unfinished

Engaging in risky behavior

2012-01-29T21:08:00.001-06:00

On Thursday night, I said goodbye to a friend that has become increasingly close over this past year. Yesterday, he got on a plane to fly to another country where he hopes to spend the next four years sharing the hope we have in Christ with a people living in darkness.

I have another friend who is patiently waiting tables while hoping to hear good news from one of the graduate schools she has applied for.

I live with a friend who has high hopes for the relationship he is currently in. It has been a blessing for me to see the ups and downs of their day-to-day.

Hope is risky, isn't it?

Being a fairly risk-averse person, I often wonder why I am so drawn to hope. Hope is so different from the things I grew up finding comfort in - the comfort of the known, the comfort of counting on myself, the comfort of being able to run away when things got too difficult to face. Hope isn't particularly comfortable for me.

And yet... God had great hope when He brought us into this world. With hope Jesus poured out His life for ours. It is a great hope that He invites us to, to the praise of His name.

I wonder how to hope sometimes. I wonder where to fix my eyes as I take each new step. I am perplexed when I set my eyes on one thing, only to find the path before me will lead me somewhere else. It's a complex dance to take part in, wonderful to look back on, and at times bewildering in the heart of it.

I no longer pray for written instructions and explanations to show up at my door each morning to tell me how I will live out each day, but I confess I still want to sometimes. In the meantime, I do try to make the commitment most days to continue engaging in risky behavior.

A manifesto, of sorts

2012-01-28T23:36:00.000-06:00

In a very disturbing way I experience the trauma of being torn from the womb and immediately recognizing that even while clothed, I am naked; even in a family, I am alone; even speaking, I am silenced; and even living, I am dying.

I had a "what I am getting myself into?" moment earlier today as I began to read the first chapter of the latest book I have opened. Jonathan gave me The Long Journey Home for my birthday and after a week or so of anticipating beginning the book, I finally decided it was time. It's a large book; the issue it addresses is bigger still.

The book opens with a quote, part of which I began this post with. It is the experience of a woman who was raped; she writes this years later. After the introduction, her words set the tone for this book, for this volume I tentatively enter. She knows very well the broken condition of this world and having heard her, I can't pretend I didn't.

A question presents itself to me: Will you, Tim, enter into this arena? Do you even know what you are getting yourself into? Do you have what it takes to enter into other's deep, perhaps deepest, hurt and offer them anything at all?

My friends, I have no idea. Actually, that's not entirely true. I know that I don't have what it takes. I wonder if anyone does. I do know that Jesus does have what it takes, that He knows our pain better than any of us, that He alone heals. And because I know this, I am compelled to sit with others, to listen to them, to point them to what He has done for us.

Do I wish I could close my eyes, cover my ears, and pretend that the world is ok? All the time. If we could fix sin via denial, I know we would have done it by now. But that hasn't worked yet and it never will.

I wonder how this book will change me. I wonder what twenty-four year old, male, single me will look like when this is all said and done.

Day 1

2012-01-01T20:01:00.001-06:00

I think I could use a little more

desperation

messiness

vulnerability

openness

honesty

and

neediness

a whole lot less

pride

disdain

hiding

and

keeping up appearances

and an abundance of

mercy

love

grace

and

Jesus

in my life.

This is less of a resolution and more of a decision to explore those things this year, to make them more present this year. You are welcome to join the adventure.

December 31st

2011-12-31T17:16:00.000-06:00

Sometimes December 31st feels like an arbitrary day to end a year. Not much changes overnight. In fact, most things stay pretty much the same, as my friend Kristyna observed. Here is an excerpt from something she shared today -

the truth is, we stay the same. everything stays the same.
we stay the same sinners with twisted minds and broken hearts.
hoping for a better day.
the pain will still be pain.
the darkness will still be darkness.
and this night won't change a thing.
people will still be dying, and our hearts will stay unsatisfied.

Her words beg a response.

But before that, I thought this would be a good time for me to take a look back personally. In a similar fashion to previous years, I'll take some snapshots of each month of my blogging. To be honest, as I write this, I don't know yet what I will find.

