Missing Things

A man who works in the oil & gas industry as I do must come to terms with missing things. I have been out in the bush for anniversaries, birthdays, disasters, and triumphs. It is a thing. All paths have trade-offs. If you drive west, you will have the sun in your eyes in the evening.

As I compose these lines, one of my girls has had her thirteenth birthday party. In this case, I have not missed it entirely, as I am working from home this week. Unexpected benefits are causes for thanksgiving, in my opinion.

Too often the earnest desire to be present in the moments conflicts with the facts of duty. Bills must be paid somehow. I could not work from town and make this kind of money. I also enjoy what I do, and I am good at it. I have the respect of my peers, at least those worth having respect from. I also hate missing the things that are the accumulation of the defining moments in time.

As I see it, a man in this situation can go one of several ways. He can dive into dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction can drive him to anger, or to productive action.

Angry men inhabit the oil & gas world. Many have lost their soul, and their families as well. This I have seen too often.

Dissatisfaction can also push a man to higher excellence. Ways to both provide and be present can be fruitfully pursued from a position of mature dissatisfaction.

Alternately, a man can accept the friction and the paradox. From this posture he can bury himself in his work to the point of driving his family away from the centre. Or, from the position of internal friction, he can learn to live wholly in both worlds. Work when in the bush. Be the producer who is bringing home the bacon. And then when back in civilisation, be the man of the house, present in the moments.

I see in myself the roughness that is required to survive in the bush. The closer to the wellhead, the better I do. A muddy lease on the top of a wood line in the middle of nowhere is just like a comfortable pair of jeans for me. The smells of a frack make me smile. Three-thousand horsepower tier 4 Cat engines howling along at 1750 RPM, stacked up in neat rows are as fine a sight to see, all pumping in harmony. The pitch changes when they all start burning natural gas together. It rises slightly.

Mud -covered men chirp each other at 2 am. We are like a pack of mangy dogs. One hears a hundred flavours of newfie out there. How can this not be grand? Our work is meaningful. We help draw out the energy that is needed to power human flourishing. The Lord put gas in the ground for us to discover. Like Tolkiens dwarves, we have delved deeply. Unlike them, we have not delved too deeply.

There are always trade offs. I struggle in polite company. My poor wife struggles having me in polite company. She is a saint. If there is a patron saint of the patient afflicted, she would be it.

There is a certain grandeur in domesticity that is difficult to fathom. I am in awe of my wife. She manages all the various affairs of our busy household as if she were a conductor. Sometimes she even looks like a conductor, madly waving her arms about her head. The production is marvelous.

I have boasted of the refinements of my table before. She is the artist upon that canvas. Eating is no mere thing. Food is not utilitarian. It is art, a symphony of sight, smell, taste, and health. Food is for the soul as much as for the stomach. I cannot cook. I am an eater. I delight in the greatness of her craft.

My children are my delight. I have daughters. These are becoming women before my eyes. These are artists, musicians, philosophers, beautiful ladies who are growing up in the Lord before my eyes. I am amazed. My youngest daughter just popped out two teeth and started walking. She is much younger than the first three.

I have sons. These rapscallions are much like me. They are in earnest. There is no irony in these fellows. All of the fun is serious, hilarious, and wild. The two of them have built several forts on our property. They love playing sports. Both of them have insisted that they will do my next oil change, without my help. They are nine and eight, respectively. I could have named either of them Confidence, for they embody it.

And so I return to what I began with. Trade-offs are inevitable. I trade time for money, so that I can have time. Time is the really valuable thing. It is a non-renewable resource in a way that the leftists wished oil was. Once it goes, you don’t get it back.

Time is the thing we are working for and with. There is too little time left to waste on anger, or sloth, or selfish pursuits. I work so that I have time for my wife and children. And in time, for my grandchildren. What could be more noble than that?