On Making Excuses

I have made excuses for so long and for so many things that I no longer know when I am telling the truth. I can't believe the degree to which I am so neurotic. It's compulsive. For every situation that I am presented with in life I offer any number of excuses to dodge telling the whole truth. It's not that I necessarily outright tell lies or anything like that, but I remain defensive in my telling of the truth - I just try to make sure that I still look good when we come out on the other side. 

I'm still trying to figure out what exactly causes this compulsion to defend myself at every turn. It's funny how blind I was (and probably still am) to my own defensiveness. One of the girls I dated in college told me that her mother thought I was defensive, to which I responded, "I'm not defensive!" Case and point. Judgment: defensive. At the time, though, I really didn't think that I was defensive. I had prided myself on being open and generous with myself, and I didn't understand how anyone could fail to see that in me. I think to some extent, I do share a level of openness with friends who are close to me and who I believe will accept me.

And I think that this is the main problem that I run into in a lot of my relationships, even (and perhaps, especially) with my parents. I don't doubt that people will love me. I do, however, doubt that they will accept me. This fear is most likely based in the fact that I have a hard time accepting myself. The amount of the day that I tell myself that I should be doing things differently, I should be more successful, I should be thinner, I shouldn't be living at home, or any other self-defeating and self-judgmental thing I can think of is truly appalling. It's draining to be walking around with a sign over my head that is a giant "F." And to make things worse, no one is putting it there but me. I ran into some financial problems. I am twenty-three and desiring to get things right. I am applying to grad school. All in all, I'm doing things pretty well, but for some reason, I can't seem to shake the negative self-talk nor can I stop beating up myself whenever the mood strikes.

With my counselor's help, I have realized that my daddy-scarring affects me in ways that I'm not even aware of. For the most part, I pretty much considered my relationship with my dad to be a done deal - we don't talk, and I'm okay with that. Those things are true, still, though, regardless of the ways that he has and does affect me in every relationship. For the 16 years I was in relationship with my dad, he controlled me through fear of withholding. I was afraid that if I didn't perform well enough or didn't measure up to what he wanted me to be that he would stop loving me. This was the opposite of what he said was true - that I could never do anything that would keep him from loving me - and I don't think it was necessarily a lie, even still. The truth, however, of what I was learning was "Fall in, or get left." When I was 16, he and I had a final falling out where I told him exactly what I thought about the way he ran his house and the way he treated his wife, after which, he threw me out of the house and I have only spoken to him a handful of times since, usually just to wish a happy birthday or something like that.

I guess that this comprises part of the background as to why I do what I do, and I suggest, why a lot of us make excuses, get defensive, etc. I don't mean that it's because we've had dads (or moms, even) who leave or who mind-play us (though, we have all been mind-played by our parents at some time or another), but because from some deep place within us, we are afraid that once the true "me" is exposed, the true "me" is known, it isn't going to measure up and that it's going to get left. Any excuse that I make, I think, comes from a place of trying to advocate for myself wrongly, saying, "No, see, but I am smart enough," "I am diligent enough," "I'm not as lazy as all that because look what else I can do. Just don't leave me." Excuses keep others at an arm's distance, keeping them from getting to know the real person behind the excuse. We are all desperate to be loved and many are afraid of being known fully, because this vulnerability leaves us susceptible to wounds or abandonment. Because of this crippling fear (there I go again with fear), I am still not ever known, not even by myself, because the excuses that I make every moment of my life become one with me, so much so that I can never get beyond making excuses and just be honest.

As with anything, excuses can rule your life. They rule mine. It is my hope, though, that as I continue to grow and learn that I don't always have to defend my life, but rather, I need to live it and let it be a testimony to who am whether people find that person acceptable or not. My identity is in Christ alone and he is my acceptance. If I constantly try to make a name for myself by offering reasons why I did this, and why I did that, I will only become more and more of a liar, and that's the truth about that.