January
"I want to spend the year intentionally, or I won't do it at all. I want the Gospel to be the reason I wake up every morning. ...I suspect it will ruin me for normal life. I almost want it to."

February
"Today I typed a couple of pages more on my paper, then sat back and thought about the man I've become. He doesn't fit in that old skin any more. He's a little more serious, a little more responsible, a little more disappointed, and perhaps a little more jaded. He's also a little more alive, a little more appreciative of life, a little more hopeful, and perhaps a little bit better dreamer."

March
"I'm feeling really good about tomorrow

for no particular reason

I'm just feeling really optimistic about it

I hope you are too"

April
"Tonight was a night for wandering, for just feeling and not evaluating. Tonight there was no agenda."

May
"I am where I am as a result of God breaking into my world over and over again, through relationships and other circumstances. Everything of value in my life is a gift from Him, not something I created for myself."

June
"Yes, I want her joy and her pain to be my own. I deeply desire to dream with her, to know her and be known, and to be known by others as two people whose hearts are knit as one. I don't know who she is. But I'm beginning to have a clearer picture of who I'll need to be."

July
"Only a God who could call things that are not as though they were can ever hope to save us."

August
"She learned to hope again at camp. She learned from someone who desperately leans on grace and hope because he knows he needs Jesus just as much as anyone else. In the middle of showing others how to hope well, I found it was all I could do to hold on myself. I am grateful that the One who alone gives hope was holding on to me."

September
"I want my past to help illuminate my future. I want to learn from mistakes and joys and disappointments and hopes. I want to invite God to redeem it all."

October
"I'm realizing that I can't make my life happen on my own. I'm seeing that most of life is out of my control, and the best I can do is move forward with open eyes, open ears, and a spirit of humility. I can't create my own heaven here on earth and I don't want to any more. But I can seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness and trust that everything else will be added to me.

And that would be much better than the original plan."

November
"I'm feeling tired this week, and I think it has a lot to do with taking care of myself."

December
[this blog post]

I wrote very few words this month. Nothing here, a mere two posts at my other blog, only a few pages in my journal. I think December passed too quickly for me. Perhaps I moved too quickly for December, or simply never stopped long enough to pause and reflect. Whatever the reason, I am here now.

I am here, aware that this year changed me, aware that it was full of joy and aching. Life was full of surprises. Living also hurt sometimes.

The one thing that remained constant is God's faithfulness. That goes without saying, and yet, absolutely needs to be said. It needs to be repeated. I need the Gospel more today than yesterday.

There's more to be said about this year. There will be many things that will need to be said next year.

Life begs a response.

Let's respond.

Oh, I would be remiss to not share the rest of Kristyna's words with you...

because the One that can satisfy is here the whole time.
He doesn't come with new year.
He comes as you invite Him.
i am not naive on this new years eve.
the only thing i can hope and wish for is that i am able to learn more
and that i may meet my Savior in the pain as the new year comes.
and as every new morning the sun arises.

The song I sing in the morning

2011-11-20T20:54:00.001-06:00

Sometimes my blogs are simply links to songs. Sometimes I write because I've been inspired by a song, or I add a song at the end because I couldn't stop thinking about it while I was writing. Tonight I am writing about a song that I often sing to myself as I start work each day. (I guess this falls into the second category I created just a few sentences ago.)

Listen first.

Take Me Home by Abel

(Repeat as necessary.)

One of the highlights of my work day is the way I start each morning. I pull into my spot at work, walk into the building, and begin making coffee. I could let someone else do it, but I get there earlier than most and I enjoy the ritual. While it is brewing, I go up to my classroom to drop off my stuff. I like to pause there for a moment, pray again (I pray with my roommate Ryan each morning before we leave - that's another highlight and blessing), and gather my thoughts for the day. Then I put the coffee out for my caffeine-starved coworkers and walk outside.

My morning duty is making sure that traffic keeps flowing as parents drop off their kids by the band hall. Because most parents are responsible and can take care of themselves, what it really means is I have time to greet each student that walks by, as well as observe parents' last interactions with their children before they leave for the day.

