YHWH,

You are the Author of my life,

the Breath of my lungs,

the One who called creation good

the One who called me creation.

You wrote my story,

You breathed my breath,

You called me good

long before i learned to question Your heart.

Yet i have transformed You

into someone i do not believe

You intended me to know.

i do not doubt Your existence,

but i do not believe Your nearness.

i believe that You create beauty,

i trust that You take Your time,

it is not a mystery that You mean what You say.

Yet i imagine that once Your work is finished,

You step back into silence,

watching from the heavens

while the earth stumbles beneath its own weight.

Through my eyes,

Jesus walks the dusty roads.

He sits with the broken.

He enters suffering without hesitation.

He is gentle enough for children

and strong enough for the cross.

But You… O God

Too often i have seen You

as the quiet

watching eye

in the distance.

Holy,

Powerful,

Good,

yet

somehow removed.

Your Son comes running toward me

while You remain seated,

observing what unfolds.

Forgive me, Yahweh,

if i have unknowingly separated

what heaven has never divided.

i confess that my heart

has found it easier to love the face of Jesus

than to rest beneath the gaze of the Father.

Even though i say with my mouth,

that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit

are One,

my soul still keeps them apart.

my mind agrees with the mystery,

but my heart has not yet entered it.

The same as a rocky mountain climb,

the landscape of my heart

has become hard,

daunting,

rugged.

Yahweh,

in Your kind and gentle ways,

i’m asking that You reveal to me

the pieces of my heart

that i have pretended to be healed

but actually need to be peeled.

Peel away the stories

that pain has written about You.

Peel away the disappointment

that has become my lens.

Peel away every wound

that taught me the Father

is farther away than the Son.

If i have mistaken Your patience for distance,

correct my vision.

If i have mistaken Your silence for indifference,

teach me to hear Your voice.

If i have mistaken Your love for apathy,

wrap my heart in a gentle touch.

If i have believed that Jesus is kinder than You,

show me the Father’s kindness

shining through the face of Christ.

If i have imagined that You simply ✨watch✨

while Jesus carries the burden,

remind me that the God who sent His Son into the world

is not untouched by love.

Teach me that Your holiness

is not coldness.

That Your sovereignty

is not detachment.

That Your transcendence

does not compete

with Your tenderness.

Let me see that the hands of Jesus

are the hands of the Father

reaching for me.

Let me believe that the Spirit who dwells

is not a lesser comfort,

but Your own presence

breathing life into rugged places.

Search me,

not to expose me,

but to free me.

Peel away every false image

until only Your face remains.

i don’t only want better thoughts about You.

i want to know You.

Not the God i have constructed from fear,

from disappointment,

from fake-healed wounds,

but the God who I hear you have been.

the Father

whose mercy gave His Son,

the Son

who perfectly reveals His Father,

the Father

who writes poems,

and calls them souls.

the Son

whose soul was written

as the punch line of eternity.

and the Holy Spirit

who makes that love known

within the deepest canyons of my heart.

When the peeling is finished,

let my worship no longer rise

from obligation or speculation,

but from wonder and from awe.

May i look upon You and recognize

that You have always been

far kinder,

far gentler,

and far nearer

than i

have ever dared believe.

Amen.

(Happy Valentine’s Day)

Every morning
before the world decides what it needs from you,
you take your place on the couch.
Right cushion, nestled in the kindness of your favorite blanket
like it’s reserved in the quiet cathedral of your peace.

Bible open in your lap,
spine softened from loyalty,
your journal waits beside you.
Pages breathing,
ready to feel the constellations of your thoughts.

And there
as certain as sunrise
your mug finds the windowsill.

You never notice the rings it leaves behind.
But I do.
Faint halos, overlapping
little eclipses of mornings past.

Proof that you were here,
thinking in circles again,
wandering your gentle labyrinths
until meaning blooms.

You move through your mind
the way steam lifts from your mug.
Slow, spiraled,
never rushed,
always warm.

You return to stillness the way hands return to prayer.
You return to your sacred place the way a ceramist creates art.
Thoughts turning over,
being polished,
finding new light in familiar curves.

Those rings on the sill
are your mark on the world.
Not mess. Memory.
Marks left behind with quiet intention.

They map your rhythms:
the way you begin softly,
the way you linger,
the way you make ordinary mornings
feel hand-stitched and sacred.

The way that you love me.

One day, we’ll paint the house,
replace the windows,
sand away the evidence of time.

But I hope we don’t.

Because I love the way
your presence stains the edges of things.
The way your love creates faint halos,
overlapping little eclipses,
on my heart.

How your rituals leave warmth behind,
how your mind loops with wonder,
how your life touches mine
in perfect, imperfect rings.

So tomorrow morning,
set your coffee there again.

Leave another circle.

I’ll keep loving you
inside every one.

I’ve learned a lot and grown more than I planned in the last 105 weeks, but I’m not sure about writing.

Jos (my wife, for those of you uncultured swine who don’t know her) is in charge of the finances in our family, and I told her she should cancel this website because I had nothing left to say. She refused on the grounds of, “sometimes you get a wild hair up your ass and want to write.” Which, I don’t think would hold up in court and I told her that. Her rebuttal was that she likes the way I write and she wants me to get back to it. Allegedly. Encouragement is in the contract she signed on September 28, 2019, so we’ll take that with a grain of salt.

One of the things that I’ve learned in the last 2.01923077 years is that I appreciate critical and creative thinking a lot more than I thought I did. But, I talk to myself enough.

I don’t do this for the readers, but when y’all gas me up it helps. It makes me think that I’m not crazy and I’m not alone. On the contrary, it reaffirms that I’m not unique - which sucks, and, in a way, prevents me from publishing words on a screen.

Should I start writing regularly again? Be for real.

As I do every time I write {and as I hope you do every time you read}, I’m currently drinking a beer. I’ve also been thinking. Recipe for disaster for some, I’m sure, because beers and thoughts tend to cause some tension in the world. I say that because I fully expect this to cause some tension in the world as it has already caused quite a bit of tension in mine. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about one specific thing. Maybe it’s less of a thing and more of an action. It’s even more possible that it is not only an action but a collective group of people repeatedly acting a certain way. And yes, it is a problem.

I started thinking about this thing, this action, this routine, after a friend shared a tweet. A couple of weeks after I read the tweet I heard someone else, completely unrelated and unknown by the tweeter, share a statement that correlated to the tweet. The tweeter is someone that I don’t know personally, and I believe is in a completely different place in faith as the person who shared the statement. The statement came from a man who is deeply committed to Christian ministry and it was said in passing during somewhat of a sermon to a room full of Christian business owners. The tweet came from a man who seems to be questioning faith and deconstructing what he once believed without the intention of reconstructing when he finds the answers. Both the tweet and the statement align with one of the most central causes of my own internal struggle and questioning over the last few years.

Something I’ve always struggled with is people with an agenda. Specifically, people who do and say things because of their agenda while claiming there is no agenda. I understand that it’s human to have an agenda and I do believe that everybody has one. There is always something -- some type of transaction, something for me, something for you, something to push something else forward -- within human interaction, and I am no stranger to operating in the center of that push-and-pull. It’s extremely evident in business, and I’m guilty of using that as a strength to get what I want out of other people, professionally. You can see it in dating and romantic relationships, and my marriage could be used as a case study to prove it. It’s even visible in mundane life things like doing chores around the house. The difference between this collective group of people repeatedly acting the way that they act and the rest of the world is evident in that when the rest of the world has an agenda they don’t hide from it. In business conversations, or in romantic relationships, or in doing things around the house, there is no shame in admitting an agenda. People operate in a way that will eventually accomplish what they have set out to accomplish. There is nothing bad about having motivation for action when it’s obvious that there is a motivation for action. Christians, however, like to hide behind the fantastical idea that they don’t have an agenda for loving people when, in fact, it is very clear that they are trying to save your soul in order to get into heaven.

The tweet.

“heaven and hell are now and now. christians bring hell on earth by assuming heaven is later”

@andyothling on Twitter

The statement.

“. . . the Kingdom of Heaven is something that you’re born into, not something you have to die to enter.”

Pat Harrison, some type of pastoral mentor/counselor in Greenwood Village, Co.

My biggest question the last few years.

Why does it feel like my salvation is your ticket into heaven?

Here’s my problem: American Christians interact with the world as if the Kingdom of God is something that is coming only after you die. The Christian agenda is, I want you to experience the Kingdom of God, therefore you have to become a Christian now so that when you die you go to Heaven. To boot, there is always a sense of that Christian wanting the credit for your conversion, isn’t there? Almost as if gold stars and salvation points are being divvied out by Saint Peter as he checks the list to get in.

While trying to convert people, Christians completely forget that the Gospel they are preaching is a Gospel that is here, now. While trying to save souls, Christians are exclusively selective in who they love and very anti-gracious in who they choose to not love. While tirelessly attempting to convince people that the Kingdom of Heaven is worth dying for, Christians forget that they already live in it.

Jesus’ entire life was designed to bring the Kingdom of Heaven to earth. The American Christian thinks it’s their job to bring the earth back to the Kingdom of Heaven.

Paraphrasing the words of the greatest example of this, American Christians are on the bus back to the Kingdom; you’re either on the bus or you’re getting run over by it, and they don’t care if there is a mountain of bodies under the bus when it gets to its destination.

Cheers.

@andyothling on Twitter is not someone that I have ever met. I realize that I have made assumptions about him in this piece, and it needs to be said that they are just that, assumptions. Assumptions based on tweets that he has published.

@andyothling - if this blog made its way to you, I would love to talk. I would love to know how my assumptions line up with your life and I would love to pick your brain about this topic.

I’m no stranger to pain. Physical pain was a theme of my high school and college years, emotional pain is becoming a more realized theme for my current state, and spiritual pain is something that I have observed from a close distance. In some sense, I have experienced my own spiritual pain, but the spiritual pain that I’ve felt is mostly because of what has been projected on me or portrayed by people close to me. A lot of my spiritual pain is realized by stories that have been told to me, which could be telling of how painful it truly was, and still is.

Pain is human. Pain is an experience that we are privileged to have but is rarely seen as something good. Understandable.

Pain sucks. Whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual, pain is an experience that is uncomfortable and hard to navigate. Agreeable.

Pain is necessary. Pain is an experience that opens space in our lives for growth, and most often when we don’t want to grow. Annoying.

I’m writing this piece through two lenses. On one hand, I have my own thoughts and experiences - mostly through observation - that speak into these opinions. On the other hand, I have had a plethora of conversations with people who have been extremely hurt in recent years, and I want to approach this without disregarding or downplaying their wounds.

I’m specifically addressing spiritual pain, here. I have come to realize that spiritual and emotional pain have a very close relationship. A relationship of causation, mostly. Spiritual pain today causes emotional pain tomorrow, and vice versa. This is something that I am realizing in conversations with dear friends, and with people I don’t know well but are brave enough to let me into their life. I am noticing that I am no stranger to the topic of deconstructing, pain caused by superiors in religion, and the struggle of healing from pain caused by something so easy to mistake as an identity. In the past few years, I have witnessed people get burned by leaders they trusted deeply, I have seen pieces of thriving organizations crumble in a matter of days, and I have heard cries from the hearts of strong, strong individuals.

I am realizing all of this by sifting through the harsh words being spoken from an emotional place because the realization of the spiritual damage is delayed until the anger has center stage.

Disappointment comes after anger.

Feeling lost and alone comes after disappointment.

Anger comes from feeling lost and alone.

Disappointment comes after anger.

Feeling lost and alone comes after disappointment.