On Storytelling

I remember that when I was a young child, I would always ask my mom if she would tell me a story before I fell asleep. Without fail: "Mommy, will you tell me a story?" She wouldn't always comply, of course, at least not readily. Sometimes she would just mumble a lot of words really quickly as if she were telling a story at hyper speed and then add, "The end." This isn't to say, though, that my mom failed as a storyteller or a tucker-in, because I also remember that she read The Horse and His Boy to me, each time substituting my name for Shasta's as if it were my story that she were reading. I must have been four or five when she did this, and it still gets me. I think that it was this gracious act that instilled in me the idea that I was important enough to have a story written about me. I learned that stories are not just fictitious accounts of things that we wish were, nor are they a playground for some lesson about morality. The thing that makes stories important is that we live them. We are stories.

While in someway, I think I did learn to value my story above all others' (even if at times I find it pointless, hopeless, or altogether uninteresting), I did, also, begin to appreciate the stories of others, even the ones that I couldn't articulate as readily. This, perhaps, is the constant struggle of the storyteller - to consider all stories equally important. While we may find that the words of the story come to us a lot easier in some cases, and perhaps more eloquently as well, we can't dismiss the importance or latent intricacy of those that don't. Because I think that the more storytelling becomes an active part of our lives, the more we will realize that when we tell someone else's story, we are telling our own story as well. So great is the connection of people to one another.

One of my friends told me recently that her priest, when explaining what it means to "Love your neighbor as yourself," said that often the translation is lost, and what actually is written is along the lines of, "Love your neighbor who is yourself." This is the dramatic beauty of storytelling. As we learn to embrace and see the stories of others, we begin to understand ourselves more fully because we become reconciled to parts of ourselves that perhaps we couldn't otherwise. If we look at a murderer and only get that far, we have failed to truly hear his story. If we hear his story, we see that we too are murderers, we just haven't found the motivation yet (luckily). A great disservice is done to ourselves and others when we think of our stories as isolated. Life is not just a random, individual account of absurd events that occur in some sequence. Life is the coming together of all people who have shared existence until and including now, and how we respond to the world that surrounds us and how we try to change it in some way.

I mean it this way; if I were to suddenly break this computer over my knee, besides being a stupid impulse and pretty pointless, it would change the world forever. It wouldn't save or ruin the world, but it would change it nonetheless. There is one less functional computer in the world thanks to my work. That's something different and irreversible. That event has happened and will, for the rest of my life, be etched on the script of history. It has, in someway, changed the human experience forever. 

Not to draw too heavily on Dostoevsky's writings all the time, but I think he is right on when he writes, "All is like an ocean, all flows and is contiguous, and if you touch it in one place it will reverberate at the other end of the world." This is truly a beautiful and keen observation, and must remain in the heart of the storyteller, for the storyteller's calling is one of love. Whether they accept that calling or not, however, is up to them. We may either learn to love through these stories, or reject that calling and fall simply into entertainment or even cynicism. 

Storytelling is a lofty calling. It is a humble vocation, but a powerful thing. It unifies us. It brings people together and ultimately teaches us what it means to be human, hopefully with the end of learning to love our neighbor who is ourself. 

I Made One Choice

I'm applying to Northwestern University.

On Becoming Oneself and the Necessity of Honesty

We all lie. We lie to others. We lie to God. We certainly lie to ourselves. But what's behind this? I have been pondering the importance of being honest with oneself lately and how that relates to the "self" one presents in everyday life. We exist always between the reality of our lives and some fabrication that insists "everything is just fine." At least, I know I do. In The Brothers Karamazov, the elder Zosima reminds papa Karamazov to quit lying to himself, as if this were the source of the man's pain and dissatisfaction with himself and his life. I don't really even know what this means - do not lie to yourself - though I'm sure I have done it just about every day of my life. I hate the confidence with which I can say that. I am a liar, plain and simple. How, then, does one fix this? Am I, are we, just destined to live forever in this dishonest and disconnected manner? What keeps us in this paralyzing cycle of continually lying to ourselves and those around us? 