Not long after I started this new job, I noticed fathers kissing their daughters goodbye as they sent them off. It reminded me of the line from Abel's song: I've seen the best that men have to offer, the way they build cities and kiss their daughters. There's something wonderful about that simple gesture. I won't pretend to fathom it. In fact, I love the mystery of it. It gives me joy enough to just get to see it. And if I'm honest, I'll tell you I want that someday.

The song continues:
But I've seen my share of disasters too
I climbed from the wreckage
But couldn't find an answer for me, for you, for any of us
So I find myself crying, "Jesus"

And that's exactly how the rest of my day goes sometimes. I'm an in-school suspension teacher and the kids that end up in my room (not all of them, but many of them) come from wrecked families. I don't know how to answer the questions they're asking every way but verbally. Their questions are deep. Their questions don't have satisfying answers outside of Jesus. It's an interesting place to sit each day. When I took this job, I trusted God had me here for reasons I couldn't see. It's a trust I've had to maintain, though He's given me glimpses into His purpose for me in this season.

The song ends with a resounding refrain - oh, take me home!

Yes. My desire for home is still strong.

Provision

2011-11-17T17:05:00.001-06:00

I have this idea so often that I have to provide for myself. That I have to make sure I have a plan (for the next few hours, at least). That I have to make sure everything gets done. That I have to make my relationships work. It is tiring, and it makes me crazy sometimes. And it leaves no room for God, though by His grace He so often intervenes.I'm feeling tired this week, and I think it has a lot to do with taking care of myself.

Billy Bray on prayer

2011-10-10T18:00:00.000-05:00

"I must talk to Father about this"

The original plan

2011-10-06T21:44:00.002-05:00

The original plan was to complete four years at Texas Tech, study electrical engineering, and become an Air Force officer. I expected to see the world.

My second plan was to study business and eventually it looked like I might major in actuarial science.

When I let that plan fall through, I changed my major to economics so I could graduate. Then I made new plans to become a teacher.

God has had different plans than I have, and I have learned to accept what He gives me with open hands... most of the time, anyway. Life in the past few years has looked a lot like giving up things that I thought were secure and receiving things I had never dreamed of. It is well. I am thankful that there has been time between each shift to see what God is doing, grateful for what I see when I look back.

A student asked me last week if I ever plan on getting married. This student happened to be standing there when he asked me. I paused to think about his question (I also pondered the frequency with which I hear this question at work), wondering how to answer. I didn't know what to do with the word plan in his question. How do you plan to get married? I suppose his question was a very straightforward one. And the straightforward answer is yes. I do hope for that someday.

I can't speed up how quickly I finish school. I can't make my job joyful every day.

What is the message of this blog? What do I want my reader to hear? Why do I put my fingers to the keys tonight?

I'm realizing that I can't make my life happen on my own. I'm seeing that most of life is out of my control, and the best I can do is move forward with open eyes, open ears, and a spirit of humility. I can't create my own heaven here on earth and I don't want to any more. But I can seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness and trust that everything else will be added to me.

And that would be much better than the original plan.

"And he had to pass through Samaria."

2011-09-11T22:45:00.000-05:00

I have decided to read the book of John again. Many of the stories we told at camp this summer were out of the book of John and I kept finding myself surprised by some of the details in the stories that I had either forgotten or simply never noticed before. I want to read this book in such a way that the content no longer surprises me, though I look forward to a lifetime of being surprised by the story of Jesus. I'm reading for the details.

I re-read the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman a couple of days ago. Verse three struck me right away, when John tells us that Jesus "had to pass through Samaria." Every Jewish person in that day would have known that wasn't true. Samaria was simply the fastest way to get from north to south, and Jews typically went the long way around so they wouldn't have to walk through that "second-class" neighborhood. It left me wondering why Jesus "had to" do it, and that thought stayed with me as I got into the story.

I tried to imagine what their conversation must have been like, beyond just the words they spoke. Suddenly, she sounded very defensive as she interacted with this man who was mixing up her otherwise ordinary day. Just listen - "How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?" "Sir, you have nothing to draw water with, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob?" "Sir, I perceive that you are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you say that in Jerusalem is the place where people ought to worship." I don't want to add anything to God's word, but she sure sounds she is on her guard and ready to shut Jesus down. I don't think she expected anything good from this stranger.

