Vol III: #80 Coffee Shop Summit

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Four excited teenagers sit at a coffee bar made of dull corrugated siding and a formica counter top with a potted pothos spilling down over each end. Three boys and a girl, dressed like you’d expect California teenagers to be dressed, surf shoes, colorful socks and skinny jeans. From behind the counter, a curly haired man sporting a Jesus beard and a maroon t-shirt makes small talk with the quartet. The elder asks the younger a series of questions and listens to their reply, and in doing so, validates their presence. He’s talking to them as worthy peers, uninterested in the ticks or breaks in focus. He doesn’t care when they glance down at their phones or change the conversation. He flows with them rather than against them.

And now the curly Jesus is propped up on his arms across the counter, and he’s drinking a macha tea, and still in the exchange. And it’s clear the teenagers could leave. Their’s nothing in the dialogue forcing them to their seats, by obligation or expectation. And then the conversation became animated and exciting, one boy bouncing in his seat as the volume of the discussion rose. Then like thunder, one, now two, high fives echo through the shop, above the folk music and low drum of hushed conversations.

Through out the exchange, I receive over-the-shoulder glances from each member of the coffee shop summit, as I observe and type. I am the interloper, obviously. And they do not know why I sit and smile at my screen and off into the distance. They don’t know I am happy to observe their world where adults and teenagers respect each other and have joyful conversations. And I hope they keep on talking and enjoying each other, but if they don’t, I hope they latch onto these moments, where life wasn’t awful or complicated or newsworthy, but it was good.

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Vol III: #72 New Life

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One of my oldest memories- as I’ve discussed in previous posts- is when my dad got the call when his brother Todd died. That moment was traumatic for that little boy. How could anyone have known it would be? Death is part of life. And in my life and the in my family, he became a regular visitor. Eventually, I stopped going to funerals and wakes, choosing to remember the dead as alive rather than painted and posed in a box. Again, I’ve talked about how I thought I would die in my 20’s.

And now, as death seems to surround the elderly in my family, my eyes and hopes have shifted, from what’s possible to what must be done. Then today, I did something I’ve never done before. I imagined living to be 100, then 108, then 125, then 138. It was a wild but life-giving exercise. For a brief moment, alone in my room, I saw my 42 years as a beginning, not a middle, and nowhere near the end. I saw grandkids and great-grandkids. And I envisioned being the old man in the corner, telling stories of about corded phones and wiping my butt with paper (because everyone will use a bidet in the future- they are more sanitary and easy to use.) I’ll make jokes no one understands and teach my offspring to make tomato sandwiches the way my momma taught me. And I’ll repeat the same stories summer after summer, about how me and my dad battled our cars all over Columbia, laughing at our luck and lack of wisdom. And ultimately, my life will stand as a testimony to the kindness and generous love of the Father.

This fun little exercise gave my heart a new hope, and it exposed a sad truth. As long as I can remember, I let death drive my thoughts, internal dialogue, and actions. For example, over the last two years, I’ve lived with a constant existential dread. Some of the dread is external, like will the Russians bomb us? Will I die of COVID? Will Trumpian idiots rip the country apart? Will woke leftist tear the country apart? And some of the death-based anxiety is internal to me Will I ever find a woman who will love me? Will I be too old to be a dad? Will I die in my 60s? Or 70s?

For the most part, I don’t struggle as much with external threats. I can’t control Vladimir Putin’s actions and I’m not going to live in fear of COVID-19. The internal dialogue is a different story. I have routinely criticized myself and felt ashamed at the state of my body and finances, not to mention my martial state. And this leads to impatient, unachievable, short-term goals. And I constantly fail at my terrible, unwise, short terms goals, all adding up to string of failures and an overwhelming sense of being a failure.

Put more simply, my fear of death has created a cycle of failure in my life, leading to feeling like a failure. And feeling like a failure leads me to believe, I’m a failure. And so I have very little endurance or patience because I need results now! I’m gonna die soon! It’s a terrible cycle, and one I aim to break. Because, despite the the fact I may die tomorrow in a tragic walking accident, I can’t let fear of death be my master. And as with all things, in the process of repentance, I will do more than try not to think about death. I must focus on what it means to live, and how to get from today to 2080.

