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: What If I Live To Be 100

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Mr Death has been such a part of my life,

I consider him part of the family,

coming for friends and relatives a like,

from the earliest time I can remember,

and very present today.

As a child, I let him in,

to my heart, my dreams and hopes,

the way I view life and how I live.

And as older loves began to stand on the block,

lined up and ready (or not),

seems like their time is short.

And I worry and spend my days bound by the fear of the inevitable visit.

I know Mr will come for me too,

so I cry and weep for the years I wasted,

and struggle to direct my steps,

to make the most of whatever days I have left.

But, what if?

What if I live to be 100, not 60.

What if I find a good wife,

father children,

and grandchildren, and more.

What if I live through whatever wars and violence and oppressions to come?

What if my life isn’t winding down, but just getting started?

What IF…I stopped worrying about dying in 20 years, and stopped trying to fit all my possibilities through the narrow slit in between now and then?

What…If?

Oh my, what a glory and a gift.

To hope and dare to believe,

To live and live and live, and then LIVE EVEN MORE.

Have I not repented of my slave ways?

Sought the Lord?

Honored my parents?

And pointed my heart to what is good and holy?

Yes!

Imperfectly, but yes!

Then let me eat for life, not death!

Let me breath for eternity,

not personal fear or crisis of the moment.

Let my soul sing and imagination dance,

and let me break my blinders of shame and devotion to death.

The Lord is my God,

and I will not fear death or when he comes for me.

And Jesus, I repent,

for allowing death to be my lord,

the one who dominated my thoughts and choices.

I want you to dominate my notions and emotions,

to be hopeful and full of joy,

to believe and live by faith,

to smile at pain and stand strong against every wind bold enough to rush my direction.

And I will no longer worry about when Mr Death will come for me,

he is your servant after all,

and so am I.

When my day comes, to go home forever,

let me smile as I cross the stage into the great Beyond.

But for now and until that day,

I will live and work and plan in this moment,

present and forward, living in each moment rather than

broken and afraid of what’s to come.

I’m going to live to be 100.

Today is the day I began acting like it.

“For as a man thinks within himself, so he is.” - Proverbs 23:7

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Vol III: #71 Writer’s Junk

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Whether I post to this blog or not, I am always writing. Just this morning I wrote five pages regarding my perspective on the world in my journal. And in my “Drafts,” I have three other half-finished posts for #71. What I do not have is cohesion or flow. My posts all turned into raw emotional rants, and while I don’t being raw I do want to be a good writer. So, I was unable to craft anything worth reading. What I did post are a few poems, mainly fragments of thoughts and memories.

This post’s purpose is to explain where I am, though I can’t fully explain it. I don’t have writers block. This is something different. Feels more like a writer junk, and I don’t know how to respond to it. My experience tells me to keep trucking, in a healthy manner. Keep writing whenever I can, and don’t try to be perfect or cute. Just write. If it’s poems, write poems. If it’s incoherent rants in my journal, scribble away.

What I won’t let the moment do is unhinge or erase my progress. Tough times, lows and grief will always exist. But, I decided how to respond. A few rough weeks isn’t good enough reason to forget my calling or where my hope my comes from.

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Abstract: A Fool’s Caution

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“Are you sure about this one?” they asked,

in a passive southern manner meant to communicate caution or concern.

Wouldn’t have mattered anyway,

nothing said in love would’ve landed on my life.

Because I was too high on the feelings,

of being wanted,

of being held,

and my ears clogged with everything I wanted to hear.

For once in my life, I was somebody to someone who wasn’t my momma,

How could my friends be so wrong?

How could this go wrong?

Then the lies began to mount,

and evolved into ongoing gaslighting,

my fears and instincts in error.

Then her kind words faded to darkness,

and all she wanted was my time and resources.

Which, I gave.

Because, I loved her.

Because, I was a man, destined to suffer this woman.

And then, I suffered her fists.

Yes, her fists.

And it became clear,

this demon had no boundaries,

or limits to her depravity.

And by the grace of God,

I walked away before my seeds sprouted,

and rooted me forever to my foolish choices.

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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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Abstract: Poke-r

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The thing about Texas Hold’em is sometimes, you’re dead and you’re don’t know you’re dead.

Maybe you’ve got a pair of aces and the flop gave you another,

And now you think your three aces are hot shit,

but they ain’t.

The dude across from you has nines,

and the board gave him two more.

But you bet big, confident and asured.

He raises.

You bet big again, trying to run him off,

but he raises again.

So doubt starts to form, you see two nines, but you go all-in.

He calls.

You flip your aces with a dramatic flare,

but he begins to rake the pot.

Suddenly you see the truth, and a searing sensation of loss and regret races through your heart,

the hand was lost before it was played.

You got played.

They take everything you had to give, and now you’ve got nothing.

This is what it feels like to love a woman who doesn’t love you back.