And then Jesus meets her with grace. In telling her he knows all about her five husbands, he reveals that he knows her fully. In inviting her to drink of his living water and into true worship, he lets her know that he sees her value. More than that, he sees the value that he gives her, which is so much more.

As I read, I began to wonder how her past relationships played into her story. Here is a woman who has lost her husband not once, not twice, but five times. Some of them may have died and it's nearly certain that some of them betrayed her. And it's likely that she was not innocent either - none of us are. So here's this broken woman who met her Messiah, the one who came to save her.

There's a line in My Epic's new song, Childbodybride, that talks about us as the bride of Christ - like a bride, cherished, adorned and waited for. Jesus is our perfect husband. And he paid the price to make her clean, to present her to himself as his radiant bride, just like he does for us.

I wonder what it will be like to meet her at the wedding feast.

When they laid my King to rest
It was my shame He wore to bed
And it's the only part of Him
The Father did not resurrect

Now in my Father's land,
There are no lesser men,
Nobody barely wins or only just gets in,
'Cause Jesus never fell in love,
With open eyes He walked directly to the cross,
He knew exactly what I cost,
and He still went.

Like a body - close, connected and known,
So You've called us, and so we are,
And like a child - nurtured, protected, adored,
Somehow You name us, and so we are,
And like a bride - cherished, adorned and waited for,
So intimate, with every title that Your love affords.

My God, You never fell in love with open eyes
You chose to die upon the cross,
You knew exactly what I cost,
I was worthless, but you made me worth it,
I was a slave content to beg beneath your table,
But You took me in and made me a son.

When I finally arrive and my prodigal eyes behold
Jesus, who once wore my shame, adorned in majesty on His throne
I will stand and belong wearing His righteousness as my clothes

Dropping excess weight?

2011-09-01T22:08:00.001-05:00

Some people are really good at getting rid of things they don't need any more. Some of those people are also good at not getting those things in the first place.

I don't really understand how that works. Over any given length of time, I watch piles of things build up in my house and have no idea where all of it came from, or where it goes, or how to get it out of my house again.

I'm trying a new perspective. My lease is up at the end of September and I'm on a month-by-month basis after that. I don't know how much longer I'll be here, but I'm mindful that I will move someday. With that in mind, I've begun to ask which things I want to take with me when I move. It's kind of fun to fill the trash can and watch the Goodwill pile grow.

I'm also discovering some unique treasures as I go through closets and tiny knickknack mountain ranges. I've found old letters and awards, old journals and art projects, and clothes I forgot I owned. They are reminders the life that's been lived over these past few years. And as I make the decision to keep them or throw them away, I'm realizing that these memories demand bigger decisions.

There's a line in the movie Everything Is Illuminated that always gets me. "I have reflected many times upon our rigid search. It has shown me that everything is illuminated in the light of the past. It is always along the side of us, on the inside, looking out."

Yes. And there are certain parts of our pasts that illuminate our present more than other parts. I want to shed the meaningless and keep the significant. So I'm getting rid of clothes that don't fit me any more and keeping letters and journals that tell my story. If everything I own becomes artifacts in some future world, I want to leave the anthropologists things that are real.

I want my past to help illuminate my future. I want to learn from mistakes and joys and disappointments and hopes. I want to invite God to redeem it all.

On one knee

2011-08-25T18:18:00.001-05:00

I found myself in the middle of a moment of clarity one evening this summer. It happened as I was kneeling in front of a girl I had met a few weeks earlier, holding a ring out to her, asking that big question. Maybe you've been there too.

My team and I had the opportunity to go to the wedding reception of a friend we had served alongside. We had done camp with him and his church at the beginning of July. Those on our team who already knew him were really excited to see him finally getting married. Actually, the rest of us were too, after getting to know him and meeting his fiancee. At the end of July, we left our last camp to catch an early train so we could make it to the reception.

The reception was great. I had missed my favorite part of the wedding - watching the groom's face when he first sees his bride - but I was glad we were there for my second favorite part. It was a great evening of celebration, of catching up with friends I had met a few weeks earlier and meeting new and interesting people. I really liked the Czech wedding tradition of inviting the guests to link arms and dance around in the a circle while the new husband and wife dance together for the first time in the center.

