Abstract: Do or Not

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Of all the advice passed to me from my dad,

none is more useful than this little jam:

You can always find a reason to do something…or not do something.

It’s simple and clean,

and doesn’t leave room for much in between.

Because those who build and create,

don’t face less hurdles,

than those who give up and deflate.

They simply kept finding excuses to keep on running,

through the distractions and hate,

to grab hold of their greatness,

to finish the race.

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Vol IV: #41 Happy 2024!

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The final two weeks of 2023 I did something I never do. I allowed myself to shut everything down to take a break. No writing. No drawing. No reading. Nada. And it was awesome. The break revealed how much I need space to relax and unwind from my normal day-to-day life, which isn’t a complaint. I love my life and I’m thankful for it. Breaks, pauses, and vacations are good. And now, I’m ready for 2024 with all the twists and turns to come.

My main focus for 2024 will be to live intentionally, in the moment. Much like an airplane does not assemble itself, life doesn’t move forward without planning, scheduling, faith, and doing. And I’m planning to do a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. In support of my intentions, I spent the last two days transforming desires into goals and goals into tasks. I even integrated my project management software with Google calendar. All I need to do is follow my schedule, one day at a time, and the goals will complete themselves.

The real trick is going to be navigating the moments when the task feels heavy and important. And that voice that whispers bullshit in my ear is loud and my confidence is hiding behind a tree. And I’d rather reach for my phone or slip into a day dream. 2024 is about sitting in those moments, slowly and intentionally. It’s about telling that voice to piss off. It’s about staying committed to the task and the schedule and reaching for Jesus instead of anything else.

As I recently said to a good friend, I’m going to boss 2024 instead of allowing it to boss me.

Cheers.

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Abstract: Compelled

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Compelled.

Such an alluring concept.

But, is it ever true?

Maybe not for a man without family,

But certainly so for the one with hungry bellies and growing hearts at home.

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Vol IV: #40 My Favorite Gifts

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My favorite Christmas gifts are memories. And my experience flies directly in face of what Amazon and Walmart want us to believe. They want me (and you) to believe Christmas isn’t Christmas without the perfect gift, because the best memories involve spending money. What a shame. What a lie.

My favorite moments include shopping for trees with my brother and sister. Like the time my brother and I lacked the necessary rope to tie our tree to the roof of the car. Never shy about asking me to take one for the team, my brother instructed me to hold the onto the tree until we got home. And because he was my hero, I did my duty- nearly freezing my right hand off on the ride home. Good times.

As for my sister and me, we share a library of memories. My personal fav is when I demanded we shove the tree- trunk first- into our burgundy station wagon. Picture it. A thick, sappy trunk resting against the inside of the windshield between us while the bottom branches scraped the back of our necks. And then, we left the Christmas tree lot and made our way to Rush’s, a local burger chain. After ordering our cheeseburgers and milkshakes, we pulled forward to pay where our noble steed broke down outside the drive thru window. We laughed and laughed at ridiculousness of our situation, so much so I was barely able to push the car forward out of the drive thru lane. What I’d give to hear what the workers and customers thought when they saw us.

For me, those are the real gifts, the unplanned yet hilarious Christmas memories with people I love.

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Abstract: Only Champions

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A child draws a tree.

The brown trunk is powerful and straight.

The green canopy full and symmetrical.

More of a symbol of the real thing than reality.

In the forest, the tree endures hot summer days and icy cold nights, squirrels and woodpeckers, drought and floods.

Their limbs snap in the wind and all sort of vermin want their bark and timber.

And let us not forget the never-ending onslaught of bugs, worms, and disease.

And yet, for all they endure, just to live,

They remain relentless and persistent, handing out fruit, nuts, and shade to all who have need of them.

You’ll not find a perfect tree in the wood.

With their scars and imperfection, twists, knots, and faded color,

Only champions.