The cycle doesn’t stop until there is someone or something to blame, or, the healthier and more productive realization of the root of it all. I’m led to a question that I have been dwelling on through these conversations.

How do you heal from pain when you didn’t know it hurt until it was over?

I guess, the easy answer is knowing that unrealized pain is trauma and trauma can be treated through therapy. **This is your sign to go get help for past trauma.**

But, in a deeper sense, I’m fixated on practical ways to recover from something that was so painful for so long, but not realized until {insert amount of time} after. I find myself looking for the answers to a lot of questions. Questions like: did you know it was bad? How did you not see it? Did anybody tell you? Were you listening? If you were listening, did you do anything about it? Would doing something about it while it was happening have had any benefit? Is it better to face it? How do you know when something is bad for someone else? Can you be selfish in it? Would it even be considered selfishness? Should you stand your ground when you are called selfish?

I notice my desire for justice becoming deeper and deeper in the past few years. I often find myself wanting to go back to a specific time and punch some people in the throat for things they did to people who would never punch anybody in the throat. I get worked up by stories of leaders abusing subordinates in the name of the vision of the organization. I get frustrated by the truth that I don’t know about it until the affected people are seeing real-life damage and then I’m humbled because of the perspective that I’m angered by their story, but it’s a story that they are living.

How do you heal from something that you unknowingly persevered through?

I met a woman recently who is currently living in this very space that I’m talking about. She is on the back end of a life-changing few months that have caused wounds that she is now aware of, but I’m not convinced that she is as far along in her healing as she thinks she is. She has recognized what happened, and that is brave. Step one, some might say. To be frank, I’m worried that she is operating in a false strength spurred by the absence of the setting. She has moved on from the people and the place that has caused the wounds, but I worry that she is just gritting her teeth and pushing forward, justifying it by distractions of good deeds and active faith through ministry.

I hope I’m wrong.

In a recent conversation with her, she was bold enough to share her heart on a couple of my questions.

As I said, I wonder if you can know it is bad while it’s happening. In her case, yes, to a degree. It wasn’t until the tail end that she realized how bad it actually was. She mentioned that she didn’t know for so long because she thought it was normal, then used the words “spiritual manipulation” when explaining what was happening.

Someone is being manipulated so intently that they believe it is normal. Woof.

I asked her if she tried to do anything about it or stand up for herself after realizing what was going on, and she said yes but only to be pinned as the villain. Financial leverage was used to force decisions in the interest of leaders, ultimatums were used to deepen manipulation, and a narrative of “you should be grateful for what I have provided you” was planted into her head, leading her to make the decision to remove herself and move on. That, in itself, is brave, but how does she heal?

I don’t think her story is an anomaly. I think this is a common happening in the current American Christian structure and is a cause for the fad of deconstructing. I had a conversation with a friend not long ago on the idea of deconstructing. His stance is clear, millennials are getting soft and truth is being replaced by grace when we talk about Jesus things. I tend to agree with him on the second half of that thought, but I have been a lot closer to manipulation and spiritual damage than he has, which provides some empathy for people in the deconstructing space. My contribution to that conversation was that I don’t think people are actually deconstructing their faith. I don’t think people are deconstructing Jesus and His Gospel, but instead are realizing past hurt. Once hurt is realized they begin deconstructing what has happened to their heart and spirit in the past, then projecting that hurt onto the person of Jesus and making it Christianity’s fault. I have yet to hear anybody say something along the lines of, “I can’t believe what Jesus did to me while I was leading that group, and I will never lead for Him again.” I have not been part of a conversation where a deconstructing Christian is deconstructing because of something that Jesus did to them. I have, however, heard a story similar to the one above far too frequently since becoming a Christian myself.

Maybe deconstructing is the process of healing. Maybe moving on, removing yourself from the people and the place causing hurt, is the process of healing. Maybe bringing the shit straight to the feet of Jesus and allowing Him the space He deserves to do what He does is the process of healing. Maybe you’re better at that than I am.

I hope my new friend is one of the strongest people I have ever met. I hope she is taking this shit straight to the feet of Jesus, allowing Him the space to do what He does. Lord, I hope she is.

I want to have more conversations with people who are deconstructing and get to the nitty-gritty of what they are truly deconstructing. I want people who are healing to be able to sit down and tell me what the hell to do. But, when it comes down to it, I want people to stop being assholes when they have power.

Cheers to you for healing, and I’ll pour one out for what was lost in the past.

We have all heard it before. Chances are we have all said it before. If you’re over the age of 45 then you have definitely said it, and if you’re younger than 38 you have heard it. If you’re in your twenties you probably hear it more than twice a week. More than likely, it has been said directly to your face by someone much older, and wealthier, than you with no regard to your character or modus operandi.

It is some version of “millennials are lazy and entitled.”

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m guilty of feeling and acting entitled sometimes. I’ve written about that before - the idea that I was unfulfilled at work because I was too good for, too talented for, too organized for, too {insert positive adjective here} for this job and I deserve more. If you’re new here, you can read that expletive-laced piece here.

Entitlement is a funny concept. I think it has taken on its own personality because of the narrative created by old people. It’s almost like millennials have accepted our fate of being entitled because it’s too exhausting to explain to old folks that millennials have done nothing but make their life easier. I’m speaking directly to the development and evolution of tech when I say that, but it could be said in many contexts. For a lot of us younger folks, it has presented itself as motivation to further develop and progress. For others, it has been embedded into their mental in an unhealthy and toxic way, creating an excuse to not develop and progress. For me, it has done both.

I’m going to tell you a story that, I believe, is the root of my cyclical entitlement. I’ll keep the story short - I went to 5 different colleges, transferring 6 times, in 7 years. I now have a journalism degree and am 4 credit hours away from an English degree and 3 credit hours away from a general business degree. I am not going back to school to complete those hours, but the thought of having a 7-credit hour semester with the end goal of 3 degrees is cool to think about. My intention in sharing that is not to brag, but rather to make you aware that I was able to leave whenever I wanted with really no consequence. The only “consequence” was added time to an undergraduate degree. It was easy for me to change schools and justify it by saying it was a better option, better opportunity, better whatever I wanted to say that time. In reality, full transparency here, when something got hard, I ran. In this sense, sure, I am an entitled millennial who didn’t have to stick it out.

If you have been inside a church building in the last ten years, then chances are you’ve heard someone preaching about chasing the next best thing. I am an example of chasing the next best thing played out in very real life. At the time, there were no consequences - other than student debt and being made fun of for taking so long to graduate. Because I am so passionate about being the best version of myself, I would take transferring a step further and change my major every time I changed schools. Mainly because I thought this major was better than that major and I was bored of those classes. Even more, when I graduated, I took the same approach to my professional life and held 3 positions in 3 different industries within 10 months of graduation. All with the mindset that the next thing was the best thing, and it was going to change my life forever. Sure, I’m an entitled millennial.

Well, now the consequences are sneaking into my life.

Surprise, surprise. How does that science saying go? For every action, there is an equal and opposite consequence, whether it happens immediately or not. Right? Something like that.

These consequences are subtle, and not apparent in my everyday real life. They are more of a mental state than a tangible obstacle that I have to maneuver around. The consequences are the same as the action - because it was always so easy to change, I now believe that it’s easy to change. Because I was always able to run from things when it got hard, my knee-jerk reaction now is to run when it gets hard.

*An important distinction to make is that I only think this way in certain spaces. Relationships are not one of those spaces -- Joslin, don’t worry, I’m not going to run when marriage gets hard.*

I think that because this cycle was created during school, which is something that I did because, in many ways, I was told that I had to, it is mostly my mindset towards work which is also something that I do because I am told that I have to. So, here I am. Learning how to fight through the urge to run and discerning what it means to stick it out. I am learning that a hasty decision to change is now impacting more than one life and has more impact than I think on my own life. I am seeing that a hasty decision to change is a weak move and I am trying to be a strong person. I am figuring out that my instincts are sometimes wrong, and that I should get beat up every once in a while.

Maybe old people have a point when they say that millennials are lazy and entitled, but maybe they’ve been saying it for so long that they’ve used it as an excuse to not teach or help us kids. Thus, making old people lazy and entitled. Suck on that, boomer!

Raise your glass with me. Cheers to us, for trying.

Modus Operandi is also known as one’s M.O. It’s how you operate.

If you’re wondering, the schools that I went to are:

Univ. of Science and Arts of Oklahoma (fall 2011)

Luna Community College (2012-2013)

New Mexico State University (2013-2014)

Univ. of Texas at Dallas (fall 2015)

New Mexico State University (Spring 2016)

Univ. of New Mexico (2016-Fall 2017)

The jobs I had the year after graduating were:

Young Life Staff Associate

Account Manager Intern (advertising agency)

Superintendent (home builder)

*If you’re a millennial and you feel you have been personally attacked by an old person for calling you lazy, you may be entitled to financial compensation and years of therapy to spend it on.

I’m going to say something that not many people will say. *GASP* not me saying something that other people are scared to say. This time it seems different, though. I’m not convinced that many people even think about it which makes it seems even brasher.

Here is it, ready?

I don’t have to like you to love you!

I could leave it here and let it sit in your thoughts giving you enough space to make your justification for it, but I care too much about my own opinions to let you dominate this.

The way I see it, liking people is a social construct that we’ve created to make friends and enhance social circles. Loving people is a straight-up Jesus command that is ferociously against your personal feelings.

We want to be friends with people that we like, and that like us. That’s obvious and very natural human behavior. What has been increasingly misconstrued over time is that these two expressions are not synonymous.

Humans, being the bozos that we are, have created this sort of ladder to love and inserted liking as the most pivotal rung in our quest to be loved. Liking someone, or being liked, has become the step that others must be standing on to get behind our walls. To gain my trust you have to complete this set of tasks, accumulate ___ number of checkmarks on my checklist, or acceptably fit into the space in my life that I need you to fit into. After you do that, I will like you, and you’re one step closer to me loving you. Only the first half of that should be true.

Need more? Think about romantic relationships.

• You have a crush.

  • You start talking to that crush.

    • You start dating that crush.

      • You start liking that crush.

        • That crush starts liking you.

**THEN you love that crush, and that crush loves you.**

Now, the point of this conversation is not romantic love. You hear me this, there is a distinct difference between romantic love and the love that I’m talking about. The image is the same if you move to a new city and need friends, if you graduate college and don’t have a built-in community, or if you leave the neighborhood that you’ve lived in forever. The process is the same: interest leads to action, action leads to intentionality, intentionality leads to consistency, consistency leads to comfortability, comfortability means that you’ve made it.

We’ve put criteria on being loved. I used one example of this criteria 3 paragraphs above. Getting behind someone’s walls is the space where you will be loved. Being behind walls is being loved. Wrong. You can love somebody without making them a part of your story, similar to how you can love someone and not like them.

Jesus gives two commands in the New Testament; both are grounded in love. Paraphrasing, we are to love God and love others. Both are very hard things to do as a bozo and neither require the prerequisite of liking God or others.

It is counter-cultural. That is the point.

Jesus says if I do someone wrong then it is up to me to make it better. Jesus also says that when someone does me wrong then it is up to me to make it better. I don’t know about you, but I can’t execute either of those scenarios if I don’t like someone. Here is the truth: Jesus doesn’t care about me liking someone or not, but his heart breaks when I can’t love one of His.

This is the distinction between romantic love and the love that I’m talking about. The love that I’m talking about puts the human first and removes criteria. If I want to like you then I want you to agree with me on this, disagree with me on that, completely disregard those things over there, and live the way that I live. Because I love you, you can agree with me or not, disagree with me or not, bring up whatever the hell you want to bring up, and live how you’re living. At least, that’s my hope.