Czechs also hold the same tradition of the girls trying to catch the bride's bouquet. I smiled as I watched the girl catch it; she had been in my English class at camp. The story could have ended there.

It could have, but it didn't. Instead, I found her approaching me and then was caught off guard as she asked me if I would marry her. Then I realized she was joking, so I totally went for it. Her friend was standing right by us, so I borrowed one of her rings, knelt down, and proposed to the girl who had first asked me. I learned some things in the moment, things like I should probably rehearse this before I do it for real.

I wrote a short blog back in June. It's short enough that I'll post the whole thing again.

Keep your heart with all vigilance

forfrom it flowthe springs of life.

Proverbs 4:23

I don't know if I kept my heart with vigilance that evening. I didn't give my heart to her... I couldn't have, for I suddenly found my heart had soared off in some other direction. As I gave her the borrowed ring, my mind was searching for my heart. I didn't quite know where it had gone.

It seems that our hearts were made to give themselves away. There's a part of me that is frustrated by this, part of me that believes I should be able to decide with my brain what my heart feels. In a way, I wish I could dictate feelings to myself. (Silly, I know, but I don't imagine I'm the only one.)

Maybe love is the integration of the two. It's not just an emotion and it's not just a decision you make. It has to be both. It's probably both, and more than both.

As I knelt, I wondered if could really love that girl. More than that, I wondered about the woman I will love deeper and wondered where she was at that moment. I didn't wonder how long till I would meet her, but I did know I would keep my heart until then.

"You are a fighter."

2011-08-23T17:53:00.000-05:00

When I was in Czech this summer, I only remembered one or two of the dreams I had. For a whole season, I dreamed while I was awake and not when I was asleep. I wasn't sure what to make of that, but I decided that it wasn't something I needed to ascribe significance to.

Things changed when I got back home a little over two weeks ago. I have had the most vivid of dreams these past weeks. Many of my dreams have been conversations that could very well happen in real life and sometimes I wake up in the middle of them and wonder if they actually took place. Sitting up in my bed in the dark, in the middle of the night, I often can't tell. It's only in the morning that I can separate fact from fiction.

Yes.

A week or so ago, I was telling a friend about a dream I had. He had been in my dream and so had one of our mutual friends. Our mutual friend was confessing to us his struggles with same gender attraction. I had promised him, on behalf of myself and my friend, that we would fight with him, for him. We would see him through this, no matter what it took. As I finished telling my friend about this dream, I didn't have much to say about it beyond that. I just needed to express it to someone safe.

And my friend looked at me and said, "You would fight. You would fight for him, Tim."

Last night, I had a similar dream. This time it was me and a coworker. We were having a normal conversation and I said something - I don't remember what - that communicated to him that I was a safe person, that I was someone he could trust. So he told me about him and his partner. My response was love. I held his secret and honored it and began to ponder what fighting for him, with him, would look like.

It seems that I'm being invited to fight.

Hoping

2011-08-08T02:59:00.001-05:00

God continues to work in mysterious ways.

Going into my last camp this summer, I had two prayer requests. I asked that I would really connect with the small group I was with and that God would speak through me as I spoke throughout the week. He answered both in ways that I did not expect.

I had a really cool small group that I got to lead with an American girl named Maddie, who was like a younger sister, and my dear friend and fellow intern, Anicka. There were four members of our group who were not Christians and who still have questions to overcome before they choose Christ. It was awesome to watch them make great strides towards knowing Him and it was a blessing to get to have open conversations about Christ and the Gospel with them. I don't think they ever thought what we were saying wasn't true - they just weren't ready to believe. M was the only guy in my group besides me and he knows it all, believes it all, and isn't ready to follow Him yet. J was a girl who told me she's the kind of person who "can't believe," though she would like to. Yeah. We're praying for them.

There were eight members in my group, so there's one more girl I need to tell you about. B became a believer a year or two ago and went through some really joyful and hard times because of it. Still, she held on to her faith. She held on until sometime this summer, when she stopped feeling God's presence. She sought Him and could not find Him. A day before she came to camp this summer, she told her best friend that she wasn't sure she believes in God any more and that maybe life would be just fine without Him. She also told this to Jonathan and one of the leaders at our camp right at the beginning. I didn't know these things were a part of her story until halfway through the week. I just spoke.