Perhaps we are afraid that we will not be loved. This itself is a dilemma because if we are hiding our true selves in order to maintain some image of a healthy, functional, non-real person, we still fail to be loved. We hide behind the mask of this non-self and become so uncomfortable with the thought of the face behind the mask encountering the world, that we let few get a glimpse of the real us. More often than not, unsurprisingly, the face behind the mask isn't all too shocking. It's broken, yes, but indisputably lovable. Through habit, however, we remain behind the mask, and it always gets more difficult to let our guard fall from our faces. It really is sad.

If, however, we could begin this process of being honest to ourselves, we might begin to see that there is hope for us as individuals and as a world. I know that I can often get into a groove of thinking about how messy I am and how no one would want to associate with me and blah blah blah, out come all the lies that I have told myself for twenty-three years. Enough is enough. Yes, I am messy. No, my mess is not scary. It is something to come to vis a vis, and not run away from thinking that the real me has nothing to offer. And this is what the heart of existence is - to integrate who we are called to be with who we truly are, not with who we think is the winning face of ourselves, our false selves. This fear of not being loved, living in shame of the things we have done and the person we've become, is crippling. It is bound to lead to a long, lonely, loveless life. How can we have company or love if those around us are constantly interacting with someone, some face, that doesn't really exist?

All we want is for people to be honest with us about who they are, and that is really all others want from us. People aren't nearly as interested in our lies as we think they are. I know I'm not, so I guess I can only assume that others aren't. But if they truly aren't (as I suspect), then why continue this charade? I ask myself this question as much as I ask anybody else. Why do we keep up this masquerade? My true desire is to be seen for who I really am. What a freeing life that would be.

Christians, especially, should be on this never-ending quest to become their true selves. Of course, we've got an upper hand on the whole ordeal. The only key to healing is a relationship of love with God. It is only his love that can work this out in us. We must, however, be receptive to that love. We must be willing for this integrating, painful work to be done. I say painful because when we realize and see through the lies that we have told ourselves for years and years, it is not going to be a pretty picture. There is some serious work to be done in tandem with the Lord, but it is all necessary work. And to kick it all off, we need to get real. We need to stop lying to ourselves and know that we are loved. Christ, who knows our deepest darkest secrets, who knows our true identity, who knows us for who we really are, loves us and by that we are made lovable. Accepting that truth, believing it is what prepares us for the hard work of letting false faces fade and enables us to live in truth.

On My Life

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about what the future holds for me. I guess we all go through times of thinking more or less concentratedly about that hazy place in time. Any way, my time to focus on where I'm headed is now. Don't get me wrong, it's great, I think. Tiring, but nevertheless good. I moved to Wheaton in 2003 to go to college, majored in English Literature, minored in Theater and flirted with Psychology. In my time there, I worked part time at a Red Robin when I wasn't involved somehow in a play at Arena Theater. After graduating in May 2007, I started working full-time at Red Robin, even becoming a bartender before I quit in March 2008 to begin working at a small, privately owned restaurant called Muldoon's. I loved it there, really I did. Then, two weeks ago I moved home. Now here I am, working yet another waiting job, only this time it's at a Mexican restaurant. 

Now that I'm living with my parents again, there is a lot of pressure to figure out "what I want to do with my life" and hopefully do it. My step-father asked me not ten minutes ago, "Have you been thinking about your future" I appreciate the concern from my parents, but in some way, it needs to be clear that dealing with the future, my future, is something that I need to undertake tenderly.

I understand that they see a floundering, overweight twenty-three year old who couldn't keep his finances straight and subsequently ran into a little debt, and to some degree, that's what I see too. On the other hand, I do see it with a little more grace for myself than that. I see a guy who has been out of college for 19 months and has been struggling to make it on his own and needed a little help. That's the surface problem, I think, and if that were the only problem, that I couldn't make or manage money, there is perhaps easier salvation for me.