It’s a hard thing to do, folks. Love takes effort and it’s tough to exert effort on things that we don’t like. Remember this, humans aren’t things.

Cheers!

If you’re looking for the non-paraphrased commandments then flip to any of the gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John) and you can read about the 2 commandments in full.

If you’re too lazy to look, or don’t have a bible, here are some links:

https://www.bible.com/bible/59/luk.10.27

https://www.bible.com/bible/59/mrk.12.30

https://www.bible.com/bible/59/mat.22.37

https://www.bible.com/bible/59/mat.22.39

https://www.bible.com/bible/59/mrk.12.31

I have had the sweet privilege to work in a few, vastly different spheres in my infant professional life. Everything from non-profit ministry roles to mid-level management for multimillion-dollar corporate companies. Now, let it be known that the “sweet privilege” is only me trying to be optimistic about my professional life. The reality is that I’ve had many jobs because I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up, jah feel?

I digress.

There are more similarities in all the jobs I have had than one would think. Yes, they have been different in nature, and this is most obviously displayed in the day-to-day operations of each gig. Unfortunately, the similarities rear their head in lack of support from superiors, the unintentional establishment of expectations, the insertion of ego into leadership styles, and the overwhelming presence of the falsity that people are capable of simultaneously learning, teaching, and carrying out responsibility from the jump.

I’m writing this through the lens of someone who has been unfulfilled and disappointed at work for a long time. Through a lot of investigating and introspection, I have realized that this is my biggest qualm with the work culture in America. Okay, maybe not every job in the whole country of America, but certainly the work culture that I’ve been surrounded by.

Raise your glass if you’ve ever heard a person in leadership say something like, “well, nobody taught me when I started.” What about, “there’s really only one way to learn.” Maybe you’ve heard my personal favorite, “you’ll just have to figure it out.” My knee-jerk reaction when a boss says something like this is to punch them in the throat and tell them to figure out how to breathe. It’s taken quite a bit of self-control over the years to stay out of the HR office, so kudos to me. The less dramatic part of my thoughts typically steers me to thinking – okay, I’m sure you did [teach yourself] [learn in the “only” way there is to learn] [you have obviously figured some things out]. Now look at you, you’re the boss. Whoopty-FRICKING-doo! That doesn’t mean that you have to inflict the same torture onto the people around you.

It seems like the majority of the times that statements like this are made is when I need help with something, and jefe doesn’t want to be bothered by it. In turn, their comments make me feel less-than and annoying. Then I feel like a failure because I’m a coddled little millennial boy who needs approval from every superior figure that I am forced to be subordinate to. When it’s all said and done, I find myself in a weird, depressive state sad about everything because I asked my boss – who has an “open-door policy” - a question that they didn’t want to answer at 2:15 on a Tuesday. Weeks later I muster up enough courage to ask another question, being sure to ask at a different time on a different day - because 2:15 on a Tuesday can suck-it - and am received by a sigh, an eye roll, and a “have you thought hard enough about your question” type answer.

Now we start to see a pattern that lacks the support of the human and establishes an expectation that everyone will do things on their own while coexisting in unison to beautifully execute the master plan of this business that we are a part of. Reality is perpetuating a cycle of feeling lost and alone. Feeling lost and alone can encourage hyper-independence. Hyper-independence is a slippery slope with disdain at the bottom. Specifically, disdain towards leadership.

I’ve had a couple of bosses who carried a posture of wanting things done in a very specific way that mirrors the way they would do it. They didn’t have the time to teach me how, so my only option was to do it. I would then get told that it’s wrong. Then, there is no time in the day to explain how it was wrong, so I go do it again and have to figure out A) what was wrong the first time and B) how to do it correctly. Hence teaching, learning, and carrying out responsibility simultaneously. It seems like forcing someone to figure it out has become the default, but I think it’s a cop-out.

I understand that there is no harm in allowing people the space to figure some things out on their own. In a lot of spaces, it is extremely healthy. It encourages people to think critically and creatively while operating within the boundaries set before them. An example that we’re all familiar with is a toddler hanging out by a hot oven – you know how that one ends. Encouraging critical thought while providing support is the place where leadership thrives. Yes, it is hard to find common ground between the two. There are a lot of factors that play into recognizing the appropriate amount of leeway to support - factors such as personality type, strengths, skills, etc. - and I know that leadership is incredibly hard to do well. However, there is a basic understanding of human beings that plays a larger role than sifting through elements of leadership. Knowing that human beings want two, seemingly simple, very specific things can elevate a leader. Regardless of personality, strengths, skills, age, culture, enneagram type, Meyers-Briggs results, (insert BS raison d’ėtre here), people want to be seen and people want to be heard. Synonymously, people want to be known and people want to be loved.

This is no different in the context of the professional world - people deeply want to be seen by their leader and heard by everyone around them. By “people” I mean me. For God’s sake be nicer to me, I’m just a little boy.

Cheers to those who encourage some independence while offering the support needed. I’ll drink to those who do it well, to those who try to do it well, and to those who care about doing it well. If that’s not you, be better.

Raison d’ėtre means reason or justification

Enneagram is a popular personality test that identifies 9 different “types” and elaborates on tendencies, strengths, weaknesses, and modus operandi.

Meyers-Briggs is also a personality type that separates introvert from extrovert, sensing from intuition, feeling from thinking, and judging from perceiving.

Jah is synonymous with “you”.

Good morning, world; I’m back for another one.

Another day.

No, that’s not enough.

Another war.

No, that’s too far.

Another battle.

Yes!

Process. . . process. . . process. . .

That’s it. It is a battle. I am back for another one.

You thought you won, world, but I’m back for another one.

Process. . . process. . . stuck. . .

Get up. What are you doing? It’s time to do something. You’ll feel better I promise.

I’m up. I’m doing it. I’m out of bed and about my life.

Today, I’m back for another one.

I will not give in. I will win. I will not give in. It’s not who I am, you see.

Oh… Hi my name is Jacob Skorka and I’m OCD

Try again.

Hi, I’m Jacob Skorka AND I’m OCD

Again.

Hi I’m Jacob Skorka and I have OCD

Because this is not who I am. It is what I do.

Is it what I do or is it what I have?

No, I would not like it to be CDO to put it in alphabetical order

No, it does not stand for Overly Cute Disorder like the bullshit Target T your 4 year old is wearing

No, I won’t organize your closet if you pay me

No, I don’t really care if your room is a mess, I don’t have to live in it

I would never live in a room with a mess

Process. . . process. . . process. . . rewind. . . filter. . . filter. . .

This is real and it is what I have.

Today, I will win.

Today, this does not define me.

Define? The definition. God bless the definition.

No. No way does Skorka have OCD

No way does Skorka have depression.

Why? I’m sorry that I don’t fit your mold of OCD.

I’m sorry that my name was not in your PSYCH101 textbook.

I’m sorry that I don’t match your favorite character in your culturally sensitive Tuesday night sitcom.

I’m not normal.

No. . . No and no. No, I’m not sorry and no, what is normal?

Normal implies abnormal.

Who are you to define me?

Who are you to put my brain in your box

Process. . . process. . . process. . . stuck. . . stuck. . . stuck. . . rewind. . .

Today, I win. You lose.

You can say those things if you want. I’m stronger than you.

Say it.

But you better say it with conviction and be convicted of the crime of ignorance because you don’t know what it’s like and your words have no significance.

Today, I came back for another one. Today, I won.

Process. . . process. . . process. . .

Hello? Hello. . . ? Hey!

What? What is that? Yes? Who. . .

Oh, hello. You look familiar.

It’s dark in here.

In where? All I see is the sunshine.

No. Don’t look. The sunshine will steal you blind. You don’t need that.

What are you talking about?

Well… maybe you’re right. It does seem pretty dark.

Is it getting cold too? Dark, and cold? No. No… not again. Please, not again.

It’s too late.

Again. It happened again. I’m trapped and it’s dark in here.

I’m trapped because I can’t find the walls that THAT thing has put up. It trapped me.

I’m trapped because I don’t want to live, that shit is too hard

I’m trapped because I don’t want to die, that shit is too scary

Scared? What am I scared of? There’s nothing in here. It’s dark though. What could be in the dark?

I feel cold. I feel alone, but I feel accompanied. Somebody is here. It’s too dark to see but somebody is here, waiting for my call.

Feel. I would feel cold. I would have feelings. I could have feelings. I would feel a lot of things if I could feel things at all.

There it is. THAT is back. I saw it. It’s darker than the last time.

How is that possible? Darker than the last time. Last time was darker than the last time. The last last time was darker than the last time.

Is this the last time? Is this as dark as THAT gets?

I guess I’ll see next time.

“MOMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA oooooo-OOOOOOOOO-ooooooo“

A Mother’s Day tribute to all of the moms. Specifically, my mom. Your mom is cool too, I’m sure, and I bet she’s great at being your mom, but nothing compared to my mom. If you know me then you have to agree with that. Happy Mother’s Day to the plant and dog moms who are entitled and think today is for them. Now that we got that out of the way we can get on with the real ones.

Momma: a word with many synonyms, and not one true definition. She is a many-hat-wearing, always-role-changing, evolving yet steady foundation of a young man. She is the example of strength and poise, littered with beauty and brains that proves to her daughter that this is a woman’s world. The woman who has gone through hell to watch a miracle and will choose to do it again. A human who has felt the greatest pain that humans can endure, and never stopped showing up. I’m not only talking about the physical pain of childbirth, but also when she hears her little boy talk back for the first time. When he thinks he’s old enough to rule and smart enough to speak, and, in that moment, she doesn’t hear words. In that moment, she hears a piece of her heart break off, but chooses grace in discipline. The woman who gazes into the dependent eyes of her baby girl and cries, because she sees herself and thinks about the woman she will become. A mom cannot be defined by a word. Moms cannot be creatively painted into a picture for everyone to see, because moms creatively paint their heart into the eyes of their families.

We appreciate mom. Mom is always in the background playing cheerleader, safety net, therapist, and best friend. For some, mom is also dad, nurse, provider, trying like hell to be present while life is trying like hell to force her to be absent. Mom is a puppeteer, an orchestrator, a brain that never stops because. . . how could it? Mom is a warrior, a winner, a warm, welcoming whisper who will always stand up for her own. Mom is all of these things plus the things we don’t see.

This Mother’s Day I applaud because this Mother’s Day I understand just a little bit more.

This Mother’s Day I raise my glass to the moms who are just trying to keep the damn thing alive.

To the moms who just need 5 more minutes.

To the moms who have the blessing of a man to cook dinner while they feed the baby.

To the moms who are cooking dinner and feeding the baby.

To the moms who weren’t supposed to be moms.

To the moms who feel like a mom but are fighting through tears and trying again.

To the moms holding the baby who just. won’t. fall. asleep, so they hand her to their mom so she can sleep on grandma’s chest.

To the moms who had to find the strength that their mom gave them to be a mom, because they can’t pass the baby off to sleep on grandma’s chest.

To the moms whose heart breaks when they drop their kid off at preschool.

To the moms who can’t find a preschool and become a teacher.

To the moms spending every weekend at the baseball field convincing themselves that the best gift is watching their baby play a game he loves.

To the moms with minivans full of giggles and cackles after volunteering to drive the girls to their tournament.

To the moms who have been forced to choose a career or family and didn’t hesitate to do both extremely well.

To the moms cutting orange slices on their lunch break because they are on snack duty today.