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Vol IV: #39 The Married Man and the Bizarre

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When I walked into the prayer chapel on a sunny Sunday morning, the room was almost empty and nearly quiet. A lone man sat opposite the entrance and the worship music was off, or so I thought. Since I prefer the music, I glanced over at the control screen. On occasion, the screen is blank meaning it’s broken aka no music. And when I looked over at the screen I saw the name of a worship song and the progress bar below it. Then I reached for the volume nob beside the screen and turned the volume up, not too loud but enough to compete with the fountain in the center of the room.

Happy with my adjustment, I walked over to my favorite chair to begin my morning. Before I could take my seat, the stocky man quickly hurried over to me. And when he was close enough he launched into lecture on etiquette.

“Are you normally this rude?” he began.

Stunned by the question I stammered, “Huh?”

“It’s common courtesy to ask people to turn the volume up. I had the music off so I could listen to the fountain.”

“Well, this is a public space not your home. I can turn the music up.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? There are no rules here.”

And this confused me. How could he say I broke a social norm yet assert there were no rules? Unfortunately, I knew better.

“Oh yes, there are. Over there on the wall.”

At this he doubled down on his common courtesy logic. And part of me wanted to apologize, to smooth things over and make peace. But, I decided to stand up for myself.

“You’re joking, right?” I asked, still shocked by the man’s approach to the situation.

“No. I’m not,” he shot back with a glare.

“I’ve come almost everyday for the last four years and I’ve never seen anyone ask anyone else about the music.”

“Well, I’ve come here for 15 years. And you’re in the wrong.”

“You can’t be serious. All this over music. Are you proud of yourself right now?”

My last question landed on him and he paused, and being too stubborn to back down, he continued his assault.

“You’re a jackass,” he sniped as he walked over to the volume nob.

A million thoughts ran through my head and I searched for the right response.

“Are you ok, man?” I asked.

“I’m fine, you’re just one of the people who think you’re better than everyone else.”

“No. I don’t. I’m just not going to be talked to like that. Seriously, do you need someone to talk to? People who are “fine” don’t berate strangers in the prayer chapel.”

The argument continued for several more minutes. Me trying to connect to the man, while he continued to defend his weak position. And, I nearly laughed when he threatened to “beat [my] ass.” Trice. After the third threat, I motioned to the cameras on the wall and told him I’d let him beat my ass. Then, I’d use the video footage to pursue justice. “I’m not a cave man who solves my problems with violence,” I pridefully responded. He didn’t like that either.

At this point in the battle, he was seated in his chair and staring out a large window. A few yards away, I was on one knee, still asking if he was ok. Toward the end he wouldn’t look at me. Through logic and experience, I’d backed him into a corner and he was going to defend it to the end. And seeing no positive movement, I decided to give it rest and walked back to my chair while he continued to berate me from over his shoulder.

Finally, I relented,“Ok, man.You want to defend yourself and push everyone away, so be it. You’re getting what you want. I’m leaving. The room is yours.” And then, I grabbed my journal and made for the side exit. From my car, not thirty seconds later, I watched my assailant leave the prayer chapel too. How fucking absurd, I thought.

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As I replayed that bizarre scene in my head (all day, the rest of the day), I tried to find a better response to the man’s initial insult. (And from my recollection, I’m ok with how I handled the moment, save a few words and the caveman thing. That was unnecessary. In the future, when someone comes guns a blazin’, I’ll simply ask what they want. Me and the married man could’ve avoided a lot of drama if I had the sense to ask “Hey man, what do you want right now?”)

I also thought about the wedding band on his thick ring finger, and his stocky frame. He had the build of construction worker or truck driver, and his worn off-brand black hiking boots indicated moderate economic ability- though you never know, some rich people are cheap as fudge. Assuming he is married with a family, perhaps that quiet moment in the prayer chapel was the only peaceful moment he’d had in days. Or, maybe he was stressed by the holidays? Who knows?