There is a deeper problem, however, behind this move back home. I have realized - even just in the last couple weeks of being here - that, by and large, I operate (or don't operate) based on fear. Most of the inertia I feel in any given day, in any given situation results from some sort of fear. I don't get it. All I know is that I'm young, and instead of taking some serious risks in determining what I want to do with myself, I have been sitting in comfort, refusing to grow up, and avoiding any possible failure as though it were a deadly disease. What am I afraid of? That I won't succeed? Maybe. That I will succeed? It's possible. Or is the fear not related to success? I just don't know.

"To those whom much has been given, much will be expected." I was told lately that I had this verse written all over me. Damn. And here I sit. Doing nothing, again. Wasting time reading spoilers for Heroes and compulsively checking facebook. What am I afraid of? What, what, what?

I think it's having things required of me. Commitment. That's it. That's what it has to be. The dreamer part of me thinks, "Oh sure, what a fantastic life I'll live," but then the realist catches up and says, "Well, things aren't really going to be that easy for you. You're going to have to put some work into finding a career; keeping a marriage together; raising children - especially now that we're in a recession." It's this fear of commitment, damn it, that keeps me from truly enjoying to its fullness the life I have been given. My inability to say, "I'm going to stick with this until I know I hate it" is what is forcing me to sit around, letting any potential gifting I have go to waste. It's a pity, really. More than anything else, it's a pity. 

But I'm growing all the time. Figuring it out each day. Praying for courage and strength. I know that there is something fulfilling just around the corner, if only I were brave enough to look and see, and seeing, do. 

Here we go. Here's to fear being dispelled, once and for all.

In the name of the Lord.

And, Now, A Story

“Do you love me?”

He had no idea what to say.

“Do you love me?” she repeated.

He had often pondered what it meant to be in love with someone. Time and time again, he realized that he hadn’t the vaguest clue.

“I mean, like that, you know? I’ve always thought of love as agape, like the unconditional love thing. Well, at least when I say it that’s what I mean. But it seems like there is something else for when a man loves a woman. You know? I’m a woman. You’re a man. It just seems like when we say that we love each other there should be something else too. Like, an ideal. Agape and being in love.”

Still, he could think of nothing to say to her. He thought of the Greeks and their many words for love and how lucky they were and how they would have never had this conversation. Even if they did, he wondered, what would they say? Do you eros me? Strange, but not unthinkable, he supposed. The only thing that he could do was look into her blue eyes, touching her face with the back of his hand. His hand would find her stomach, and he noted its softness and how much he enjoyed her bellybutton. But still, he had no answer to her question.

“It’s just that, for most couples it’s a pretty big deal when they start saying ‘I love you’ and I don’t know that it was for us. I don’t know,” she continued.

He thought of the way she looked in the morning – makeupless and glorious. He remembered the first time he woke up next to her and how, for once, he was glad to be awake. She laid beside him, still asleep. He recalled admiring the curve of her nose and the little bump it had toward the top, closer to the brow. He remembered the way her lips parted as she breathed – he thought them to be the most kissable lips he had ever seen. The scar below her right eyebrow was a true beauty to him. The freckle on the bottom of her right earlobe, just below her piercing, came to mind. He thought the sound of her breath when her mouth was close to his ear and the resulting shivering sensation that flooded down his back.

“Will you ever tell me if you’re in love with me?” she asked.

He didn’t know that he could because he didn’t know what this meant. What he did know was how she looked as she explained the contents of her room to him. He knew that she had treasures from childhood. She shared them generously with him, omitting no detail, and he knew that she was beautiful. He knew the sound of her laugh and knew when she was on the verge of announcing, “That’s what she said.” He knew they had inside jokes that would always be funny to only them. He knew that he would forever think Oprah was in every limousine he saw. He knew that she was, without a doubt, one of, if not the, funniest women he had ever known. He knew that when she smoked, she was transcendent. He knew the sound of her voice, the rhythm of her speech, and had learned that scathing sarcasm was her love-language. She insulted him a lot.

“I mean, obviously you will, but will you make sure that I know it’s in love with?"