To the moms in the drive thru line because there isn’t enough time to cook tonight.

I raise my glass to the moms who are spending today with their kids, and I pour one out for the moms who would give their own life to have their kid’s life back.

To the moms holding their son after his first heart break and crying with their daughter because we just don’t know why that boy doesn’t love her back.

To the moms crying tears of joy watching their son conquer a recital that kept him up for weeks.

To the moms who enjoy being a grandma just a little bit more than they enjoy being a mom.

To the moms who are so frustrated with their kids they are either going to explode and light the house on fire or jump out of a moving car - - - but, dammit, they still have to eat and you’re going to feed them.

To the moms who don’t feel seen. Who do more than they are given credit for doing. Who just want some appreciation.

To the moms who never stop mom-ing.

Cheers to you, and Happy Mother’s Day Momma Skorks.

Happy Mother’s Day to you, too Carol, Sue, Susan, Jessica, Tillie, Rachel, Arlene, Brittni, Dom, Katie, Letty, Carole, Sherisse, Ashley, Alyssa, Dana, Lindsay, Traycee, Ginge, Kara, Kylie, Lettie, Amber, Ruth, Vicky, Sarah, Jordan, Jacqui, Linda, Kathleen, Anna, Michelle, Molly, Jodi, Sam, Taylor, Courtney, Shelby, Chloe, Megan, Tessa, Jordan, Geri, Ginnie, Alicia, Juliette, Nova, Kristine, Becky, Jackie, Jodie, Brittany, Stephanie, Jamie, Steph, Marlee, Janie, Amy, Beth, Kelly, Yvette, Briana, Shelly, Kilby, Lacy, Erika, Kim, Dayna, Sarah, Jo, Kelli, Nancy, and every other momma. I promise we love you on days that aren’t dedicated to you as well.

Cover photo x @frankiegomezphotography

I’m going to pretend to be wise. You should read this in the best motivational speaker voice you can muster up in your head. A combination of Eric Thomas and Oprah Winfrey on giveaway day, type voice.

There has been a theme in my thought processes lately. It is a theme that consumes me to the point that it has become the topic of conversations that I have with strangers, it’s the majority of social media content curated for me - because the psychos at Instagram have bugs in my brain that read my thoughts and turn them into ads and suggested videos - and it is the books that I’m choosing to read. For the record, I have never been a fan of reading, but I recently started to read more because somebody at some point said, “leaders are readers.” Clearly that person was a great leader because I definitely know his or her name and the context in which they said it.

The theme is this: you just have to start.

It sounds cliché, I know. Like the kid you went to high school with who is shoulder-deep in a pyramid scheme says on Facebook, YoU caNt GEt wHeRe yOu wanT tO gO if YoU DoN’T StArt. I’m not taking that approach. I’m taking the approach that suggests nothing else matters in this moment. There is not a single thing more important, right now, than starting.

Okay, turn off the Oprah voice. Now it’s just me blabbering.

The irony is that I have always held a “you have to start somewhere” mindset when I feel inadequate. It has been a continual narrative throughout my life, and I have found a lot of confidence in it. It has been something that I thought I had figured out. However, recently it has felt different. It has felt more real.

This newly discovered theme of you just have to start feels more closely related to dreams that I’m re-discovering. There have been plenty of extraordinary circumstances in my life in the last few years that have led me to, what I believe is, thinking bigger. Dreaming, if you will, but actually seeing myself in the dream rather than somebody I know who may fit the dream better. Maybe I am realizing the truths of the world and finding ways to place myself in them, maybe I am different, and you should come to me for all your wisdom and advice needs, or maybe I am just a little boy trying to start out in a big, scary world.

I had a conversation with a friend recently, and he said something that stuck. This man is medical professional. Smart guy, real smart guy. He has never been good at writing, or so he says. If you were to ask me, I would say that he has long been too worried about the wrong things when he would write. That, and the fact that he has only written academically, and academic writing is a pain in the ass. I digress. He mentioned that he, “finally got to a place where papers didn’t scare [him], and [he] would just use Grammarly to make it sound good. Which is incredible in itself. He continued with the part that hit me, “. . . just put it on paper and not worry about what it sounds like.”

“Just put it on paper and not worry about what it sounds like.”

How beautiful of a realization is this? Just put it out there. In the context of writing a paper, the illustration is so brilliantly clear that I can’t unsee it. When you’re looking at your computer and all you see is a blank white page there is nothing more important, in that moment, than starting. Who cares about what it sounds like, who cares where the commas go, who cares if you don’t have a title because turning in a blank sheet of paper sounds a whole lot worse than turning in a paper with a few run-on sentences.

When I say that he has long been too worried about the wrong things, what I mean is that he has been fixated on perfect grammar and how his intelligence is perceived. This turned into a fear, and the fear corralled the thoughts and imagination of an extremely intelligent human being.

“Just put it on paper and not worry about what it sounds like.”

Because the only time that you cannot go back and edit, refine, or make better is if there is nothing there to edit, refine, or make better.

This is the point that I have come to. I have been burned by dreams before. I have not met goals that seemed easily attainable. I have been let down. I have let myself down so many times that it is easy for me to stare at a blank sheet of paper with the idea, the dream, the goal, and be scared to put it out there because I don’t know what it will sound like. Or, because I don’t want to be perceived as dumb. Here Have A Beer is my example of you just have to start. I want to be a NY Times Best Seller one day. I have been sitting on my couch telling people that I am a writer for a very long time, and I always finish the sentence with something along the lines of, “. . . I mean, I don’t ever write but I enjoy it and am good at it.” I have never realized how stupid that sounds until I put it on paper. Now, when I think about being an author, I can think about things that I have actually written. The things that I have written may suck bad, but they’re better than everything that hasn’t been written.

- - Turn your motivational speaker voice back on - -

That is the start to anything great. Whether it be a blog, an essay for a class, or a plan to start a business. If you can just get it on paper and not worry about what it sounds like, then you’ll have a base to stand on. The base may be shaky, but it is stronger than the base that you didn’t have yesterday.

- - Okay turn it off - -

Now expand. Such is life, right? This whole concept is an approach to everything. Asking a girl on a date: you won’t ever hear “yes” unless you get the words out of your mouth. You’re probably going to sound like an idiot, but at least you’re making sounds. When I asked Jos on our first date, I essentially insulted her without knowing it, and she said yes. Actually, she asked, “Yes?” in sort of a I-think-he’s-asking-me-on-a-date-but-he-knows-I-would-never-date-him-and-he-just-told-me-that-I’m-stupid tone of voice, but now we’re married. Win for the little guys! Further, it’s being bold and seeking out job interviews. If you can just send the email, knock on a door, make a phone call. I recently landed a job because I walked into an office and interrupted a phone call that the owner of the company was on. Yes, the timing of it was Heaven sent, but the timing would not have worked for me if I only thought about walking in and never actually did. For my friend, on the surface, this looked like a career shift. At its core, it was him watching a dream slip out of his hands and not knowing what to do. Until he did it. And now he’s done it. He can say that he got to a place where he was no longer afraid of what it would look like and he “just put it on paper”. For context, he graduated college and moved to a different state with a one-track mind and his eyes set on a goal he had set a long time ago. A few years after moving he realized that his dream wasn’t going to come true and he couldn’t quite reach that goal, so he made a switch. A switch that involved going back to school and making a handful of other sacrifices. Now he loves what he does.

I’m learning that life is about progress. Deeper than a cliché about it being about the journey rather than the destination. More than not reaching a goal unless you start. I’m seeing that life is truly about progress. Progress looks different for me than it does for you. Progress looks different today than it did yesterday. Progress feels like a natural high, and progress feels like you’re getting punched in the face. Progress looks like throwing up words onto a page and letting Grammarly make it sound good. Continue to put one foot in front of the other in the general direction that you would like to head. If you’re not strong enough to put one foot in front of the other, then put one foot right next to the other, and shuffle forward.

So, cheers to progress. No matter what it looks like for you, today.

Eric Thomas is a motivational speaker who says things like this

We’ve all heard a bazillion clichés. We know that life is short, so live it. All of the adults in your life have told you to do something you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life. It’s seemingly impossible to reiterate enough times that you could get hit by a bus tomorrow, to actually take that seriously and do something crazy today. My point is, the concept of life being fragile is not a foreign concept to anybody. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a culture or geographic location that doesn’t understand this concept.

When was the last time that you took the time to actually sit in this idea, and feel its weight? If you’re like me, you haven’t, maybe ever. Maybe you regurgitate sayings that you’ve heard or give yourself pep talks every once in a while, but have never felt the fragility of life.

For me, even using the word “fragile” adds some weight. Fragile things break, and that is a concept that I understand very deeply. When I see a cardboard box labeled FRAGILE my first reaction is never to kick it as hard as I can. Sure, it’s an overused joke to pretend to kick it, but it’s never something that I do. Seven letters organized to form a word that carries enough weight to stop me in my tracks. Enough to change my entire perspective about what is inside the cardboard box and, as of recently, are more than enough to change my perspective about life. Because, for us, our everything is inside that box.

Think about your favorite TV show, and your favorite character. The show loses characters, and if it doesn’t lose characters then the show ends. Unless it’s Grey’s Anatomy, Days of Our Lives, or General Hospital then it just loses characters but won’t ever end. Have you ever been heartbroken when a character dies because it didn’t feel necessary. Leaving behind no explanation or reasoning, seemingly not caring about how much you loved them, and blatantly disrespecting your loyalty to the character. I get so pissed when that happens!

Recently I started applying that scenario to my actual life and that’s when it started to click for me.

As I sit in this thought and realize that life is fragile, it’s hard for me to ignore the type of creatures that human beings are. Humans are a resilient creature. Human beings are strong, and brave, and intelligent, and resilient shells of a box that hold the contents of an incredibly fragile pursuit. I say that we are shells because if you separate the two, if you take life from a human, then what are you left with? If you take away the contents of the box, then the box is just a box. I’m not only talking about death when I say that. I’m mostly talking doing things that bring you life. Finding something that makes you feel alive and doing that, instead of something that takes life away from you. When you take the glass out of the box, then you can kick it as hard as you want.

In the fragility of life, when you marry the strong, brave, intelligent, resilient shell to the fragile life inside, you find a beautiful image of what our pursuit is. You see that life is hard and that life is fun. It is both a majesty of an art piece, and the scariest of any responsibility. Life is complicated, life is simple, life is too often right in front of us and we’re scared to wrap our hands around it because it might break.

Most of the time, life is all of those things in the same moment and we are too finite to process it all. We are creatures who have the capability to do things with an unrelenting ferociousness, but in the same breath it is easy for us to cower in a corner and get kicked around. I don’t have a solution or any words of advice to offer you but I do hope you see this beautiful dichotomy that you’re facing every day. What are your thoughts on this?

Cheers to being able to drink a beer and unpack the box without taking the glass out.

I got The Vid. Sars-cov-2. COVID-19. The Rona. CORONAVIRUS

The rat bastard chased me down, caught me slipping, and hopped on for a ride on the good ol’ immune system. It took more than a year to find me but it caught me sleeping at one hell of a time.

Here’s how it happened, maybe, probably. I guess I have no way of knowing how I actually got it but this is how I imagine it happening:

It was a clear black night, a clear white moon, Skigidy Skorks on the streets trying to consume, some beers for the eve so I can get some funk just rollin’ in my ride, chillin’ all alone. JUST HIT THE EAST SIDE OF THE LBC ON A MISSION TRYIN’ FIND MR. WARREN G.

