera. I entreat the irony of Piper, 75 and aging, able to share McCheyne’s message with me because of his access to MRIs. Regardless, I’m not a worthily-wearied clergyman like Robert McCheyne, or David Brainerd, or Peter Marshall, fervently spreading a soul-saving message from dawn to dusk. I’m an undergraduate student writing literary criticisms and mastering APA. And yet I continue, emulating these men in the bulk of my days. I’ve tried unearthing my motivations, staring in the mirror at my naked soul to breach my subconscious. I figure if I can find my “why,” I’ll develop a sort of agency over my practices, like the self-realized stress-eater or daddy-issues bad-boydater. If I could blame it on the woes of childhood trauma (typical but valid) or escapism (sadly not my style), there’d be a visible road to change. But soulsearching was fruitless. Treating my work-til-you-drop cycle as a predisposition rather than a discipline feels unsatisfactory. I’m chewing on the possibility of both. My affinity for exertion leads me to fill every moment, and then my inclinations and customs conjoin. Whether by heredity or habit, wearying work is embedded deep within me as the vice I revere and love. At the peak of suicidality, my sister was earning straight A’s and volunteering at the local nursing home’s Saturday bingo. Should that strike concern? Probably, in moderation. But the resolve to carry on is programmed into me, etched in the matrix of my essence. Why not call out B6 while waiting to see if Lexapro kicks in? To demand a waiting period would be sickly idle. I don’t mean to disregard the detriments: working to the point of yakking after every major season of life is destructive. Ruining vacations and breaks with my snotty drudge is far from glamorous; it’s taxing. I know an afternoon hammocking would serve me well, but I can’t justify it. I’d rather keep
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