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Abstract: Weak

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Today I typed the words feels weak to need encouragement,

and I immediately felt as weak and vulnerable as the words on the screen.

How codependent?

Be careful expressing doubts or anxiety, bitches don’t like guys who have feelings or strong emotions.

Why can’t you be more like those men who are cutthroat, stab-a-dude-in-the-back-to-get-ahead types?

Just go deliver pizza. That’s your best option.

This world isn’t meant for men like me.

It’s not designed for the honest and the humble,

or the compassionate.

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Vol III: #70 Ten and Five, A Look Back

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Today, I spent the early morning hours battling self-pity and doubt. My life felt ugly. I felt ugly. And I wondered how long I’d feel this way and was I destined to be alone? My life was supposed to be different, I was different. But you know what? All the talent and expectation doesn’t amount to shit when I see the same weakness creep through my habits and work.

These thoughts and feelings are, of course, a sack of lies. Effective lies, yes, but they are lies. (The most effective lies start with the truth and eventually introduce falsehood and judgement.) And I am often too slow to recognize this truth.

Fortunately, because of habit, I prayed and stared out my window as the sun began to peer over the eastern mountains. The Lord responded to my whimper: where were you five years ago? Ten years ago? And then I counted back five years to March of 2018 and ten years to March of 2013. This look back produced a new emotion and tamped out my self-pity.

Five years ago, I lived alone in a newly renovated studio apartment across the road from a park. I paid my bills by working odd jobs and most nights took advantage of the park by going for walks along the river trail. In that year I battled self-pity and pornography and used medical cannabis to help me sleep. My neighbors were mostly old and poor, living off whatever social security or disability checks afforded them. Later that year, I moved to San Francisco. I had no vision for my life. No purpose. But, I was hopeful.

June 8th, 2018 was an important day. I awoke to the news Anthony Bourdain had hung himself. As someone who struggled with suicidal thoughts and Anthony Bourdain fan, the news struck a nerve with me. He was a major influence on my cooking and opened doors to places and people long overlooked. I thought about all this as I laid in bed and scrolled through my phone. Then the Holy Spirit quietly but clearly whispered “It wasn’t the first attempt.” And I knew what He meant. I wasn’t suicidal in 2018 but I knew I could be, with the right combination of loneliness, failure, and self-pity. So I prayed and asked the Lord to show me how to defeat suicide. And He did.

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Ten years ago feels like a lifetime ago. I shared a small brick house with my friend Blake and was finished my bachelors degree at UNCC. I spent my weekends singing karaoke and guzzling PBR tallboys. And I was lost and desperate. I lacked direction. My head was down and my spirit was low. To this point, in March of 2013, I briefly dated a woman named Jenn. She was tall and blonde and had her shit together. After a few conversations I decided to ghost the lady. She was prepared for her goals and future. I was a 33 year-old, broke, overweight college student with no prospects, confidence, or hope.

I know, I know. Ghosting someone is not ok. When I saw Jenn months later, she gave me the coldest shoulder ever. I knew, instantly, I f*ucked up. To be honest, how I handled Jenn was perfect example of my immaturity and hopeless outlook. A year after college and Jenn, I was in Redding, writing a new chapter.

When I look at my life compared to 2018 or 2013, the progress is apparent. I’m thankful to look back and observe the differences. What is truly exciting is knowing how intentional I am today compared to any other time in my life. I have purpose and a calling. I knew where I want to be. And I’ve established good habits. And yes, the progress is uneven. 'Tis the way it is. Even now, as I type, my mind is filled with concerns about my job and finances. And my age weighs on me, how will I ever find a woman? Should I stop planning for a family and start to approach life as though I’ll remain single?

I’m not the same man I was ten years ago or even five years ago. The Lord knew I needed to see that. And I need to be more gracious with myself, more hopeful and patient. Part of a poverty mind is an inability to plan and commit to a plan for longer than a weeks or months.

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Vol III: #69 Remote Work, AI, and the Future

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The term ChapGPT burrowed it’s way into the popular zeitgeist this year. The pro-tech crowd lauds the chat bot while the usual suspects huddle in the corner, forever afraid of the future. I first used a chatbot three years ago to help write ads for a few clients. Chat GPT isn’t new or immoral. It’s a tool. And like any object, the morality lay of the object in the hands and intent of the user. My business uses ChatGPT to generate copy for websites, emails, and ads. We still employ copy-writers. And by using a chatbot, they produce four times the volume of work. Then we pass along the savings to our customers- who are all small businesses.

I’m not sure why humans freak out at every technological advance, last year it was NFTs, another vastly misunderstood tool. If time travel were real, I’d want to see how people respond to the wheel or toilet or the spoon. My guess is when Billy Bob the caveman decided to use a rock to shovel his food into his mouth, his buddies called him weak or posh. Look at Billy, poor bastard thinks he’s too good to use his hands.

