In his magisterial Magic Mountain, German novelist Thomas Mann observes that boringly empty periods of life seem to take forever to live through, but in retrospect appear quite short, even empty. Conversely, he muses, other seasons are so full you don’t know how you can possibly keep up; on hindsight, though, they look longer than they actually were.

I’ve just been through one of the latter. I feel like I’ve lived ten years in the last month.

Inexplicably, I woke up the day after being wondrously delivered from a potentially eternity-ushering-in auto accident with a listlessness that went to the core of my being. The switch was “Off” and I didn’t know how to get it back “On.” Truth is, I didn’t want to get it back “On.”

I soon recognized mine to be a condition similar to one that had set in on my father when he was forced to retire from teaching before he was ready. Dad tried to write, but when he found publishers disinterested, he sank into his recliner, put the Braves on TV, and pretty much went away.

Likewise, and to my surprise, after the accident I discovered I too wanted just “to sit and watch a while.”

Mercifully, my life is too full of commitments, my wife too determined that I live, and my memory too full of what I’ve learned from Josef Pieper, Os Guinness, and Carla Waterman about the fourth of the seven deadly sins, sloth.

Often confused with mere laziness, sloth is more a shrinking of the spirit than an indulging of the flesh. What makes sloth sloth is not the nap, but the fact that the nap is the response to the report that there is a lion in the street (Prov 26:13-14). Sloth’s nap has been a constant temptation my entire conscious life, but at no time more oppressively so than in these past few weeks. I’ve come to understand acutely the majority report: “There are giants in the land — if we follow Caleb and Joshua’s counsel, we will perish.”

A month later, and I’m back — but not without an unlookedfor journey into a dark place. Others, too, I suppose, teeter on the balance point between “Further up and further in” and “Whatever … What’s on SportsCenter?” So I thought I would chronicle a few of the tipping points that seem to have brought me back from the edge of the abyss.

Getting Perspective on Greg Davis’s Death. The day before my accident, I had blogged the way the Newsboys’ Peter Furler’s line, “If indeed Christ rose from the dead, everything matters,” was helping me gain altitude on the death of my friend and co-worker Greg Davis. Little did I know how much those words would become my own do-or-die mantra: “Everything does matter. Everything does matter. Because of Christ, everything does matter.”

Ironically, the Greeks’ term for sloth was akeideia = “indifference.” We’re not the first to discover despair of the soul. Praise be, there was One who was not indifferent to our state.

The Sale of the Mustang. I knew the day after the accident that the biggest casualty of the event was going to be my beloved 1965 performance Mustang — I was going to need to sell it to help replace the totaled minivan. As fun as the ‘Stang was for me, she needed the kind of attention either an owner-mechanic or a wealthy dilettante could lavish on her. As much as I loved her, she wasn’t loving me back enough.

That’s what I knew on days when the switch was “On.” The other days, it was somebody else’s fault.

The day I resolved that it was my decision and not somebody else’s, and that the decision was going to be made out of gratitude for the joy the Mustang has brought instead of regret over the fun that was no longer to be, I called the friend from whom I had acquired her, and I offered her back. My friend had rebuilt the car with his father and had entrusted her to me only to raise money for a life-event that, well, eventually turned sour. The loss of the car was part of that pain. The Mustang’s return was as much a part of his healing as it was of mine.

Two Car Deals. I parse Greek verbs, but break lawn tools. I married a financial planner who carries household tools in her purse. I married amazingly smart. This week I got to watch Mrs. Kidd in full glory: walking us away from one car dealer over a $40 insult fee, and closing two car deals at another dealer. I’m sorry to see her give up the big family camping van that she’d grown about as affectionate of as I had the Mustang. But she’s right: we’ve got to be thinking about life-at-$5-per gallon. So, for now we’re driving his and hers Scion xBs: I’m in “Lucille,” she’s in the “Brave Little Toaster” (until our 16-year old learns to drive).