And apparently God used me just about every time I opened my mouth. As we talked about Jesus and the woman caught in adultery the second night and Jesus and Zaccheus the next, she listened with her heart as I spoke about grace and about hope. She asked me to lead a short devo about grace one afternoon during free time and after praying, I decided to share the story of the prodigal son. I had no clue how close to home that would hit for her or others in the that group. I did not know anything on the fourth morning devo of camp when I confessed my anger the night before to the collective team of Czechs, Americans, interns, and interested students.

I don't get any of the glory in this. This was all God as He answered my simple prayer. He knew exactly what she needed to hear, when she needed to hear it, how she needed to hear it. And other people were just as instrumental in bringing her back to our Savior.

She learned to hope again at camp. She learned from someone who desperately leans on grace and hope because he knows he needs Jesus just as much as anyone else. In the middle of showing others how to hope well, I found it was all I could do to hold on myself. I am grateful that the One who alone gives hope was holding on to me.

wherever the Author takes us?

2011-07-25T11:24:00.003-05:00

(reposted from Thursday, August 27, 2009)

[Abraham] is our father in the sight of God, in whom he believed—the God who gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were.
-Romans 4:17

I discovered this verse when I was reading about the faith of Abraham this summer. I taught through Hebrews 11 in Sunday school, but I wanted to dig deeper than just those words, so that usually took me to the Old Testament and the stories found there. As I was reading about "heirs of the promise," I ended up in Romans 4, a chapter awesome enough to deserve its own study.

I absolutely love what 4:17 says about God. He is the God who calls things that are not as though they were. In other words, He redeems all things. It reminds me of what Joseph told his brothers who sold him into slavery: "You meant it for evil, but look at all the good God turned it into!"

As I sat in the teacher's chair that Sunday morning, I just wasn't sure how to express how incredible this verse was. I stumbled around with my words, as I do so often when trying to express things too good or too beautiful for my simple vocabulary, and prayed that the Holy Spirit was communicating the point more effectively than I felt like I was. Only a God who could call things that are not as though they were can ever hope to save us. Only this God enables us to hope against hope, gracing us with unbelievable outcomes.

I continued the series for about another two months, finally ending in the beginning of Hebrews 12. In light of everything we saw in chapter eleven, in light of all of these stories of people who lived and dies, the writer exhorts us to fix our eyes upon Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith. For as long as I've known that verse, I thought it was great that Jesus is the perfecter of my faith. I always pictured my faith as this growing thing, ever striving for maturation that would finally happen when I reached heaven. And while that's mostly true, I missed the whole "author" thing entirely.

I missed it until I got caught up in the real life stories of the people in Hebrews 11. The narrative behind their Polaroids in Hebrews is often way different than you see in those snapshots. If you read the accounts in the Old Testament, you see very real people living very gritty lives. You find cowards and liars and con artists and murderers and prostitutes and womanizers and all manner of folk you would immediately want to shield your children from and wouldn't invite to your birthday parties. And then you flip over to Hebrews 11, which really isn't that far away when you've got a small Bible, and you read about some awesome people that make you think, "Hey, I wish my life was that amazing" and "Man, it would be cool to hang out with that dude."

Romans 4:17 helped me get a better grasp on what was going on here, I thought. God could call these people who clearly "weren't" as if they were. Maybe that's it.

But I am certain there is more to it than that. It says that Jesus is the author of our faith, the author of their faith, too. We've got a whole Bible full of stories and poetry and prophecy. When God sent us a letter from Himself, He didn't write a textbook. He didn't just write down a collection of facts about Himself or His nature and He entirely neglected to give us any practical formulas for how we can live our best life now. Instead, He wrote history and often invited humans to be a part of it. God gave Adam and Eve a promise of redemption and got to work writing an excellent narrative to get there.