Just kidding, those are lyrics from Warren G’s Regulate. Here’s where I was going with that.

It was a clear black night, on the eve of the eve of the day we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., in the year of 2021. I was sitting on the end of a picnic table’s bench, underneath a propane heater, inside of a tent, in the parking lot of Zuni Street Brewery. My beautiful wife was sitting to my right, across from her was her friend Elise. To Elise’s right was our beloved CaseyJo, and to her left was a beautiful man named Turner. To Joslin’s right was her magnificent friend, Gibs, who works at a Catholic school in San Diego and loves beer almost as much as I do {may peace be with your liver, sister}. Farther down the line was Gibs’ roommate, Kenzie; a lively gal who has a bucket list as long as the Mississippi River. We were enjoying our evening. There were deep belly laughs and tear-filled eyes. Beers were flowing, tacos from the taco truck were being devoured, and we even had front row seats to some male-on-male doggy romance from Lewis the golden retriever at the table next door. His owner called him a “horndog” and politely reminded him that Otis was his cousin and, as it happens, also a boy dog. The evening was seemingly wrapping up when Elise, in traditional Elise fashion, “just happened to remember” that a friend of hers was having karaoke at her house. There was “no more than 15 people there” because of COVID, of course, and it “definitely was not a party,” but the lot of us was invited. Gibs and Kenzie looked weary because they were traveling and did not want to gather in large groups, and Jos understood that concern and also wanted to spend some quality time with her friends. I, on the other hand, have a hard time turning down a good time and I just-so-happen to have a few karaoke BANGERS up my sleeve, just in case. I was in there like swimwear, ready to go sing my little heart out.

The decision was made to part ways for the evening, and Jos gave me a smooch on the mouth and a pat on the butt. “Go get ‘em, baby! Don’t come home scary,” she yelled as I piled in the car with Elise, Casey, and Turner. “It’s all for you!” I yelled back to remind her that I wouldn’t let her down in her absence.

And off we went.

We pull up to a house that I have been to before. It’s a crowded street, as always, so the number of cars didn’t alarm me. As we parked, Elise alerts us that “the total number of people here is 12,” which, at that point, she could have said 500 and nobody in the car really had an option of leaving. We jump out and make our way up the front steps of the home to be welcomed by no less than 25 people celebrating 3 birthdays in the only fashion that they know how to celebrate: drunk and loud. I knew about 4 people, so I made a B-line to the back corner of the kitchen where there was a refrigerator. Where there is a refrigerator there is beer. I made a quick and executive decision that I would hunker down in the corner and if anybody would like to talk to me, they can come to me. Much to my surprise, there was also chips and queso next to the refrigerator full of beer. I had freaking won. But I think this is where I actually lost.

I think that it was there, at the bowl of chips, that I fell asleep on this global health crisis. It knew my weakness. It was lurking in the shadows of a dimly lit kitchen. That’s where sars jumped into a bowl of tortilla chips and cov made her way into the crock pot full of queso. I grabbed a chip, sars leaped for glory and hung on for dear life. I dunked the chip into the queso where cov was waiting not-so-patiently for her lover to execute their childish scheme. When the chip entered the queso they became 2. I ate the queso covered chip and sars-cov-2 find a nice home in my esophagus.

I woke up the next day and felt like 900,000 bucks. The other 100,000 was hidden at the bottom of an empty double shot Americano from Joslin’s coffee shop. An hour after I woke up, I found that, and was feeling like a million bucks. I took Gibs and Kenzie on a nice drive through the mountains. Jos clocked out and we adventured through Red Rocks like a nice little family of 4 on vacation. Monday morning came around and it was a day of celebration. We were celebrating the King Jr. and I had never felt better. I spent the morning by myself. I had a cup of Joe on the couch while the girls explored Denver’s capitol, and Kenzie was able to add a check to her bucket list. Tuesday was a great day as well, I felt as normal as normal can be, and on Wednesday I woke up with a bit of a sore throat. It was like I had slept with my mouth open all night and I needed to lubricate, ya know? In years past it would have just been a shitty morning to a normal workday. I took a DayQuil, felt better, did my thing, and had a great day. Thursday morning rolled around and I had some mild head congestion, almost like Wednesday was a bad allergy day and I woke up to a stuffed face. I told Joslin I was feeling a bit under the weather, but I always keep the words of the late Mac Miller in the back of my mind, “under the weather, things will get better.” Her, being a kind and loving wife, immediately said, “you’re getting tested today!” And, I did.

At 10 AM on the 21st day of the 21st year of the 21st century my sinus cavity was violated in a way that I had never experienced in my life. I had been tested for COVID before, but on that fateful day a small hispanic lady took out some personal frustration on the frontal lobe of my cranium and shoved a 3-foot long Q-tip as far as my head would allow her to do so before committing murder. If there was any hint of this virus anywhere in my nostril, she was going to find it, there was no doubt. Sure as shit, she did.

The next morning, I woke up and could not taste my homemade French-pressed coffee, and that was concerning. When Joslin came home from work, I told her that I was having trouble tasting so she decided to give me a shot of lemon juice, which I could feel in my throat was a bit tart but could not taste what was touching my tongue.

Shit.

The writing is on the wall.

My test came back around 7:30 PM on Friday January 22, 2021 with a big ass plus sign. The email said, “hey, jackass, thanks for not social distancing yourself from that bowl of shared chips and pot full of warm, gooey, cheesy dip last weekend. You now have the Rona.”

So here I am. Sitting on my couch with a mask on my face while my wife has nestled herself in the guest bedroom of our home. She carries around a can of Lysol and sprays me with it as she passes me in the hallway. I can’t smell it, but she makes it a point for me to understand how awful it is for her to smell. I have a beer in my hand that tastes like a naturally flavored La Croix and I can’t leave the house until next Sunday. I’m blaming Elise and her manipulation of people and plans. I realize that I have every bit of ability to make my own decisions but that’s not what we’re going to focus on.

So, here’s to The Vid. I’ll cheers a beer that I can’t taste and encourage you to not get caught sleeping at the chips and queso of your next event.

Regulate by Warren G goes a little sum like dis

Banger is a hip term for “good song”

La Croix is a popular seltzer water brand

For the record, I feel fine now. I have no sore throat, no cough, no congestion. I never had a fever, and still don’t. I cannot smell anything, and I can only taste whiskey. This is bullshit.

Christians have left an extremely bitter taste in my mouth since my conversion in 2011. Even more bitter than the taste politicians have smeared on the back of my tongue, and politicians have been scummy my entire life. It’s no secret that I have issues with the church. I’m realizing that a lot of my issues stem from my own selfishness, but not this one. I have seen the line between patriot and Christian mudded and blurred by way too many proclaiming Christians and Jesus-preaching churches in my life to believe that it’s my selfishness creating an imaginary trust issue.

For clarification’s sake, let’s establish the meaning of the word Christian vs. the word nationalism.

Christian comes from the Greek word Χριστιανός (Christianos) and literally means “follower of Christ”. You probably knew that, but if you didn’t, you’re welcome.

The Merriam-Webster definition of nationalism is loyalty and devotion to a nation. Especially a sense of national consciousness exalting one nation above all others and placing primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests as opposed to those of other nations or supranational groups

Based on definition alone, the line between the two is blatantly obvious.

Christian, draw the line! Pick a side and stay there. Get rid of the “but. . . “ thoughts you have when a politician pushes a policy. Next time you hear about a policy that you don’t agree with, and your first thought is, “but, what about me [my business, my job, my taxes, my life, etc.]?” it’s time to check your heart.

A fantasy has been dreamed up, in the most American-way possible, that in order to spread the Gospel, one must be American, and their American liberties have to be upheld. A fantasy that convinces republicans that democrats hate Jesus and can’t see the truth through their liberalness, therefore every single democrat in America is out to rape, steal, and kill all Christians. A fantasy that tells democrats that republicans are too narrow-minded and stupid to accept that God creates people who don’t look like WASPs; therefore, they don’t belong. A whisper from the enemy that tells republicans that it is not possible to be liberal and Christian and tells democrats that it’s impossible to be a republican with empathy and perspective. It’s created a perception that there is no way for Jesus to be made known unless the listener sits on the same side of the aisle as the speaker. We tweet, go to church on Saturday night (because Sunday is for football watching), type out Instagram captions, and believe people will only hear about Jesus if we are able to say what we want when we want how we want because we have freedom of speech. But, if you don’t agree with how or what I am saying, then you’re infringing on my American right and you’re going to prison for tyranny and then hell because you’re anti-America.

Jesus doesn’t care about your American liberties.

Is the Holy Spirit not your freedom of speech? Is Jesus not your business’ success? Is God not more authority than your (insert American liberty you’re clinging to too tightly here)?

“THEY’RE CENSORING US!! I can’t believe we are going to let big tech control the conservative voice! They’re stripping all of our freedom!”

Boo-freaking-hoo. See what Jesus says in Matthew 5:10-11, and again in John 15:19, and again in John 16:33.

Paul the Apostle was inside of prisons that were too gruesome to even be on Netflix’s Inside the World’s Toughest Prisons. Read what he has to say in 2 Timothy 3:11 after you read about all of the persecution he endured in his other letters. His letters not only made it to the people he was writing to, in the time period that he wrote them, but also to hundreds of millions of people years, decades, and centuries later. Was Paul American? Did Paul have freedom of speech? Did Paul have a constitution to keep him out of prison? Was Paul controlled by the government? Was Paul censored? I’ll tell you this - Paul was saved, Paul shared the Gospel, Paul’s voice continues to be heard.

Not too long ago I was confronted by an Instagram follower after I posted a story explaining the 1st Amendment, and what it protects American citizens from. I didn’t think the post was too political, if at all, and I didn’t add any opinions to it. It was a photo of a tweet, tweeted by an author and well-educated man, that explained freedom of speech. I shared it with the hopes that people would be educated if they were not already. Said follower is someone I have met a few times, we have some mutual friends, and I would consider to be an acquaintance more than a person I have a relationship with. Follower is very opinionated and very openly conservative, while inserting Jesus, and the Christian faith, every once-in-a-while. The conversation went as follows:

Follower: “Just wait until they ban people for posting about their Christian values.”

Yours truly: “Muslims and Buddhists have been censored [pushed aside, oppressed, etc.] since 1776.” ~~ Admittedly, that was a bad rebuttal and pointed the conversation in a direction that I did not want to go.

Follower: “By all means, keep trying to convince yourself it’s ok.”

Yours truly: “Never said it was okay to censor people. The point is: the first amendment keeps you from being punished, by law, for words. . . there’s a line between censorship and violating constitutional rights. That line hasn’t been crossed yet.”

Follower: “Ah so ‘yet’ being the key word. Don’t fight until it [affects] you. Don’t realize it’s a slippery slope and censoring conservative voices today can’t turn into censoring Christian voices tomorrow. Continue defending the censoring because nothing bad has happened. . . yet.”

And then, he finishes his point with this: “. . . as a Christian you must realize this.”

As a Christian you must realize this.

AS A CHRISTIAN, YOU MUST REALIZE THIS

Oh, boy!

My initial reaction was to tell him that if he was going to approach this conversation through a Christ-following lens, then there are too many holes in his argument because of contradictions alone, let alone missing the entire calling of a believer. Shutting Christian mouths is what he’s worried about. Almost like it would be the first time ever that a government has not allowed humans to talk about Jesus. It’s ironic because I think I have read somewhere that this has actually been a very common theme. I can’t put my finger on the article, or book(s), that I read it but I know I’ve seen it. Bible, maybe?

