Don't Blink

Another week has passed far too quickly for my liking. Gone in a flash. Vacations used to feel like vast, wonderful, nearly unending periods of joy and goodness. Not so anymore. Now it feels like someone told me I have half an hour to spend in the prison yard instead of my cell and they call out a reminder every minute or two about how much longer I have before I have to go back into my cell again.

Sure, it's a depressing metaphor, but adulthood is depressing. Worse still, everyone likes to either A) Remind me that I have X amount of days until I go back to work, or B) tell me how good I have it and how unfair it is that I have this vacation, which is honestly more burdensome than work is.

When I work, I get to come home and have guilt-free free time. Not so on vacation. I feel so lazy. I feel like I'm wasting it too.

This past week I spent a lengthy amount of time living in the woods. Let me tell you, not all the fun that it's made out to be. You could call it a vacation. I call it an experiment. My foray into pure, unadulterated adulthood. It was...interesting.

I guess I learned a fair amount about who I am. I am indeed ready for adulthood. I'm ready to be responsible and in charge of a situation. This is gonna sound weird. I've been wondering for a few years now when I become a "man." It wasn't the beard that pushed me over the edge. Or the job. Or anything I've done. It was this week. I haven't told anyone this yet, because it feels weird to even say and it'll only bring mockery. I'll settle for telling the faceless internet.

Internet, this week I can honestly say I see myself as a man, not a boy. Don't know if it was the dirt beneath my fingernails or the satisfaction of putting up a tent or spending several days being the sole guardian of another human being. It did it. I'm a man.

There. Got that off my chest.

Now for thoughts I had during my first week of self-proclaimed manhood.

I started reading A Game of Thrones. (Holy Guacomole! Such a good book. I can't speak for the rest of the series, but I imagine they are similarly incredible.) It's the sort of book where not just the story is meant to be consumed, but the very sentences themselves. George R. R. Martin's writing is gorgeous. If anyone sort of skims through that book without properly taking in each sentence in turn, they're missing out.

And this brings me to my grand philosophical point. I'll be a sizzling bit of tire-hugging roadkill if that isn't a good metaphor for life. I want the kind of life worth savoring and I want the patience to savor it. I think it takes effort. Life is all too easy to skim through. We want these milestones, just like some people read books to get to the plot twists and resolution at the end. But it's too easy to miss out on the descriptive sentences in life. Yes, there's high school graduation and marriage and kids and retirement to look forward to in all of our lives. But ultimately? That's a pitiful thing if that's all that matters in the end. I don't want to remember my life like its my obituary. I don't want to be "He liked oranges, writing, and being an all around nuisance." I want to look back on my life and remember the time I belly flopped from ten feet in the air off a rope swing and couldn't breathe for a frightening length of time. I want to remember what it's like to run through a Walmart parking lot as the sky pours down on me. I want my life to not be about events, milestones, and responsibilities. I want to be a collection of laughter, tears, shouting, fears, and liveliness.

I don't know what life holds in store for me. I hardly know what I want from life. I don't know what to think or believe or feel. I know I'm me. I have to go find and be as near to what I love as I can manage. I recognize the folly there. I see how inherently dangerous it is. I know that living life with what you love isn't the safest route to take. 

But I no longer see the point in any other life.

My Troubled Head

Sometimes, I come face to face with a choice. Two directions. One me. I find myself torn between the two. I wish my life were a movie and I could split myself in both directions and see how both choices work out. I want to know what will happen.

But I don't. I have no clue. This is one of the more irritating things about life. No do-overs. No glimpses into the future. No nothing. I really want some sort of guidance. Some neon sign in the sky to point me on my way.

Sadly, those don't exist either. I'm stuck with my gut feelings and the best logic I can muster. I'm stuck in the present. Isn't that a weird place to be, when you think about it? I can't fall back into the comfortable, knowable past. I can only try to remember it. I can't peer into the future and figure out what adventures await me.

Maybe bothering with those things is just a waste of time.