The people who are featured in Hebrews were all people who yielded their selfish little dreams to be part of something bigger. They allowed Christ to write them into a much better story. They were broken and knew it and God didn't have to hide it. He didn't write Hebrews 11 as a revisionist history. I am confident that God did not look down from heaven when He was writing down chapter eleven, suddenly realize that all of the people He had used had some serious character flaws, and then proceed to ignore those things. Instead, as the Author, He chose to call things that weren't as though they were: He told everything that mattered. And everything else He forgave through Christ's work on the cross. Period. These real life people longed for Him, and it says that He was not ashamed to be called their God (Heb 11:16).

This is huge! and it fills me with hope. I am loved by a God who invites me to be part of His story through faith, a God who is not ashamed of my past or of the things I will still mess up and do. I love my God who gave me faith, who is the author of that faith, and will see me through to the glorious end.

short blog tonight

2011-06-21T16:46:00.000-05:00

Keep your heart with all vigilance

forfrom it flowthe springs of life.

Proverbs 4:23

How is your heart?

2011-06-14T06:13:00.003-05:00

You have an hour

Come away

Leave this place

Walk with Me

And we'll talk

About your heart

It's been a while

But I'm still here

I'm still here

And we have an hour

Where your story begins

2011-06-12T16:51:00.002-05:00

(Yes, of course I thought of a certain family when I saw this.)

I arrived in Kyjov yesterday afternoon with Team Mustache. We came to help prepare the youth group and youth leaders for English camp in July, so we spent time getting to know them, playing games, teaching the camp song and dance, went over roles and responsibilities, and had a chance to discuss a camp Bible story in small groups. It was a very full day.

Jonathan and I spent the night with the youth pastor and his wife. They live in the apartment below the church - you gotta love European zoning ordinances and style. (It was wonderful to wake up in the morning to the sound of the youth band practicing and then to take the twenty second walk up the stairs and into the foyer. I could get used to that, I think.) They are a cute couple; their first anniversary is next month.

Tonight, the girls on my team left to their host homes and Jonathan and Trisha left for Bohumilice for a school visit, leaving just me and my cute couple. I saw the sign pictured above in their apartment last night and it got me wondering what kind of story they hope for themselves. After everyone else had left, I helped Petra with the dishes from the day. I took the opportunity to ask her about life in Kyjov and as I listened to her speak, I also listened to what she was saying between the lines. It's not something I typically do, but tonight there was too much there to ignore.

As she began to tell me a little about how she and her husband came to the place where they are now, I wondered if they felt trapped in roles given to them by people in their lives. I remembered the sign hanging in their apartment and wondered if she felt like their story had begun yet. Later, as we sat together in their kitchen and held a conversation in English and German (she speaks English and he speaks German), I wondered what kinds of things they hoped for together in their marriage.

After a short school visit tomorrow morning, I'm off to another city with my team until I see them again at camp in July. I wrestle with knowing how to enter into someone else's story when I know my time with them is short. Inviting others to hope is dangerous business. I'm becoming convinced that it's one of the few adventures that are always worth it.

Speaking my story

2011-06-05T17:03:00.000-05:00

I met Greg a couple of days ago. He's the missionary in Tabor, Czech Republic that Jonathan lived with last fall and whose apartment we'll be crashing this summer. His home will be our home base from which we'll go all over Czech.

This is Greg. Now you have a face to go with his name.

Tonight I sat down with him over a piece of Czech cake because I wanted to get to know him a little better here at our training site in Malenovice before I see him again a week or so from now. I asked him what his daily life looked like, what kinds of things filled his day, what it was like living alone in a city of people you are there to love on and minister to, without being able to entirely share the same language. Heh. Sometimes I find that I unintentionally ask questions that invite a deeper response than I'm prepared for.

He in turn asked me about myself, like what I do when I'm in San Antonio. (I have suddenly found that it is very easy to say what I've done over the past two years and considerably more complicated to answer the question of what life will look like when this summer is over.) Greg also wanted to hear my story of coming to the Czech Republic and gave me plenty of time to respond. I appreciated it, especially because the full version of the story is so much richer than the twenty second answer.

As I told him about my journey of coming here, the whole story took on a new reality for me. Telling stories has a way of doing that, of giving reality to events that have taken place. I wasn't just listing off a sequence of events to him; I was telling him how I arrived here, to this specific place where I now am. The past seen in the light of the present looks way different than each of the former present moments that make up the past.