I assume most people react to new technology with caveman skepticism because they don’t know what’s in it for them. In my quest to be wise, I’ve learned to ask “what’s possible?” rather than develop a strong opinion to one side or the other. Fifteen years ago, I never thought Facebook or Twitter would be ground zero for every idiot with internet access or that I’d work remote. But in 2023, I work from my couch and manage a team of people spread out across the planet.

So, what’s in it for you? Allow me to offer one scenario, of many, but it’s mine:

Because my new job doesn’t have an office, we keep overheard low. By leveraging a virtual personal assistant in the Philippines, copy writers in Romania, and ChatGPT, we keep expenses down. By keeping expenses down we keep our prices down, and our clients- plumbers, electricians, landscapers, etc- keep their marketing costs low. You see?

Admittedly, technology can be used for evil. As soon as the printing press was invented- to mass print Bibles- pornographic material was replicated and distributed. Interstates allow drug dealers to ship meth and heroine all over the country. And crypto is being used by human-traffickers. (Which is really dumb because all crypto transactions are forever listed on public ledger.) With few exceptions, all tech has wheat and tares. And we can’t be scared of the future. It’s coming one day at a time, might as well embrace it.

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Vol III: #68 Nature Over Tech

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Yesterday, as I do every morning, I asked Alexa for a weather report and the device said to expect a cloudy and cool day. Great, I sarcastically thought as I lay in bed, another drab day. After a few more moments I crawled out of bed and opened my blings. The sky was clear and turning yellow, the moon still visible on the horizon to the west, not a cloud in sight. Within the hour, the sun cleared the eastern mountains, alone and confident. In fact, the sun shined brightly as he passed over Redding, beautiful and confident- though a few puffy clouds joined him for the afternoon. The sunshine was a welcome sight after weeks of rain and snow.

Today, my technology device told me to expect clouds and rain and wind. As I type a chunky wet snow is starting to cover my back porch. Thankfully, the temperature is too high for the snow to live long. And I choose to remind myself of what’s to come this summer. Give me all the wet snow and rain and dreary gray days. Soon enough, the clouds and rain will give way, as they always do, to relentless and fierce heat. Accordingly, from May to September, I do not need Alexa to tell me what to expect of the weather.

Whenever Alexa get’s it wrong or the Wifi goes out, I’m reminded of this fact: technology is and always will be imperfect. May it always be so. The human desire to control our environment often leads to more harm than good. And while I appreciate modern farming, X-rays, and airplanes, Nature will always be the greatest and highest form of art. She will always be unpredictable (yet reliable) and glorious.

What a joy, to be part of a living masterpiece. What a gift.

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Abstract: Stupid Song

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A song plays, one tied forever to a time and a place,

And I am there, again.

Walking through the oaks and pines, down the dirt path,

sobbing and hurting, hoping and unwilling to let go.

And though I sit in a noisy coffee shop, three years after,

tears form and I turn from the others, to hide my emotion,

forever tied to a song and a heart-breaking moment.

A ghost haunting my heart.

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Vol III: #67 Mr Nisly

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He’s always there, every Sunday morning, at the top of the hill where the road meets the parking lot, laughing and waving and directing cars to open spaces. He’s there in the summer when the sun blisters the asphalt and in winter when the rain is relentless. And he’s dresses for the occasion, a wide straw hat in the hot months and rubber boots to endure the storms. And of all the people at Bethel, I take my encouragement from him.

Mr Nisly is aging and small in stature, barely over five feet tall. His beard is well trimmed into the style belying his Mennonite heritage, and I love the snaggle-tooth in his smile. And I assume most people barely notice him as they hurry from their cars to the church. Why would they? Still, it’s a shame they don’t know his story the way I do.

Sam Nisly is a former Mennonite from Kansas. He married his wife Brenda and together they were missionaries to Central America. They returned to Kansas to raise their seven children according to their faith. Eventually they left the only community(and friends) they had and moved to northern California. And if you know anything about closed communities like Mennonites, leaving is like dying. For Sam and Brenda it meant they had to start over, again.

I wouldn’t know any of this without knowing his youngest son. Nathan told me all about Kansas and being Mennonite. And I’m well aware of how Mr Nisly failed as a father though my admiration remains undiminished. All the more, I’m impressed by Mr Nisly’s energy and enthusiasm. His failures and shortcomings don’t appear to weigh him down. There’s genuine calm in voice when he chooses to speak, the kind of stillness present in a man who knows his God and trusts his God.

When I think of a servant, what Jesus called “the greatest among you,” I picture Mr Nisly directing people in the Bethel parking lot, guiding them to an open spot before they run inside- before the glory runs out. I know I’m not Sam Nisly but I do admire him. He figured something out and I believe I will figure it out too. I’m still gonna write books and live my life, but I’m ready to let go of being important and appreciated. It’s simple. Do my job and love my people, no matter what.

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