As I close this post, I must admit aging a real thing, but so is engaging in a healthy, life-giving lifestyle. People who live to be 100 eat well, get outside, have a higher purpose, close family and friends. They believe in God, go to work, and have hopeful outlooks. The cynical pessimists, the lazy, and the inactive tend to die young, or at least younger. And we all know stress is a killer.

In a way, I felt like I was given a new life today. And over the coming days and months, I will continue to defined what it means and how to get there, knowing I’ll battle the old poverty mindset from time to time- for the enemy never concedes ground he once held. But, I know this will become an area of strength, a man once consumed by death, not beaming with life, on my way to 100. And if I die before August 29th, 2080, then so be it. When the Lord calls me home, I will go, and it will not be unjust or unfair. And that is up to Him.

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Abstract: Living M5-3

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I’ve penned pages of words theses last few days,

but nothing worth writing,

or remembering.

My biggest terrors and greatest fears,

leaking out of me onto the paper and screen,

in raw, uncaged form.

And now set beside me like an old friend,

but not my friend,

always my enemy.

And like a scared little boy drags his blanket from the closet.

I keep dragging them around,

From day to day,

in meetings and phone calls,

hidden behind forced smiles and worthless chit chat.

Feels like I’ll never shake them,

the worst of my worst,

the oldest lies holding hands with that icy cold sadness,

rotten and nauseating,

the vile shit that collects,

At the bottom of my bottomless pit.

Blessed are those who cry and grope in the dark,

for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

Amen.

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Vol III: #48 Greatest Hopes

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It’s just easier to hold onto grief and offenses, isn’t it? The pain enables a twisted sense of power or entitlement. And, our pride makes excuses for a lesser version of ourselves. My pain is their fault. They owe me. I’ve had a bad day so I can’t be a dick to everyone. Yes, I’d say it is easier to be hurt and scared and to act hurt and scared. But, I also believe offense and pride are habits as breakable as any habit is. Redemption and love are real. Patience and restoration is real, for those who choose to walk it out. And, hope is eternal.

The most salient example in my life is a last lingering question I have for my ex-girlfriend. It’s a question I never asked, and I know the answer will provide no relief. I’m literally holding onto a fear by keeping the question locked in my heart. How? Or why, you might ask? Simply, I’m holding onto that failure/disappointment as a reason to keep from dating anyone new. The thought of dating a new woman triggers my gage reflex, and my mind runs to one horrid outcome, “when will she decide I’m not the guy.” And make no mistake, I feel extremely justified in my fears. Stupid bitches.

What is really happening is my fear is winning, a move to protect my soul. Self-protection is noble in the eyes of the fallen, but it’s not how the Kingdom works. I know I’ve got let my question go and choose hope. I owe myself and any date as much. But, the fear keeps whispering you’ll get hurt. And I must confess, it’s a powerful argument. My worst fears come from my greatest disappointments. But, my greatest disappointments reveal my greatest hopes and desires.

Here’s to letting go of the pain and learning to stand in hope in 2023.

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Vol III: #46 What I Have To Say

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I saw a drug commercial today and it freaked me out. Why do they want to mess with the biology of children? One day we’ll look back at this era with shame for what we allowed them to do to our kids. And, say what you will to defend the American medical system, I think it is one of the most immoral and corrupt industries in the entire world. They make trillions- literal trillions- off making us sick or ashamed. Instead of healing our diseases, they simply want to help us manage them. And boy, do we have a lot of diseases.

But, I’m not here to rant about the Big Pharma or doctors. They are sinners who do not know what they do. Rather, I want to turn on the light.

The current state of the western world frightens me. I see a death culture shaded in Blue Donkey Left and/or Red Elephant Right. And, like so many, I feel drawn to “take a stand” or say something. So. I will:

The Lord is good and His love is eternal.

He holds us and guides us,

and takes away our shame.

We can hold our heads high and hope for the future because of Him.

Jesus died so we may live and every thing we do and every thing we say matters.

We are the light and salt,

Without us, the world is dark, bland, and voilent.

I will not seek answers from politicians or demand satisfaction from greedy men,

But I will love the orphaned and the broken.

I will wave to my neighbors and pick up trash left by the addicts.

I’ll pray for miracles and smile at the darkness,

for greater is He in me than this bullshit in the world.