I can’t say that I’m surprised. The concerns that the American government are going to not allow Jesus’ name on Twitter are based on an American view of persecution that is, in fact, not persecution at all. In a biblical sense, at least. Americans just don’t like to be called out on hypocritical tendencies of saying this is one nation under God but never actually showing the nation God’s personality. We say, “in God we trust,” and, “don’t tread on me,” in the same breath but don’t see the problem with that.

In fact, America has never been the “Christian Country” that some say it was/is. The pledge of allegiance was written by an American, not by Jesus or any bible character. The constitution was written by a group of WASPs trying to impose restrictions on certain people while advancing themselves to success in the form of life (money), liberty (money), and the pursuit of happiness (money). The idea that taking Twitter away from a citizen is a violation of constitutional rights is a nationalist idea, it’s not a Christian idea. Jesus doesn’t care if a big American company, with big American money, makes you stop talking when you’re being ugly towards God’s most beloved creation. He cares that you’re being ugly to God’s most beloved creation.

Just recently, a conversation has been started about the difference between the American nationalist and the Christian. In the church. Actually being preached in churches. A conversation that is way too late. A reaction, rather than a warning. A conversation that is not happening enough, and that does not show enough passion to drive a point. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is a conversation that happens in healthy church buildings all throughout the country, and has been happening for decades, but I don’t think so. I don’t think so because the current narrative is not one that pleads, we knew this would happen if we, as a Church, were not careful, the current narrative is one of fear, panic, and sadness.

The apostle Paul is writing letters to the American church.

Pastor, if Jesus walked into your church on any Sunday in 2020, would He flip the tables in your foyer?

Americans who proclaim Christ need to get over themselves and recognize the difference between nationalism and following Christ, myself included. American politics will never align with Jesus. Ever. Republican policy will never be Gospel centered. No matter how much you hide behind ending abortion. Democratic policy will never be Gospel centered. No matter how much you hide behind healthcare for all. American politics are divisive and greedy. All politics, for that matter, are the epitome of sin consolidated in a profession posing as a good deed designed to take care of a population. As a Christian, you must realize this. The sooner you do, the sooner you can stop getting upset when you’re let down by the American government.

Nonetheless, there are words being preached from the pulpit about the actions of psychos who use Christ’s name as a safety cloak.

Stop using your weak faith as a weapon when your feelings are hurt. Recognize that humans are sinful beings and separate your constitution from your Savior.

Here’s another beer.

WASP is a white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant.

JC is Jesus Christ

Notice the difference in church and Church

Jesus would have for sure walked into a church in 2020 because He’s Jesus and COVID is allergic to Him.

This one started weeks ago, at the beginning of Advent. Admittedly, I am very ignorant of the concept of Advent and its true meaning(s). I can’t blame it on my faith’s infancy anymore, which sucks, because now I have to own that I am ignorant because I have never taken the time to learn about it. I have always associated Advent with Christmas, which is not incorrect, but I didn’t know that there was more to it. Through that association I assumed that it was some type theological thing that had to do with the birth of Jesus, and that was good enough for me. It was always the reason for the season, to use a cliché. This year Jos and I went to a worship night, hosted by a local church, on the evening that Advent started. With the intention of celebrating the start of Advent we sat, and stood, and sang, and listened to a few people talk about it. I learned a lot that night about what it actually means. That led to weeks of me thinking deeper and deeper about it, which changed the original concept of this bloggy blog from Christmas, to waiting, then to seasons, and later to studying where my heart has been.

I learned that the word advent comes from the Latin word adventus which means “coming”. I knew a little bit about that because of my association of Advent and Christmas - so it probably meant that Christ was coming, meaning He was to be born. I didn’t know that it not only means that Christ was coming {to be born} but also means that Christ is coming {again}. This means that we, as believers, wait. That has to mean that we, as believers, every December, celebrate the fact that we are waiting. We certainly celebrate that Christ was born as a human, in an extremely lowly place, and that I understand deeply. I had a hard time wanting to celebrate waiting because, frankly, I’m tired of waiting. I’m so tired of waiting.

Patience is a stupid concept to me. Blame it on my heart’s deep yearning to be productive, or the way American culture has shaped me, or my crippling competitive spirit. Whatever. I just think it’s dumb that if something could happen now, it doesn’t matter, I still have to wait for it to happen “when it’s supposed to” or something like that.

During the worship night the band played O Come, O Come Emmanuel. I’m sure you could have guessed that. I’m sure you could also guess the other 3 songs they played, but that’s neither here nor there. Something that I didn’t expect to happen happened after they played the song, which was a nice surprise. A sweet old lady named Ruth stood on the stage and taught us what we were singing. What we were actually singing. Not just the verses we know and sing today. Ruth taught us - in one of the most passionate and elegant ways I have ever seen - what the original song, the first translation of the song, the most recent translation of the song, and every verse that has been added since its conception should mean to us as Christians in 2020. Here’s the kicker: I forgot most of what she said. What I remember is her passion. Not the passion that she displayed in her speech, but her passion for waiting on Jesus to come back.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel became a freaking bop for me this Christmas season. Initially, while Ruth’s words were fresh on the cranium, I was digging the song because I actually knew what was being said. I had context which provided more appreciation. Couple that with some of the most talented musicians ever covering the song, and it can really get you in your feels. As the days passed after Ruth exited stage left I continued listening to the song and it started to shift. Earlier I mentioned how this thought changed from Christmas, to waiting, then to seasons, and later to studying where my heart has been - and this is where that started to become frighteningly introspective.

Here’s why:

“O come, O come Emmanuel

and ransom captive Israel

that mourns in lonely exile here

until the Son of God appears.

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee O Israel.”

Turned into:

“O come, O come Emmanuel

and ransom . . . me

that mourns in lonely exile here

until the Son of God appears.

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to . . . me.”

At some point I started to replace Israel with myself, and not in a good way. Not in the way that I am rejoicing in the hope that Jesus is coming for me. Sure, there are times that I rejoice knowing that Emmanuel will come. But, to be honest with you, friends, for the large majority of the last year I have felt like captive Israel needing ransom. I have mourned in lonely exile wondering where Jesus is. Wondering why I can’t feel Him, or see Him, or if I even know Him. I realized that I have been crying O come, O come Emmanuel for much longer than the Advent season. I have realized that Advent is not just a season of the calendar year, it is also a Christian life.

I want to be like Ruth. I want to have goosebumps and an irresistible urge to jump to my feet before I fall to my knees when I think about Emmanuel ransoming captive Israel. I want to be singing through tears while I wait, patiently, for what is adventus.

Instead, I get angry and scream through my pain when I think about another season of waiting.

There are times when rejoice and praises flow. There are times when that praise and rejoice ebb away from my shores. I can’t deny that there are times that I am like Ruth, but an overwhelming amount of time I am paralyzed with the frustration of hard seasons.

Seasons are inevitable. I have wrestled with that since giving my life to Christ in 2011. I cannot escape seasons, whether good or bad. What I get angry about is that the hard seasons - the seasons when I can’t feel God and don’t think He is there - seem to have so much more of a stronghold on me that I can’t remember the good seasons. I don’t know what has happened to my heart in seasons of abundance. I can’t remember what it felt like to flow with praise and rejoice inside of a good season because I am enveloped with stronger emotions when my praise and rejoice ebbs inside of hard ones. I can’t grasp the idea that seasons define life stages and create good, strong, grounded things, people, and communities because I am tired of the hard seasons of my life revolving around waiting. I have been waiting for something for as long as I can remember. When I look back and remember, I remember that I’m never waiting for the same thing. I’m waiting for a job, or I’m waiting for a friend, or I’m waiting for a girl, or I’m waiting for family or it just doesn’t matter what I’m waiting for because hard seasons are always seasons of waiting.

I want to be like Ruth. I want to stop being frustrated while waiting for a job, or annoyed while waiting for a friend, or insatiable while waiting for a girl, or arrogant while waiting for family. I want to be in a life stage where ebbs turn to flows while my entire life is focused on a season of waiting. Realizing that my entire life is a season of waiting. Taking some type of comfort knowing that I am waiting for one Thing. That one Thing is enough to be passionate about when the season gets hard, and the one Thing that I’m waiting for is never anything different, although it might manifest itself in something that I am desiring right now. This may be a realization that I have had but it doesn’t make me any more eager to wait. It doesn’t make patience any easier for me to possess. I’ve been wrestling with this for a long time and now it feels like nothing has changed except I have words to explain it. I’m still waiting on things outside of the one Thing that we are all waiting for and it’s just as frustrating as it was 5 years ago. I do feel less lonely in exile knowing the Church is captive Israel, but that doesn’t make it easier right now.

O come, O come Emmanuel because your work is bigger than my hard seasons, but please, for the love of everything good, can You make my hard seasons just a little less hard? Thanks, G.

Have another beer and think about Advent - waiting - for the rest of your life.

For those of you ready to attack: the worship night was very COVID-protocol-friendly. Jos and I both got tested afterwards and were as negative as your twitter feed has been all year.

Bop is what the kids are saying these days for “good song”. Synonymous to “jam”, “tune”, or “killer song”.

Emmanuel means “God with us” and is synonymous with Jesus. Jesus is God as a man on earth with His people. Emmanuel = Jesus and should be used interchangeably in this blog.

one Thing is Jesus coming back and ruling for eternity. I’m sorry if that was confusing while you were reading in real time.

I have always thought that language is fascinating. I’ve been somewhat obsessed with how the English language works, or can work, for quite some time. For example, I have somewhat been obsessed with English and how it does and can work, for quite some time. I’ve been somewhat obsessed with English and how it works, or how it can work, for quite some time. But also, I have been slightly captivated by my native tongue and its intricacies for a while.

What I have not understood is why I enjoy something that is so damn hard!

I always heard that English is the hardest language to learn. I had a hard time understanding that because 1) it came naturally to me, and 2) I’ve always been more English/writing brained than math/number brained. Remember in elementary school when your teachers starting seeing how you learn and what you’re good at, so they would make you do the thing you suck at more to “make you better,” but then never taught you how to learn so you just continued through school knowing you were good at this one thing and bad at that other thing. Eventually you stopped doing the thing you’re good at to practice the thing you’re bad at to pass the class and give the school a good grade when it came standardized testing time? Then, when you got to high school, you got fed up and said, “I suck at math but I’m really good at writing,” and the administration said, “well that’s great, but you still have to take algebra, geometry, algebra II, and calculus or you can’t graduate.” Then you scrape through algebra and geometry, and know the chances of you getting through algebra II are the same as a snowball’s chance in hell so you find loopholes in the math system that some random board of people created to graduate. No? Was that just me? Anyway, all of that to say, I didn’t believe that English was very hard until I got older, and started learning more about it. Looking back, starting in my latter years of high school and continuing through college, I realize how often I looked like the blinking-white-guy-GIF when I learned something new about English. I always seemed to understand it, but was never any less shocked that somebody just made it up at some point and now it’s an actual thing.

That’s what is so fascinating to me. All language - rules, words, structure, formation, etc. - all over the world, was just made up by someone, or someones, and now you have to do it. What power.

Yes, I realize that English is very young compared to other languages. I mean, languages had already lived and died before English showed up to the party. That’s another fascinating thought - a dead language. BUT WAIT, THERE IS MORE! Over 60% of English words spoken today are derived from a dead language (Latin). That’s just words. I’m convinced that all the grammar rules and sentence structure nonsense came from a group of posh white dudes, trying to make life harder for everybody else, knowing dang-well they were never going to follow the rules, trying to advance themselves in society. The point is this: language can be traced back millions, and millions, and millions of years. Include hieroglyphics and symbol-languages then we add one or two more “millions” to that list. That is a very long time and yet, here we are. Reading English words in an American dialect, with context from the person writing them. I need a sec to collect my thoughts.