Speaking at Tullian’s Men’s Retreat & in Chapel. Larry Crabb once observed that sometimes all you can do is live as though you know truth is true, until you find yourself believing it. Sort of a sanctified “fake it till you make it” philosophy. Twice during the last month I’ve had speaking engagements in which I’ve simply had to articulate truth that I know to be true despite my internal disengagement from its reality. In the process, it has become more real. Thanks to the men of New City Church of Margate, FL, where my friends Tullian Tchvidjian and Paul Manuel minister, for bearing with me while I reminded myself as much as them that the apostle Paul calls us to “take hold of that for which I have been taken hold”: a life of faith, hope, love, godliness, justice, courage, and temperance. And thanks as well to the faculty, students, and staff at RTS/Orlando for letting me reflect with them on the way Jesus calls us “Out of Sloth and into Hungering and Thirsting for Righteousness.”

Toward Denominational Bonhomie. Right now, my denomination is characterized by some pretty strong distrust. The default drive, I suspect, is for all of us to surround ourselves with people who think just like we do. That’s its own form of sloth.

It has been heartening to hear, of late, how many and what range of folks are saying, “We can do this. It’ll be hard, but we can work at getting to know each other better so we can define better what’s essential and then trust each other on what’s negotiable.”

ALCS Game 5. OK, so how can I briefly say how great it was for ex-assistant Little League Coach Len Hardison to talk me into flying to Cleveland with him to take in Game 5 of the ALCS? I have to let pictures of the (less than prophetic) freebie Tribe towel, my scorebook, and Len & me tell it all.

Beckett was lights out. Otherwise of note: Youkilis’ home run & triple (but what was up with Sizemore’s bad angle on the triple?). And why didn’t Manny slide at home in the first inning or hustle out of the box in the third? Oh yeah, Manny being Manny. Pedroia’s double … I love that Little Leaguer. Even J.D. Drew got a double!?! Holy cow, this was the start of his ALCS & Series breakout! And you gotta love the sweet talk between Beckett & Cool Papa Lofton. How fun to be there for the ALCS turnaround game.

Sword Testing. My 16-year old takes to the samurai sword like a sandspur to socks. I’m still a klutz. It has taken me three years to learn how to do “seiza” — that’s basically a sitting position where your feet wind up under you pointing backwards with the top of the feet flat on the ground and the bottom of your feet up against your rear end. If you’re going, “Ouch!” then you’re probably imagining it about right.

At any rate, this past weekend (on my 38th spiritual birthday, it turns out), I tested for my second rank (“nidan”) in the U.S. federation of our organization — and I freakin’ passed. (Appropriately, I’m still “mudan,” i.e., unranked, in the Japanese association.) Randall didn’t test because they’ve decided they can’t have 16 year olds showing up 56 year olds. Oh, and about a month before the event, I found out I was in charge of registrations — I may ever get this paperwork sorted out!

So, I woke up this past Monday morning and said, “Wow, Lord, I’m back. Thanks.”

The light turned green, and I hesitated — prompted, I’m certain, by some angelic whisper. No sooner did I inch out than a drunk driver going 65 mph (the posted limit was 35 mph) blasted through the intersection — and right through the engine compartment of my Toyota Sienna.

I’m OK. Beyond belief, I walked away from the accident. But I’m finding it takes a while to sweep up all the physical, financial, and emotional debris that comes with an event like this.

So now I’m driving my mother’s ‘92 Buick while I get insurance worked out — and (sigh) I’m selling my 1965 Mustang so I can replace the totaled minivan.

OK. Battery on the Buick goes out yesterday, and there’s something wrong with the hood, so I can’t get it open to jump the car. Reader beware — here comes a parable:

1st AAA vehicle is operated by a Christian (he volunteers this information when he notices we’re in a seminary parking lot) … he offers me a bottle of water ‘cause it’s low 90s and the sun is blazing. But when he can’t figure out how to get the hood up, he says he’s got too many calls waiting and he’s going to have to call a tow truck. Gone.

2nd AAA vehicle (the tow truck) is driven by a Harley t-shirt wearing, chain-smoking, good-ole-boy … it never occurs to me to ask about his worldview motivation (I know that makes me a slacker); still, he just exudes that religion-is-for-wusses ethos. At any rate, he sizes up the situation and says, “Dude, I’m going to get you out of here without a tow.” After some fiddling, he figures out he can unscrew the front grille and manually get the hood up … jumps the battery and he’s off. With what I hope he would consider a worthy tip.

There’s been much to ponder in the last two weeks: the promise that all our days are numbered (Ps 139:16), the reality of “ministering spirits” (Heb 1:14), the strength of Toyota safety-technology — and then yesterday’s little window into the parable of the Good Samaritan.