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Vol III: #41 Push Back

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The prevailing sentiment of our time is that life is bad, very very bad. Each day the media people bring us a new tragedy. Today it was an earthquake in Indonesia. Last I saw, 250 were confirmed dead with the more to come. Yesterday, we were told about more tech company layoffs. The day before that we witnessed another mass shooting. And lest forget, Russia is still trying to invade Ukraine- the specter of nuclear war lingering. It’s all gloomy and upsetting to anyone with a desire for peace or an ounce of compassion. Those poor people. (Then, of course, we have our personal crises.)

The thing is, so what? The world has always been a spinning pile of shit, held together by the Lord’s grace and kindness. Every generation and era has seen it’s share of violence, economic failure, and social upheaval. We are not special or different. The people alive in 2022 are every bit as human as the first people. Our technology and relative comfort makes us feel superior, but I assure we are not. Feeling better yet?

In all of this I hold onto to two thoughts. One is a declaration and the other a promise. First, the Word says we were created for such a time as this because the Lord has made everything for its own purpose. I think about this concept, a lot. Why was I born in 1980? In America? Raised in the South? By Yankee parents? Either it’s all random chance or purposeful. Secondly, Jesus the Messiah God, promised we will do greater things than these. That’s a wild promise to make for a guy who raised the dead and healed the sick and cast out demons and fed multitudes of people with a few pieces of bread and some fish.

When I look at the world, I weep. There is no hope aside from Jesus. But we- the called who said yes- we made for this moment. We were chosen to shine on the hills and proclaim what we know. It’s a tough job. No point in denying the truth. But we were made for this world at this exact moment in time. Each one of us carries the talents and gifts to walk in peace and love and joy, to contrast a narrative that says life is very very bad. Because, in all honesty, that’s a load of horseshit. Life is a gift and it is amazing.

Happy Tuesday.

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Abstract: Seeds

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You’ve been planted, not flung at random.

The soil around you, though it may feel harsh,

will be a friend.

And when the days between rains stretches longer than you like,

grow your roots deep, where no one sees,

into the well that never runs dry.

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Abstract: Hope All Things

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I’m a better man when I want to impress a girl.

I dress as well as my wardrobe will allow,

my workouts are easy and quick,

and I walk a little taller than I would.

The difference isn’t in the behavior,

but in the belief.

Oh sure, I act different,

but it all starts with what I think is possible.

I feel like I’m a bit worse of a man when the threat of romance is off the map,

my diet fails, plans go un-lived,

and I dress like a hobo.

I don’t like my dichotomy.

I prefer to be hopeful in all things and at all times,

and this conflict of desire versus reality exposes a truth:

I lack hope, real hope, the kind of hope only Heaven produces and can never be stolen,

not by heart break or rejection, or failure.

The hope of Heaven is without end,

and no amount of pain can defeat it.

That’s what I want for me,

for my life and for those around me.

Lord, teach me to hope all things.

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Abstract: He Remains

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In the shadows sat the chocolate colored dog,

and it shivered as if cold and alone.

Though the door was unlocked and open wide,

he remained chained to the comfort of the furthest dark corner.

Fed and warm, this animal suffered from pain not obvious or impending.

His new master waited with an open hand,

and whispered words of love and affection.

Tail tucked between his skinny back legs,

the canine whimpered, unbelieving and scared.

The master remained.

Though the hurting animal punished his new master for the sins of the old,

He remained.

The new is not like the old,

He remains.

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Vol II: #50 The Hopeful Idiot

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My average day at BSSM includes doodling on my sketchpad or staring at my watch as I wait for class to end. On occasion, I’ll pull out my phone and play whatever game I’m currently into playing. But, mostly, I’m just waiting until I can go home where I feel safe and unchallenged. For better or worse, I can’t tell who spoke last week or what their subject matter was. It is what it is. My goal is to finish not be an all-star student. Fortunately, the Lord is good and meets me where I am, as he did last Wednesday.

Kris Vallotton- the second in command at Bethel- usually teaches our class on Wednesdays. He’s a decent speaker with a gift for a good story. I appreciate stories over abstract concepts. (Bill Johnson speaks in formulas and abstracts which I loathe.) Kris prefers to show how the Lord works instead of telling us how the Lord works. Last Wednesday, he taught us about deliverance. As he did, he explained his journey and the snares he encountered. Toward the end of his lecture, he dove into a specific deliverance from the spirit of doom and gloom. I couldn’t how back my tears as he detailed the types of thoughts he had, what he thought was normal, and how the Lord set him free from expecting the worst.