If I'm stuck with the present, maybe it's useless to pretend it's the past or wish it could be the future. Right now, It's now and I'm me and this is a keyboard and life is OK  Not great. Certainly not stellar. But it's OK.

I guess what I'm trying to get at is that I always end up with a choice. And in trying to choose, I hope and pray that I don't make the wrong choice. But what if there isn't a wrong choice in this instance? What if both directions are perfectly acceptable, and merely different paths? What if I really can just choose what I want and not have to take into account the future? What if that scares me half to death?

I don't know what I want all that often. I don't know what's best. I think life isn't about finding the best possible choice. I think life is about making choices.

My first choice is to love my best friend more than any other thing.

My second choice is post these ramblings to the internet.

My third choice is to go to bed.

And then I choose to let that be all the decision-making for today and be OK with that choice.

The whole wide world isn't going anywhere until tomorrow at least.

They will see us waving from such great heights

Come down now

They'll say

Pressure.

There is an illustration so tired and over-used, I feel reluctant to mention it. The way a lump of coal is formed into a diamond with immense amounts of pressure is supposed to teach us something about ourselves. If we just sit through the pressures of life long enough, we may just find ourselves making the transformation from an ugly lump of coal into a beautiful diamond that is worth a lot of money and some poor bloke can spend half his life savings on in order to, ironically, add the pressures of marriage to his life.

OK, so, maybe that illustration fell off the proverbial rails at some point. Forgive me.

My problem with this whole business is that no one ever stops to ask the lump of coal how he feels about this. Maybe he doesn't particularly care for being a diamond. Maybe he doesn't think he's diamond material. I know, I know. Off the rails again.

I don't know where I'm taking this. You know the wise words, "Don't drink and drive"? Maybe we should add, "Don't blog and fume." Well, Folks, I'm fuming. If you could catch the steam coming out of my ears, you could power a locomotive.

I just feel pressure. Inner pressures dying to force their way out, as well as outward pressures all too eager to make their way in. Do you know the feeling in life when there's a million things for you to do and in the time it takes you to do one, four more pop up? And you're at a figurative dead-sprint just trying to make it through the week? And then the floor you're running on drops out beneath you? That's me.

Its at times like this that I find a surprising circumstance. I find a wonderful, merciful Savior who has saved me once and for all and continues to lead me day by day. I find My Lord, Jesus Christ. Even when all the earthly things and human people I depend on have stopped being sturdy leaning posts, I find a Heavenly Father who never wavers. In His Arms, I do not have a to-do list. Or a rule book to get me through life. In Him, I have a relationship of Love and Faith and Obedience.

I find that the pressures of life don't change me in and of themselves, but only in the sense that they send me hurrying to Him. In His Hands, I can handle the pressures of life. And by His Power, I will go through a transition that puts the coal-to-diamond one to shame.

"For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.”

     --Matthew 11:30--

Maternally Pensive II

Dear Mom,

Here we are again. A whole entire year has passed. I still love you and you're still my Mom. So that's good. It's not that I didn't expect you to still be my Mom. I'm just commenting on the reality of it, ok? So, stop being so uptight.

Anyway, I still think you're great. So I wrote you this poem. (The picture below.) I hope you know that it came from the very center of my heart. I especially love the food you make me and the things you do for me. For starters, I am a person who enjoys clean clothes. You take care of that for me. There's another reason I am appreciative towards you.

Also, I am fairly fond of life. And you devoted a solid nine months to making that dream come true for me. On top of that, you've spent the last 18 years not reversing that decision. In general, I have a lot to thank you for. So thanks, Mom! I love you.

You're a pretty great person. I'll spread that around. I'll tell random folks on the street. I'll tell some baker named Greg. I may even put in a good word with your boss. You know, I can help you out. I got connectionz. That's right. With a "z." Don't try to understand me. I am just too cool. But I get that from Dad.

Oh. I'm sorry. Did you expect me to say I got it from you because it's Mother's Day? How presumptuous of you. I hope you feel ashamed.