Language has evolved so much. What started as primate-caveman-people trying to communicate has turned into different languages, different dialects of the same language, different geographic locations of the same dialects of the same language, different geographic locations of different dialects of the same language, written languages, spoken-only languages, verbal and non-verbal language, dead languages, root languages, proper language, slang, common tongue, high society language, global language, SIGN LANGUAGE *gasp*, on, and on, and on, and on, and on. There has even been evolution of the American-English language in just the last 5 years.

I repeat.

THERE HAS BEEN EVOLUTION OF AMERICAN-ENGLISH IN THE LAST 5 YEARS.

We’re watching it happen. We are playing an active role in our language changing! The millennials started it, and that GEN Z crowd is really taking off with it. I’m not {only} talking about slang, but the fact that there is actually new language being dreamt up and created, then plopped in our lives in an abrasive, interrupting way for us to refine and establish as extremely effective ways of communicating. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary started adding words and calling them ‘word of the year’ for goodness sake. Things like emojis and hashtags. Emojis are bringing the initial creation of language and our common language together. We have come full circle. They are symbols used, in context, to convey a message, expressing verbal and non-verbal emotion, encouraging a response, inciting reciprocated feelings. But, remember, English is hard and that sentence could also say: we can have a full conversation with symbols and not use words once. I think our hairy ancestors would have a few things to say about that.

What about hashtags? What a novel concept a hashtag is! Scholars, authors, academics, and professionals alike have spent years and years perfecting the idea of a conclusion. The idea that everything we write, or say, has to end somehow. The ideal ending is the ending that encompasses everything that was written, or said, and ties it in a nice little bow so that everyone can understand the package being delivered. Then, here comes some dude who forces people to figure out how to get something across in 140 characters. He slaps the pound sign in front of a word and BAM! Bow is tied. Words concluded. We get the point. Now hashtags are so common it is curious when people don’t use them. We use them in social posts, text messages, #blogs, emails, and even spoken language (you know you have said “hashtag blessed” in a real conversation).

Speaking of text messages and emails - more examples of new language! Remember the time when your English teacher told you that you have to learn comma rules because you can’t use “text language” in school or work? I do. Guess what, Ms. Edwards, now we use punctuation in text messages to to get a point across. Or, we don’t use punctuation on purpose to send an even more serious message. When you text your crush and say “Hey!” and the response you get back is “hi” you immediately know that you need to get over her because she is not interested. We use punctuation to prove a point on the screen in our pocket, but don’t know that independent and dependent clauses are married by a comma. We don’t even know what independent and dependent clauses are. Interesting. Punctuation that we have such a hard time with is being used to convey emotion. Shocker.

In a world with so many different forms of language, I am also flabbergasted at how languages intersect. If you’re fluent in ASL you can literally have conversations with people and never open your mouth, but simultaneously be listening to someone speak the language you are signing. If you know any of the Romance languages well enough you can have conversations in over half of the world. I have friend who is fluent in Spanish. He learned the language formally, in a classroom, in a way that is only spoken in a classroom. He is now fluent in Spanish dialects spoken in Mexico, Spain, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, {maybe} Venezuela, Cuba, and the hardest of all. . . Northern New Mexican Spanish. Not only can he speak and understand it, he can write it. That means he can text, or email, using emojis and hashtags, in 2 different languages, in one of seven dialects. That is hard for me to grasp. Now think about linguists. Language scholars. Translators. Oh. My. Gosh.

Language gives us art. Language gives us creativity. Language portrays emotions. Language is a tool that we use to carve our lives into a sculpture for the world to see.

Unfortunately, when I think about how incredible language is, it is impossible for me to not think about how it can be used negatively. Like any tool, it can be used as a weapon. A screwdriver becomes a murder weapon, a rope tied into a noose, a fire extinguisher swung like a baton; words become knives, tone becomes deafening, posture turns blinding. I have a friend who studies language. She’s chasing a PhD in English, to be exact. I recently asked her what her favorite thing about language is and her response was, “my mind immediately jumped to the things I hate about it. . . that it is totally ambiguous and someone with power decides what is ‘right’ and ‘wrong’.” To further her point, people use language to gain power, then use the same language to make the powerless feel the weight of their power. The same tool that you are using to carve a masterpiece is being used to discriminate someone trying to accomplish the same thing. The same words that you say to lift somebody up are being used to kneel on their neck. The tone you speak with is being taken at face value when you use it to gain leverage. Language, used as a tool, has the power to change the world. Language, used as a weapon, has the power to ruin the world. The sound of a mother’s voice singing her newborn to sleep. The sound of a husband’s voice telling his wife that he wants a divorce. The sound of a police officer’s voice telling a white man to go home. The sound of a judge’s voice telling a black man that he no longer has a home. The sound of children’s voices while playing on the playground. The sound of a white kid’s voice telling a Mexican kid to learn English. The sound of a coach telling an athlete that she’s proud of her. The sound of a teacher telling a student that she won’t amount to anything. The sound of a family welcoming you home. The sound of a global leader’s voice telling an entire people group that they don’t belong.

Language is powerful.

Later in the conversation with my friend, she told me that her single favorite thing about language is, “that through language, we make thoughts tangible. We share our innermost being and ideas with others through language.” Beyond the rules that make it hard, past the words that flow seamlessly across borders, deeper than new ways of communicating the fact remains: that when we use language we give pieces of ourselves to others.

My hope is that when I speak I am giving the good parts of myself to others. My hope is that I see through my fascination and realize that language holds power, and often times the power is manifested in ways that I cannot see. I want to continue to be enthralled with its majesty while staying mindful of its responsibility.

#CheersToLanguage

Language, as a whole, is insane. Not the literal definition of insane, but our American slang version of insane. See, that’s another example of how crazy language is. I guess it’s okay if you don’t think language is nuts. I’m okay with being seen as a word nerd. I love words, but you don’t have to. I would just really encourage you to think about language from a 30,000-foot perspective. Try and see the whole picture rather than your own picture. Maybe you’ll see what I see. Let’s chat about it!

I’m in a bad place. Not in a ~I need you to worry about me and ask me if I’m okay~ type of bad place, but in more of a ~this little light of mine. . . forgot how to shine~ type of bad place. It’s really only a bad place in my own head, because of my own head. On the outside, it’s probably hard to see what is so bad about where I’m at in life - I live in a great city, and I have an incredibly talented wife who trumps me in the looks department and rivals every bit of intellect that I have. I have friends, lots of friends. I play golf often, I go out and drink beer often, I have food when I’m hungry, and all the things that your mom told you to be grateful for because there are kids in Africa. Yes, I have a lot of good things in my life. I have good things that go so far beyond material things that sometimes I forget that I have material things. A spider web of a support system that I can’t see the end of, friends so genuine they make me question if I’m worth their time because I could never be as good of a friend as them, role models that I can only dream of imitating one day, family, and family that is not actually family but is closer than my actual family. But, friends, let me tell you: my brain is a dark, scary, maze of a place that can be extremely difficult to get out of sometimes. Can you relate to that?

This piece is not easy for me to write. I have a hard time talking about myself and my brain. I’m all about vulnerability and verbally processing things that are hard to sift through, but not for myself. I tell other people to do it because it’s good for you, but I have a hard time doing it because I don’t think anybody will care what I have to say. Oftentimes I don’t think anybody will understand what I’m saying, or I won’t be able to find words that make it make sense, so I avoid it by asking other people very good questions or laughing it off with deflective sarcasm. My wife gets the brunt of the consequences of the deflections, and I think she finally got fed up with it. Recently she has started asking me very good questions. Questions that are hard to answer for 2 reasons: 1) I don’t want to, and 2) I haven’t actually thought about it. I just get wrapped up in my feels, which is disgusting. Now I’m at a point that I have started processing the bad place that I’ve known I’ve been in for quite some time, and I think it’s my brain attacking itself.

I doubt this will be wrapped with a bow and come to a conclusion at the end. These are my {somewhat} organized thoughts on a page, and I haven’t finished thinking.

If I’m being honest with myself, it has been years. Two for sure, but maybe more. Two years of my “mental” being in a place most accurately described by asking, “who, what, where, why, and how the fuck?” What the fuck is happening? What the fuck am I doing? Where the fuck am I going? Why the fuck. . . ? How the fuck. . . ? It feels like a whole bunch of giant question marks at the end of almost every decision I make. Day in, day out there seems to be nothing but question marks.

Here is what I have been aware of: I justify it as being circumstantial. It’s because of my job (mostly), or it’s because of where I live, or it’s because of this, or it’s because of that. What I think I am learning is that I am blaming my circumstances for anxieties that I’m avoiding.

Recently, I have been humbled into using my brain to process who, what, where, why, and how the fuck. Life has just reared all the way back, wound up, and kicked me right in the cojones, and I think I’m in the midst of a breakthrough because of it.

It’s because of my job.

Back in 2017, when I was finishing my undergrad, I never really gave any thought into what comes next. I already had a full-time job that I enjoyed, for the most part, and knew that I was going to keep that when I graduated. I was having a great time dating Jos and knew that I was going to marry her. I was living with two of my best friends and had to search very hard to find a complaint about it. I never really thought about what happens when things change. Then, to my surprise, in April of 2018, just over 3 months after I graduated, I decided that I was not going to keep said job past September. I wanted to be the next Don Draper and take on the advertising world. In Albuquerque, New Mexico. A very small market. With only an undergraduate degree in strategic communication. Fantasy? Yes, but I tried to do just that. I got an internship with a highly decorated firm and started working towards my dream of being the brains behind a widely known ad campaign. I was thrilled. I put my tie on, poured my coffee, and was out the door to make it 2 minutes late on my first day. I pulled in the parking lot right as my boss was getting out of his truck. I tried to beat him to the door so I could say I was there before him but failed. By the end of my first week I was so bored I could cry. I think the only thing I did for 7 weeks was help plan my wedding and find a different job. So, I did just that.

I got a job in production (tract) home building. I was thrilled. A real job with a real salary and real benefits. Something that mattered to me. I took off like a nascar, learning quicker than any other superintendent and becoming an assistant project manager within months. Like, 3 months. After 6 months I was so fed up with it that I wanted to quit every day. It was awful. The pressure from corporate was intense and unnecessary, the demands from the homeowners were laughably out of touch with reality, and the expectations of the subcontractors were wildly hard to grasp. I got most fed up with my perception that nobody really listened to me. Some days I would get lost in a train of thought that I wasn’t good enough at the job, so nobody respected me. Other days I would tell myself that I was better than the job and would find success somewhere else. Most days I felt so defeated by 10 AM that I would just give up and sit on the couch of a model home, believing that nobody would know I was gone because they don’t respect me anyway. Maybe the worst part about it was that every day I woke up and told myself that it was going to be a good day. That I was going to make it a good day. Thinking I could change my thought process which would change the reality, only to feel beat up by lunchtime. Round 12 in the ring with Mike Tyson, type of beat up. I made it another 6 months and then quit without another job.