He couldn’t make that promise. But he knew that she celebrated and respected him. He knew that he was his true self when he was with her. He knew that he could sit with her forever.

He loved her.

And she knew.

Tradition

It fills me with utter joy to know that right now I am not a part of Arena Theater's Strike of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Beyond this room, there are many people who, together, are celebrating and saying goodbye to 7 intense weeks of work on a play. I did so for four years and have now seen four strikes come and go in my time out of school. For some reason, knowing that there is something in the space - some vivacity - that sustains the tradition of strike and has nothing to do with me is comforting beyond words. The work that happens in that place - that wonderful, flawed place - is compelling enough to keep people coming back, greeting plays, and then saying goodbye to them. Fantastic.

I thought that it must have been abnormal while I was there. I thought that I was unusually blessed to encounter such a group of people at such a time in my life so as to offer me such joy. Now I realize that Arena Theater is the unusually blessed one. It continues to receive and send out wonderfully beautiful people, and so, the glorious traditions - Strike, Workout Christmas, et al. - continue. I am not unique to the place, and this thought, of sharing the beauty of the space and its traditions with so many people - past, current, and those to come - is the true blessing that falls on this side of Arena Theater.

I spent so much time last year thinking about how I was missing out on so much; the community, the work of a place, parties, friends; and I spent so little time thinking about how blessed I was to have been commissioned from such a place to "serve the Lord with gladness and singleness of heart." The time I spent wallowing in my distance from the space and its work was time that I could have spent celebrating the common experience that I have with so many beautiful people. Now I know. Now I see. Now I, again, rejoice with those who rejoice.

The Real Question Is...

...what does it mean to be good? Not nice, not pleasant. Good.

I was talking with one of my buddies just a little bit ago, telling him, "I try to be a good guy." As soon as I said it, I realized that I didn't have any real idea what exactly I meant by that. I try to be kind to people I can hardly tolerate? I try to buy my friends fast food when I drive? I try to mostly stay out of people's way by not upsetting them? Sure, I do all these things, but does that really constitute goodness? The only answer that seems true is: no.

Goodness, I've been told, means that you do the hard thing. You have the conversation that no one wants to have because it's related to someone's health. I've also heard that it means never getting drunk. From what I can put together, goodness looks like a Baptist congregation. Not that I have anything against Baptists (I don't), but they seem to be fairly renowned for keeping-it-down. That just seems boring. While I know that goodness is not necessarily something that comes easy to Man, it must at least look somewhat fulfilling, right? And the angelic choir boy image is not, in the least, appealing. It's actually sort of annoying. So what, then, does it mean to be good? I mean, truly good. It can't comprise of a list of non-deeds. "I've never been in a fight,"; "I've never had sex,"; "I never drink more than I know I can hold." Wrong. Goodness can't be not being bad. It simply can't. Not being bad is simply that; not being bad. So, then, what? How does one live a life that can be called "good?"

It must be a matter of alignment of heart. Intent to bless and lift up is good, while flying under the radar to not piss people off is just not bad. Right? But how do I align my heart so that I might consistently be a source of love and comfort to my brother? What does that heart even look like? It can't be the heart that just sits around and feels worthless everytime it violates a commandment. That's just an over stimulated guilt complex. If we sat around and thought about how often we screwed up, it would be a lonely life. A lonely, unforgiven life. So goodness must be a turning towards something else. Not a turning away from. It's looking at the past, and turning towards repentance. I suppose that's the key to goodness: repentance. If repentance is turning the heart toward God, it must be. So why do we only wait until we feel that we've transgressed far enough to make that final leap to God's forgiving grasp. Are we not, at all times, fallen creatures? Are we not creatures who always need constant reminding of his good, most loving heart? But how does this realignment with God's forgiving heart manifest itself practically? How? What does it look like?

I don't want to be a nice guy - they finish last - I want to be a good man, repectable and kind.

How?

What To Do? Oh, What To Do?