In all seriousness, you're the very best mom in the world. I don't even dislike you!

One last thing. Do you remember all those times you were painstakingly forcing me to go over my mistakes in school and figure out what I did wrong. You said I'd thank you someday in between dodging the angry glares and heavy objects I would toss your way. I said that would never happened. Well, it did. I'm thankful. So get your grins of triumph out. You get a free pass tonight. If you ever mention it again, you'll regret it. I have worse pictures to post on Facebook.

An Artist's Heart

I am not a photographer. I'm not a musician. Or a poet. I happen to be a person who takes pictures, plays instruments on occasion, and has been known to attempt poetry. Writing is my true love. Story-telling. Its the only activity that I would use as a description for me. I am a writer. I may not get money from it, but money does not make a writer. Nor does a writer make money. (*chuckles to self* See, that's funny because writers are usually poor.)

There's something about writing. Or indeed, any art at all. The creative process is where I find much of my joy in life. There's something about pouring your thoughts, heart, world-view, and opinions into something beautiful.

There's something strange about this thing called, "art." There are countless varieties of it. And it seems that few people excel at it, or even find it interesting. I think of art a little differently than most. Its creation. Pure and simple.

Most people don't seem to comprehend that. They think that the art of painting is about the science of mixing paints. Or that the art of writing is about the rules of grammar. And to be sure, those things are useful. Just as a hammer is useful when you need to put a nail through a 2 by 4.

Some realize that it goes deeper. Art is not merely the science behind it. There's, well, an art to it. There are certain guidelines. When taking pictures, find groups of three. When writing, its best not to kill the hero off half-way through the book. This too is useful. In the same way that knowing which end of the hammer is for whacking the nail.

But to say that art is merely the science behind it, or even the artistic guidelines, is to miss the point entirely. You can teach most anyone the rules of grammar. You could sit down with a beer-swigging, hairy man and explain to him why "swig" is a much stronger verb than "drink." But strong verbs and grammatically accurate sentences, do not a good story make. Nor does a 15- megapixel camera guarantee beautiful pictures. Clear ones, yes. Beautiful, not necessarily.

The difference between a picture and photography is the same as a difference between a book and a story.

The real thing that makes an artist is the urge to create. It's the pure desire. It consumes thoughts, time, and love. What ends up happening, with the best art, is a little window into the artist's heart. Art is a brief, limited glance at what one person finds beautiful. What they find attractive. What they love.

Maybe that's why artists don't care overly much about their appearance. They don't seem to mind if people see them as a slob. Not when strangers get the chance to see the deepest part of their hearts.

Maybe it's overly sappy. Maybe it doesn't make sense.

I'm willing to bet that anyone with a heart bent towards creation will get it. I have that heart. For better or worse. No matter where else my life takes me, I know it will involve writing. Everyday, I'll be chased and be chasing thoughts of stories and characters with tales to tell. It's what I love. It's me, simply and honestly.

I thank and praise my Lord Jesus Christ. He created me. And best of all, when He created me, He gave me the same love to create.

Of You All

Do ever feel like something snaps you out of weeks and weeks of dreaming through life? That's me today. My alarm clock has been going off and I've finally got up the nerve to stop hitting the snooze button. That's a metaphor, of course. In actuality, I eagerly anticipate the alarm going off each morning.

There have been several things to bring me to this point. Most notable has been a few verses I came across whilst studying my Bible. 2 Corinthians 2:3-4.

"And I wrote this same unto you, lest, when I came, I should have sorrow from them of whom I ought to rejoice, having confidence in you all, that my joy is the joy of you all. For out of much affliction and anguish of heart, I wrote unto you with many tears, not that ye should be grieved, but that ye might know the love which I have more abundantly unto you."

Paul is writing to a church with an ugly history of sin. He acknowledges their need to correct it. But there's something else in these verses. If you read the rest of the book and skipped these verses, you might get the impression that Paul is ministering to them grudgingly. With all the correction he is forced to teach them, it seems as if there's nothing terribly redeeming about this body of believers.