Jos and I wanted to move away from Albuquerque, so I started slinging out resumes in Denver and Dallas, to see which stuck. BOOM. I got a job in custom home building in Denver. I was thrilled. Custom homes without the pressure of timelines and corporate budgets. A high-end product so the subcontractors will care more. I was hired by somebody who didn’t know me, which means they have to think I’m good at this. This is going to be great, right? Wrong. After 6 months I hated it. It felt no different than tract homes and it seemed like nobody cared as much as I cared. I was struggling with subcontractors not listening to me, thinking they didn’t respect me. Homeowners would call the project manager instead of me, so I told myself that I wasn’t good enough. I started believing that I didn’t know enough about it and was learning too slowly. It didn’t help that for 4 of those 6 months I was actually on a machine doing work that I went to college specifically to avoid. I mean, am I that bad at managing projects that you have to stick me on an excavator? I would wake up every day and say, “well shit. Here we go again,” and end every day by saying “what the fuck is happening?” I was sat down by my bosses and encouraged to quit. So I did. Without a plan, in the middle of a global health crisis, in a city where I’m not networked, towards the climax of arguably the most heated presidential race in America’s existence.

All because some days I wasn’t good enough and some days I was too good.

Now I’m working a temp job, at a wild game butcher shop. I’m a sausage stuffer 4 days a week, and meat packer 3 days a week. Talk about work that I went to college specifically to avoid.

What I think I am realizing is that when I avoid working through anxieties, I make my circumstances 100% of my reality. I tend to get to a place where I think I’m better. Then, I check myself and fall, quickly, to the other side of the spectrum and believe that I am not good enough. I have spent years in a cycle of blaming other things for making me feel like my life sucks, getting to a place of arrogance, getting called out, then cowering to a place of worthlessness. I am yet to find the “something in the middle”, where I don’t have to love my circumstances to love myself. I don’t know what it’s like to be in between too good and not good enough. I don’t take outside forces for what they are: forces. Designed to force me into a place that I am not okay. I haven’t found the place where I am okay but my _____ is not.

I don’t think I am good enough for the superintendent job title, but I think I’m better than tract homes. I think I’m better than living in a “garden level” apartment, but I haven’t done enough to prove otherwise. I think I am too good for a $15/hour job but maybe I’m only worth $10/hour. Now I am standing in a cooler, alone with these thoughts of being better, then of not being enough. There are hundreds of pounds of meat that need to be stuffed into sausage form. I’m working for an hourly wage, so I don’t lose my garden level home. *Insert Kenneth Copeland laugh here*

What. the fuck. happened?

I think I have spent so long believing these things that my brain has tricked me into a bad place. A place where I am always grumpy. I’m like a grumpy old white dude who has been calloused for so many years that nobody wants to talk to me. A get-off-my-lawn, Clint Eastwood, type personality that nobody likes to be around. A type of personality that I don’t like to be around. I have told myself over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, that it’s because of something else, and because of that something else I don’t want to be around myself. Then, I change that something else and am gutted when I fall into the same cycle. I change the circumstance, then find a deeper, darker place of my brain. I let that effect EVERYTHING around me because it seems like a place that I can’t get out of. I have found places so dark that this little light of mine can’t shine, and I’ve been there for so long I’m scared it forgot how to.

Right now, I’m not okay. I’m not okay because I haven’t been able to avoid the same thoughts when my circumstances change. But now I’m thinking, as well as feeling.

Raise your glass - cheers to thinking and not avoiding anxieties.

Don Draper: a main character in Mad Men played by Jon Hamm.

Tract Homes: a “tract” of land is a master planned community development where homes are built en masse. Known to be built quickly and cheaply.

Superintendent: a low, to mid-level site manager.

Garden Level: a fancy word for basement apartment.

Kenneth Copeland: a psycho mega-church, televangelist pastor who looks like a doll in a horror movie. He’s recently made headlines for creepily laughing because “the media says Joe Biden is the next president.” He is no stranger to the spotlight as earlier this year “blew away” the coronavirus. Google it, or maybe you can youtube it and see what this dude really believes.

Preface: This is written through the lens of my experiences and the experience of a good friend of mine. This is not meant to attack one church building or one specific ministry.

For years, I was heavily involved with a parachurch ministry that carries out its mission in middle and high schools. The latter years of my involvement were done on campus at UNM, in the college entity of the ministry. I will not use the name of the ministry in this piece, so from hereforth I will be referring to it as Youth Living. Youth Living prides itself on inclusion. The mission of the ministry is to go where kids (students) are and meet them there, including every single one because the Gospel is for the 99 and the 1. I’m paraphrasing, but the concept remains: “every kid, everywhere.” Simply put, the ministry fails tremendously at its own mission. To the same point, the American church has come up short as well.

I had a conversation with a good friend a few nights ago, and he said something that sparked some thoughts for me. For context, this friend was also heavily involved in Youth Living for many years. Not only him, but his entire family. His family has been involved at a 30,000-foot level, just as much as at a boots-on-the-ground level. He was impacted greatly as a student, which bled into him impacting others as a leader for many years. This ministry has been nothing but beneficial for him and me, both. There have been eyebrows raised throughout the years, but nothing but love and passion for carrying out the mission of Youth Living. In reality, we have nothing but affection for Youth Living, but we fit the mold.

Now, the conversation that he and I were having started with a confession from left field. What started as a couple of friends shootin’ the shit turned into a thought-provoking conversation when he decided to let me in on something that he’s been processing. A few months back, he made a decision that has affected his life in a way that not many people experience in their lives. He made a mistake that ended up with him in some pretty serious legal trouble. Pretty serious, meaning a couple of weeks in the slammer, followed by months of community service, and a state-mandated alcohol class. There has already been incredible redemption in his story, but that is not where I am headed. During our conversation, he actually suggested to me that I, and everyone I know, stop by an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting. Not because everyone I know is an alcy, but to hear the perspective on alcohol and learn through that lens.

In his suggestion, he said, “. . .the first time I walked into a meeting I was greeted with a welcome that I had never experienced. It was even better than [Youth Living].”

Wow.

For a man of his stature, a man of his faith, a man of his affection towards the ministry, a man who tries very hard to provide the same experience that he received, to say that.

The idea of inclusion, or being welcomed, in Christian circles has always been on the forefront of my Christian brain. I have been deeply hurt by a church and a church body, which causes me to be on guard around Christians. I am no stranger to the idea that Youth Living is as deep a Christian clique as any and can be painfully exclusive. That was never my experience, but I know it is a reality for some. It was never my friend’s experience either, and for him to make that statement makes me think even more. It brings so much perspective. When I think of AA, I think of people who have been humbled in, possibly, embarrassing ways. I think of people who have reached a place that nobody should ever get to. To no fault of their own, don’t assume that I am blaming these people for anything that they’ve experienced. I don’t know their stories. I’m imaging that most of these people had to have other people shake them into the realization that there is a problem, and they need real help. Sure, some have the realization themselves, but I think for the majority it is a team effort from the people that love them.

So, imagine having very good friends. Very good friends who all have the same passion and know people all over the world. Literally, being able to go {almost} anywhere in the world and running into somebody that knows at least 3 other people that you know, because of Youth Living. Imagine going across the country and staying with somebody you have never met, because they trust somebody with their life that you trust with yours, and upon arrival you immediately have everything to talk about and are instant friends. Now, think about being a part of this network of people for 10+ years. Can you even dream up the amount of people you would know? The level of relationships you would have? Pouring your life into relationships with people, trying to make the newbs feel like they are a part, just like a couple people did for you years ago, leading to lifelong friends and the deepest relationships in your life.

Then, you make a mistake.

Although all of your closest friends are supportive and kind, you walk into a room full of strangers and receive a welcome that you have never experienced.

A room full of strangers who have one thing in common: true humility.

That is powerful. It’s powerful because it screams brokenness.

This thought is twofold, right? On the one hand, these people had to be broken to be humbled. The people in this meeting share humility because they share brokenness. They share the feeling of being completely broken, admitting that they can’t fix it on their own. On the other hand, it brings to light the blatant brokenness of systems, specifically in the church.

A church of people who say they have been humbled because they are broken. A global Jesus ministry, founded on the idea of welcoming everybody, doesn’t stand a chance to a room of 7 people. This goes deeper than Youth Living. This is a church issue.

I think about the greeters at the front doors of a church on a Sunday.

I’ve attended churches with 12,000 members, and I’ve been to churches with 30 members. Everything from seeing 20,000 people through the doors in one day to 6 people through the doors on a designated night. All of these places have people standing at the doors waiting to say hello. If I’m ever lucky enough to have a conversation with a greeter, it always looks similar.

Greeter: “Hi! Welcome! We’re so glad you’re here today!

Me: “Hi! Thanks.” As I try and scurry past, so I don’t engage the same conversation with the same dude as last week.

Greeter: “What’s your name?”

Me: “Jacob.” While my thoughts become aggressive;

It’s Jacob, Brad. My name is Jacob. The same that it was last week, and the week before that, and the week before that, and every week for the last 2 years that I’ve been showing up at 8:56 AM for the 9:00 AM service at this church!

Greeter: “Oh so good to meet you, Jacob! Is this your first time?”

Me: “Nope. Nope. It’s uhhh. . . no, I have been here before. We talked last week.”

Then I walk away because now it is cringingly awkward.

I think about the small group leader who intentionally talked to only me for 10 minutes the first time I went. The very next week, the very same leader starts the conversation with, “I’ve met you before,” while oddly pointing a finger gun and giving me a complete side-eye, “but remind me of your name?”

I think about the leader of the “connect ministry,” infamous for initiating the I-know-we-have-talked-many-times-but-I-still-can’t-remember-you-so-I’m-going-to-ask-vague-life-questions-until-you-say-something-that-triggers-my-memory conversations.

Is it just me, or does this interaction happen WAY more at places that claim to be welcoming and inclusive than anywhere else in life?

The system is broken, and it’s broken because there is an agenda. The agenda is to make people feel like they are welcomed, no matter what. But are you actually welcoming that person?

Dear Christian, you’re trying too hard!

You’re doing too much, and it’s making it worse.

Stop acting like you care about what I do throughout the week if you’re not going to remember my name next time I see you. Close your mouth; your smile is creepy. No, don’t hug me. I don’t like hugs; we established that last week when you tried to hug me.

There always seems to be a pattern when inclusivity is the nucleus, and the harder people try, the faker it seems.

Maybe the solution is to stop TRYING to be inclusive and actually BE inclusive. Maybe the fix is that inclusivity is an attitude, or a lifestyle, rather than a conversation. I realize it is unrealistic for everybody to remember everything, but I’m not talking about everybody and everything. I’m talking about the fact that a room full of strangers who admit they are broken is more welcoming than the church full of broken people who are trying to be welcoming.

Maybe the reason an AA meeting is safer than your small group is that it’s founded on genuine acceptance of being broken, rather than an acceptance narrative because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

I’m not going to be everything to everyone, and neither should you. I’m damn sure not going to have a bullshit conversation for the sake of inclusion, and neither should you. I want you to feel like you’re actually a part of my life, and I hope you call me out if I don’t.

Do you need another beer?

The 99 and the 1 reference Matthew 18:12: “What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off?“ NIV. We, Christians, always talk about leaving the 99 who fit in to go find the 1 who doesn’t, with hopes of including them.

“Brad” was a made-up name. I’ve never actually met a greeter named Brad.

To all the church greeters: I know that job is hard. I know you see so many faces at once, and it’s hard to remember. Do it well. Maybe just say “HI!” and not try to have conversations; I don’t know.

To all my small group leaders: if you feel attacked, then maybe it’s time to do better. Try harder. Write things down so you don’t forget. Be honest; don’t pretend like you remember if you don’t.

To all my “connect ministry” leaders: your job is to connect people to other people who will be a part of their lives. You don’t need to be a part of everyone’s life. If that’s your passion then do a great job of connecting, and people will include you because of it.