Ultimately, the man and his condition aren’t what matters to me. My goal was to love him the best I could despite his approach, because love- true love- isn’t something we switch off when life doesn’t go our way. Though the world says love is conditional, it isn’t. Jesus isn’t conditional. His love is pure and good all the time, even and especially in conflict. That’s why, today, I’m not a wreck. Despite my mistakes, I know I did my best. And I hope to do better in the future, the next time I dare touch a volume nob.

Lord, bless the married man and shower him with love. Forgive whatever offenses I gave, and I forgive his ill-considered words.

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Vol IV: #38 What is “Flawed?”

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During my morning prayer today, the Lord asked me two fun questions. First He asked, “If something is flawed, is it bad?” and then “What is flawed?" My answers were as complicated as I could make them. To the first, I answered yes and no. Emotionally, yes. When something is flawed, I think it’s bad. But logically, no. Many great aspects of life are flawed yet nonetheless beautiful or wonderful. As for the second question, what is ‘flawed’?, I had to think a bit longer.

“Flawed” is a poorly drawn face, cracked windows, or lose gossipy lips. Most products and all people are flawed. But, by what standard? Who’s standard? And when considered, most of what we label as “flawed” is nothing more than a failure to match a standard. Then, mid-thought I heard the Lord again and this time He was smiling. In my world, an action, an object, or system, either gives life or reduces it. It’s good (flawed or not), or not good (even if flawless.) And I love life. All of it. I loved this answer. It was simple and good.

Before I left the prayer chapel, I asked the final question. If all good things give life regardless of flaws, why does it seem like some things are better than others? Again, the Lord smiled at me before answering as He does. “Only in your world is one act of love greater than another. A mighty redwood shadows a greater area than a lowly manzanita. And you’ll sit with your back against the trunk, supported and cool on a hot summer evening. But ask the bugs and critters about the hedge, and you’ll find they are as grateful for the bush as you are for the tree.”

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Short: What’s Your Favorite

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The dumbest question anyone might ask me, a new acquaintance perhaps, sounds small upon hearing.

It’s a basic get-know-you query, made by adults and children alike.

And because of the basic nature of the question, most folks give dispassionate, ill-considered answers.

But, not me, not ever.

When asked, I pause to consider my options…all of them,

Having been blessed with a depth of experience and range on the subject.

I ponder the old and the new, the textures and aromas, colors and flavors.

Naturally, I do not arrive at a simple reply.

How could I?

How could anyone compare one dish to another?

Consider a perfectly roasted duck, succulent and aromatic, wrapped in a thin pancake and smoother’d in hoisin sauce,

Smokey, meaty, unctuous with hints of anise and orange peel. It’s a perfect bite of food thanks to centuries of the Cantonese process.

Now imagine a humble peanut butter cup: nutty, creamy, and chocolatety. Sweet and savory. Better than gold. South America’s best gift.

Should I go on?

Because I’ve not yet begun.

What’s my favorite food?

Don’t make me laugh.

Need I mention the glory and world favorite know as pizza?

Or just how wonderfully clean yet deeply rich in flavor a fresh slice of fatty tuna can be?

And, what about the joy of a Parisian croissant, buttery and crisp?

Or…a medium rare ribeye, mustard-base pulled pork, or butter pecan ice cream?

I’ll never be able to give a quick answer to such simple question.

I’m too far down the hole.

The world is delicious, land and sea,

And I’m blessed to know it.

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Short: Why And I Type

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How many arguments will I have with the wind?

Rehashing the offenses given and received?

Lying out my case before an imaginary court,

Passionate defenses, argued to an empty room?

Why does my mind drift toward these rocks, when I want to be out on the open sea?

Even now, I can hear an academic, a real prick, critique my words,

the use of three different metaphors in just seven lines.

And nonetheless, I type.

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Vol IV: #37 The Big One

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I grow tired of arguing. All arguing. In my life, two people, at each other’s throats, have never resolved an issue by shouting at each other. Problems are fixed only when both parties decided they rather grow than be right. One or both people can be passionate about the subject, but they stay on subject and refuse to make it personal. I’ve had these moments with both parents. And what I have with my parents- to some degree- is a measure of trust. My mother can tell me “hey, I don’t like how to talked to be just then” without it becoming a big thing. I’ll simply apologize and we move on.