But if I'm being honest, most churches are like the church in Corinth. Mine included.


Paul didn't want his stay with them to be about dealing with sin. He wanted it to be joyful. So he attempted to correct some things before he even got there.


With a church so sickly and diseased, no one could blame Paul if he wrote them off as a hopeless cause. But that's not his heart. Their joy was his joy. Their sin caused him pain. He was bothered by it and even moved to tears. It pained him to have to correct this church. In other verses he states that he saw them as his children and it seems as though he acted like it too.


What can we learn from this? I don't think this attitude is only meant for a few saints like Paul, or even church leaders. I think this should be the attitude of every believer towards every other believer.


With the exception of a few, close friends, can we honestly say that the sin of other believers causes us "anguish of heart"? Does it? Or do we stand at a distance and shake our heads disapprovingly? All while hiding our own skeletons in our closets.


I'll confess, I fail miserably here. I'm content to leave others alone and be left alone. I'll stick to my friends, thank you. Maybe that's not right. All believers are my brothers and sisters. I rarely treat them as such. I inwardly scoff at them and their mistakes. I find some of their convictions silly. I don't bother to get to know them and figure out what trials they're facing.


I don't mean that God wants me to be everyone's best buddy. But maybe I should be more forthcoming with a genuine smile and more persistent about the times I pray for them. Even the people I don't like. I pray that God gives me the kind of heart that is able to treat them as if I were dealing with myself. Or even better, as if I were serving Him.


I don't think God is asking for anything new here. It's just love. Love isn't a calling for pastors and missionaries. Its a command for every believer. It's an order to love as Christ loved. And I have a hard time picturing my Lord and Savior distancing himself from people who are hurting and struggling through life. It's about time I act the same.

The Day I (Tetris)Battled a Fruit Ninja

A funny thing happened. (By "funny" I mean "hopelessly tragic") I got this odd urge to play Tetris. So like the go-getter that I am, I went on an excursion across the terrifying Interwebs. I googled it and found a free version, but it wasn't terribly good and boredom soon took me. 

Next, I wandered into the hostile jungle called Facebook Games. I found, "Tetris Battle" which was Tetris with a slight twist. All in all, I loved it. It was fast-paced and fun and I was fairly good. l beat most people who I played against. But I didn't just beat them. I stomped on their hopes and dreams as I marched past each one with my pet gerbil, Mockery, following behind.


Everything was going swimmingly. Steadily, I climbed up the ranks. I found myself waiting expectantly for my next chance to sneak a few rounds in. That's been my past few days.


It was glorious fun.


I had found a perfect outlet for my competitive desires. Like a fat kid who finds out that his long-lost uncle owns a bakery and he can eat pastries until he explodes, I was purely joyful. This outlet was even free from the clutches of a certain brother. This wasn't Minecraft or Call of Duty or Portal. Here was something I could be good at and not be shown up constantly.


*shakes head at self*


I overlooked one tiny detail. Meg. It turns out that Meg also likes Tetris. So she started playing it. In one round she had surpassed my record (the one that took hours of practice to attain) and get a higher ranking than me. Yup. There went my fun. With the speed of a ticked off hurricane, my sense of accomplishment was swept out of sight and lost to oblivion.


I'll admit, my heart broke.


I don't blame Meg. She just has this supernatural talent for playing "casual" games and making them seem to involve no effort at all. It's impressive, really. But for a guy who thought he had found his special talent, being shown up so handily is a crushing blow. I shouldn't have been surprised. This was the girl who doubled my record in Fruit Ninja after two attempts.


It was in my dejected musings that a thought occurred to me. There aren't many things I'm good at. Writing is one of them. And here I am, neglecting this, my one true passion. I mean, there aren't any trophies. No one's keeping score. Maybe that's one of the reasons I love writing so much. It isn't about being the best. It's purely about making the very best thing you can.


I'm gonna make this my outlet.


And bygoshbygolly, even if not a single soul reads this, it's gonna be incredible.