I finally know that I will never be satisfied with an occupation unless it involves working with a group of actors - writing for them, directing, or acting beside. I don't know what all this means just yet, but I know that it's true.
This last year I have spent an ungodly amount of time in front of the television. In the last twelve months I have watched.

3 Seasons of Arrested Development. Several times.
7 Seasons of Scrubs. Some of them twice.
2 Seasons of The Office.
Several seasons of The Simpsons.
4 Seasons of Lost.
1 Season of 30 Rock.
2 Seasons of Heroes.
2 Seasons of Weeds.

Needless to say, I have seen some episodes from each of the shows more than once.

There is a certain spark between the actors themselves and their dialogue. I don't know what it is, but it's what makes them fun to watch. It's what's compelling. It's what keeps us coming back to them week after week, or, in some cases, what makes us watch "just one more" until 7 in the morning.
I want, no, need to be a part a group that does this sort of work. I don't necessarily mean television, but I do mean a group of people that come together to work for a common product. I don't want to write novels. I don't want to write short stories. I want to create stories. I want to be a part of a team that brings them to life. Embodies them. I realize now why novel writing, poetry, short stories have always been so hard for me. It's hard for me to get them anywhere without bodies. I suppose poetry does present a different case than story writing, however. My writing needs bodies. The stories I want to tell need to be spoken, not just read.
It's finally coming together.

But now...
...how?

The Top 10 Of The 2008 Summer

After much deliberation, I have decided that it is time to post my "Top 10 Of The 2008 Summer." I know everyone has been waiting with baited breath to find out what exactly I would list in my top 10 - music? memories? people? It could be any of these. You have all proven to be truly loyal friends and underlings, and I have no doubt that my approval or recognition of you or some moment we shared would be enough to give you a lifetime of satisfaction and be righteous cause for you to die happy. You can't, however, all be winners. And now, for the first time, I present to you - Christian's Top 10 of Summer '08.

10) On one of the early weekends in the summer, about ten of us walked from the girls' townhouse to the Dairy Queen in DT Wheaton. While this is not necessarily a spectacular event in and of itself, I would like to recount some of the highlights. A) Alyssa Keysor with her cement breaking knees. B) Cori and Amanda singing to everyone about themselves in turn. C) Dog pile on College Avenue. Truly, this was an event for the history books.

9) Home Run Derby in the Little League Field. While I do not necessarily like to toot my own horn, I must recount the fact that I slaughtered my opponents with nine home runs while the nearest runner-up followed with a mere two. After him, zero home runs. Game. Set. Match. Homer.

8) A night of joy at the Anderson household. While my friendship to the parties involved does not allow me to relay the intimate details of the night I will list several words that come to mind in light of this evening; mantime, sparks, nail polish, David Spade, cannabis, techtonique, MacGruber. And finally, glory.

7) Attending the Prairie Ridge High School Baseball team's championship game (as well as semifinals) to cheer on Cori's little brother. Needless to say, the Wolves dominated and emerged gloriously with the state championship title. I recall heckling the other team. That was when I knew I was destined to be a bleacher dad.

6) Cooking dinner for friends with Nathan Stewart. One night we got tired of everyone staying in and worrying about what they were going to eat. So we went out and bought a bunch of food and decided to have a several course meal with some of the ladies that were in town. Too bad we can't make a life out of it. Nate-dog and I made a good team, I think.

5) Any number of SBFF phone calls that I got from Amanda Joy Reider. While "SBFF" may not have been played out the most practically in the end, just knowing that I had a SBFF this summer made everything all the better and more wonderful. I highly suggest that everyone pick up a Summer Best Friend Forever.

4) Seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull with Nathan Stewart. Wonder why? Here's your answer.

3) Friday movie mornings with Alan (and Ellie). Best. Tradition. Ever. We saw so many movies this summer it was out of control. Wall-E, Get Smart, Step Brothers, The Happening, Hancock, The Dark Knight, Tropic Thunder, Pineapple Express...amazing. All during opening day. Not only did we practically have the theaters to ourselves, but for a low, low price of $5 a ticket. Truly a tradition one wouldn't want to let go of.