It’s been 168 days since BSSM began and this one story proved to hit me most squarely in the chest. I too expect the worst from life, for relationships to fall apart and new business ventures to fail. After all, isn’t that the way it is? Or, is it possible to expect the best, to believe and hope for more? According to Mr. Vallotton, the answer is the latter. More impressive is that I can be free from the constant crush of impending doom- I’d rather be a hopeful idiot than a wise cynic.

I’ll keep you updated.

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Vol II: #43 Bachelor Days

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I made chicken soup from scratch earlier today. Like most of my “recipes,” it’s a mishmash of American and Asian ingredients. To almost anyone, the broth tastes familiar and simultaneously unique. Most people, including you, would probably be able to discern the ginger and green onion, but probably not the orange peel, star anise, or cardamom. The overall flavor is deep and rich and I’m pleased with the result. It’s a chicken soup worthy of my talents and pallet as a former cook. I will eat a few bowl of the soup this week, and turn the remaining into gifts before I fly to Columbia for Christmas.

After I jarred my delicious effort, I cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, and took out the trash. And like most days, I stood completely alone in my triumph. It’s getting old-these unshared moments of glory. Unfortunately, I see no end in sight. Late Thursday evening, I’ll climb into my car, and turn down I-5 toward Sacramento to begin my 12 hour trip to Columbia. Again, once more, I will do this alone. And as mentioned before, it’s getting old. Each trip, I am the shaggy single man, moving in and out between families and young lovers at the airport, determined to appear content. Book in hand and earbuds in place, I watch as fathers look over their sons and mothers fuss at their daughters. I hope they appreciate the fleeting reality of the moment, how fortunate and blessed they are to be stranded together if a flight is delayed. Do they know, not everyone has what they have, and how it’s not so easy for some of us? I hope so. Just ask and I’ll tell you.

I don’t feel this way all the time- lonely. Mostly, I see my singleness as a stage of life closer to its end than ever before. The frustrating part is I can’t educate or buy my way out of this condition. I know, deep in my rigid heart, I’ve got to make choices, to ask for and eventually go on dates. The problem is I don’t want to ask for dates. The last time I dared love a woman, she fucking crushed me. Were I younger, I’d think it an apparition, but at 41 it seems like the trend. It’s not as though I haven’t learned from each experience: there was the agnostic dance teacher, the drug-addict stripper, the dog-loving school teacher, the essential oils lady, the worship leader, and then the wondrous kitchen manager. No matter what, the result was the same. And accept for the stripper, I was the one left behind so they could move onto bigger and better.

My mind knows this plague will end at the long end of an isle surrounded by my friends and family. Somewhere, buried beneath the disappointment, my heart believes it too. So I’m writing this blog not to elicit sympathy or pity, but as a signpost for the future me, for my children, and anyone caught in a similar pattern of heartache. At the moment, my heart isn’t ready to move forward, but that day will come. But on this day, all I got is a thread of hope and the wisdom to dismiss the associated shame. God is good, and so am I, even in my loneliness. All things end in this world, and by the grace of God so will my days as a bachelor.

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Abstract: His Lost Sheep

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I can see it in his smile,

a coerced smile meant to hide his shame.

He crossed over, to the land of nothing.

It’s a common trek of the hurting ex-Christian,

the path from Jesus to no-Jesus,

from jarring pain to the embrace of vast emptiness.

Except, it’s not nothing.

Though they surround themselves with science and facts,

the truth is hope and faith come at a price: grit and unmet expectation.

Life is easier when it’s a series of random events,

and evolutionary impulses,

and much more difficult when God doesn’t respond to our noble demands.

Most of them tried Faith.

They read the Bible and prayed the prayers,

then waited on Him to reply.

They spent nights hoping and wishing for His glory to be revealed,

so…I understand their perspective, I’ve been in their shoes too.

My heart breaks for my friends who turned atheists,

they aren’t as free as they claim.

They believe in nothing and it shows:

No children,

no hope,

nothing to live for beyond their own self-righteous glory.

There’s no such thing as the moral and noble atheist,

just people who believe lies about Who loves them.

It’s fucking sad.

I have no answers,

save the One.

Him, a real encounter with the Lover of their souls.

Whatever despair I feel,

He’s not moved.

His heart is forever unchanged,

and His song stays the same.

He Loves Them.

Oh, How He Loves Them.

The lost sheep of Jesus.

I pray He finds them, soon.

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