More recently, I’m tired of feeling defensive and the spiral that follows. It’s embarrassing. Do you know how many people have encountered me in the woods, cussing at the air and wagging my finger? Seriously.

My focus and fixation on trauma, offense, and pain leads to a dark dry desert called Bitter Assholeville. And it’s not for me. On most occasions, I stop myself and commence a series of verbal exercises including a prayer of forgiveness for myself and the other person. But, what I want is to be done with the whole damn process, to put to bed the broken parts of my past. No more Steve Thompson, no more ex-girlfriends, no more sibling fights where we try to convince the other my pain is greater than your pain, no more arrogant couple who pretended to live in London for years but really in was eight months, no more duel of wits.

I don’t know why or how this pattern began, but’s it’s time for it to end. There has to be a way? Right? To leave it behind and engage fully in the moment without letting the past ruined it? Lord knows I want to approach each day, person, and moment without cynicism. The missing piece is how to get there. How does anyone go from negative, defensive thoughts to regular thoughts of hope and love? I’ve done all the things- written letters and emails, burned things, prayed and prayed some more- and I still fight this fight, every single day.

Pray for me y’all. If I had the choice between a BILLION DOLLARS or to be set free from mentally fighting everyone in my past, I’d gladly choose the freedom. Of all my battles, this one is the big One.

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Abstract: The Hawk And The Pigeon

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A slight squawk overhead jerked my face upward just in time,

To be showered with grey and white down feathers.

And through the descending fuzz I caught sight of a hawk, talons full, flying toward the wood.

Pigeon for breakfast.

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Vol IV: #36 The Shack

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The first person to suggest I read The Shack was a roommate’s girlfriend. She turned out to be a lady jerk and so I refused to accept her suggestion. Not long after, I read more praise for the book on Facebook, all by stupid and codependent, Christian women. And their praise served the narrative I created after the lady jerk’s recommendation, The Shack had to be shit book if so many shitty women loved it. How good could it be? (Don’t act like I’m the only one. We all have people in our lives that rub us the wrong way and we do the exact opposite of whatever they tell us to do.)

Fast forward to 2023, and I’m plowing through a book a week, or so. And after twenty straight secular novels, by the likes of Hemingway and Hughes, I was ready for something “Christian.” I chose to read The Shack mainly because I wanted to read a novel, and I was too lazy to look for another title. A copy arrived in the mail in late September, but collected dust until last week.

I’m not sure what I expected from The Shack. Certainly, my expectations were low. And the first two chapters didn‘t help. Sentences like “Soon the sounds of gentle snoring filled the air as the media tube turned its attention to a piece on high school senior in Zimbabwe…” Media tube?! What!? I get trying to be descriptive. Hell, I’m on that train too bro. But, media tube as for TV? That ain’t it.

And trust me. I get it. I’m barely a writer.

Like I said, after the first two chapters, I was ready to set the book down. What kept me going was the premise. The main character, Mack, is bitter and sad over the murder of his six-year old daughter. Naturally, he’s full of the hurt and questions all of us have in one form or another. I kept reading because I wanted to see how the author answered the questions, how he addressed grief. Would he offer the same tired answers I hear in church? I wanted to know. I wanted to hear Mack accuse God of being absent and cruel. But more than anything, I wanted to the answers.

It’s not fair to expect William Young, the author, to have all the answers. Still, I hoped for something new or original. Thankfully, Mack finds answers both old and new in his conversation with God. And I’m ok with that. There are moments of true Glory in The Shack. Somehow, Young cuts through what the world demands from the Lord and offers a totally different perspective instead. And if had to write one sentence about The Shack, a one summary statement, it’s this: Under pile of adjectives and rehashed theology, the Holy Spirit speaks directly to us when we read The Shack. The voice of the Lord is hidden in words and kindly beckons us to trust Him.

I hope my writing reaches that level one day.

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