2) Cubs game with Cori. Best birthday gift ever. We had incredible car rides both to and from Wrigleyville, hanging out with Cori's parents' small group. We got two pairs of seats. One in a skybox (where we got to eat free food and enjoy the delay from live action to television) and the other put us right behind the first-base side dugout allowing us to taunt the Florida Marlins as they returned from the inning. I was able to let Dan Uggla know exactly how I felt about his performance in the All-Star Game. Derrek Lee stood 30 feet away from us. I got to see Big Z pitch. We saw Mark DeRosa make an amazing, diving catch. Ronny Cedeño and Henry Blanco both homered. In the end, the Cubs won. And I bought a Fukudome headband. Truly a fantastic evening. I also got a beer out of the deal.

And the number one joy of the 2008 Summer is....

...TONGUE BEAR!

Friends, thank you so much for being a part of this summer. You all made it a fantastic three months. Let's keep it going this fall, whaddaya say?

Tonight I Walked Through The Empty Streets

Five years ago I attended my first class at Wheaton College. Baffling. I figured out that since then, I have had over 150 million heartbeats. Amazing. What did I do with so many heartbeats? Some I slept through while others occurred while hurting people. Some happened while I was telling a friend I loved him and others while I was cursing a stranger under my breath. Even in the constant change that is life on earth, my breath and heart were sustained. God, time and again, proved his mercy and love by providing the blood that allowed me to fail as well as get it right every now and then. His goodness remains ever with me and the joy of his world continually at hand. I so rarely, however, stop to soak in the glories of the day or the emensity of his splendor. His love endures. Always.
I walked through the streets of Wheaton tonight remembering. I remembered what happened here, what happened there. Each memory seems so distant but still so near. In each instance the person I was then seems so unlikely. I don't know how I survived some of the days in the last five years. I don't know where the time has gone and how it has ended up here. I remember how painful and joyful the last half-decade has been. In that time, so many friendships evolved, some disintegrated. How is it possible that so much can change so seemingly quickly? How is the person that arrived in Wheaton in 2003 the same person who stands before you now in 2008, only not the same as before. The same, but different. The events that have happened in the time from being eighteen to twenty-three must be enough to fill several books, but why is it that I can't find any words to give the time? And why am I so afraid of forgetting? Or am I afraid of being forgotten?
But still, while everything is tumultuous and finite people are forgetful, walking barefoot down Main Street brings to mind the unchanging and eternal God in whose memory I will live forever. Like the thief on the cross, I cry to him, "Remember me, O Lord, in thy Kingdom." My one hope is to hear the same words he uttered to the man on his right. And sometimes, when it's especially quiet and I listen especially hard, I can almost hear his breath. I can almost hear his voice. He exhales through me, looking at the clouds, and, gladly, I shout "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

And Now, A Poem

"As We See" by Scott Cairns

The transfiguration of our Lord - that is, the radiance in which he was bathed at the pinnacle of Mount Tabor - did not manifest a change in Him, but a change in those who saw Him.
- Issac the Least

Suppose the Holy One Whose Face We Seek
is not so much invisible as we
are ill equipped to apprehend His grave
proximity. Suppose our fixed attention
serves mostly to make evident the gap
dividing what is seen and what is here.

The Book there on the stand proves arduous
to open, entombed as it is in layers
of accretion, layers of gloss applied
to varied purposes, hardly any of them
laudable, so many, guarded ploys
to keep the terms quite sitll, predictable.

Which is why I'm drawn to - why I love - the way
the rabbis teach. I love the way they read -
opening The Book with reverence for what
they've found before, joy for what lies waiting.
I love the Word's ability to rise again
from chronic homiletic burial.

Say the One is not so hidden as we
are kept by our own conjuncture blinking,
puzzled, leaning in without result. Let's say
the meek, the poor, the merciful all
suspect His hand despite the evidence.
As for those rarest folk, the pure in heart?
Intent on what they touch, they see Him now.