Maybe that's why telling our stories is important. There's one particular story that comes to mind as I think about the power of giving words to stories. It's a story from my childhood that only six people have heard snatches of. To be honest, I'm not sure it's a story that is a reality to me quite yet, though I know that it did happen. I've lived life believing that if I can keep from naming it (though at this point, I suppose it's a little late), maybe I could keep it from having any bearing on my life. I think I was almost successful until I let it slip. I think I'm thankful for that slip, but even more, I'm thankful for the people who have taken the time to help me come to terms with reality.

In a moment of tenderness

2011-06-04T07:31:00.001-05:00

[This is from an early page of a brand new journal. It's more personal than my typical blogging and it's a bit more free-structured, but I think that's ok for today.]

To love another person is to ask that person to make your life theirs and to be willing to make their life yours.

Your joys
Your pain
Your aspirations
Your bonds
Your family

Like Ruth to Naomi. Your home, your people, your God.

So if I find myself in bondage to someone else's expectations for my life... what kind of life am I asking a woman to share with me? Christ transcends all of my relationships, but that doesn't immediately make all my unhealthy relationships right. I can only imagine what things would look like if I were not found in Him.

What would it look like to come into my own? What kind of man would that allow me to be?

I wonder what my life would look like it if were full of small rebellions against the places where I am not fully alive. Will I fight for truth and beauty and grace, for my own heart and the hearts of others?

Christ did not die so that I could just get by!

I think Peter was right when he desired to die for His sake, to see His kingdom come. I want to enter fully into relationships as a bondservant of the risen Messiah, not the slave of anyone or anything else. I want true intimacy with such a kindred spirit, another person who loves her Master.

Yes, I want her joy and her pain to be my own. I deeply desire to dream with her, to know her and be known, and to be known by others as two people whose hearts are knit as one. I don't know who she is. But I'm beginning to have a clearer picture of who I'll need to be.

I like this song right now

2011-05-19T23:54:00.000-05:00

Time, it opens all wounds

And trust is gonna put me in the tomb

The world isn't mine, the world isn't mine to save

I can't afford to lose what you resell and throw away

And I don't even know myself,

What it would take to know myself

I need to change, I don't know how

Don't give up on me now

It's not what we do, it's what we do with what we feel

Takes all you have to stare it down, and whisper "Devil, no deal."

And I don't wanna fight, don't wanna fight my father's war

You can wait your whole life

Not knowing what you're waiting for

And I don't even know myself,

What it would take to know myself

I need to change, I don't know how

Don't give up on me now, don't give up on me now

I don't even know myself,

What it would take to know myself

I need to change, I don't know how

Don't give up on me now

It's available for free on itunes at the moment.

Questions, questions, questions

2011-05-16T23:08:00.000-05:00

(Reposted from last year)

Periodically in my journal, you would come across a page of just questions and nothing else. Sometimes just one or two, sometimes full pages of them, some of them would be trite and others would attempt to plumb the depths of my own soul. Some are asked in earnest seeking of an answer, some don't expect much of a reply at all. It's a bit surprising, given the constraints of English sentence structure, how many different emotions are given birth in these moments of asking, crying out, accusing, searching, and simple humility.

I didn't know it at the time, but a few years ago I set out on a quest to learn to ask good questions. The ones that invited an answer, that saw through the lies and the hiding and offered life. I wanted questions that cut to the heart of matters and I desired greatly to become one who could protect others in their vulnerability. I sought good questions not for their own sake, but for the sake of truth and freedom.

These past few months have been full of practice. Like scales falling from my eyes, God has been showing me pain I'd never seen before and has made my heart tender in ways I didn't know it was possible. Brokenness must have always surrounded me, but I have never been so aware. And so I'm reaching for the questions, the ones that, yes, find explanations, but are truly seeking to bring healing. I'm sitting in stories with others, exploring, asking for more.

It has been glorious and it has been very dangerous. At times I have been too intent on learning more that I have almost forgotten the Truth I know. Questions ought to serve truth and truth is not always dependent on good questions to be found. I pressed hard into a student's life recently, wanting to find all the roots that were producing a certain fruit, when what he needed just as much was some useful advice and a good dose of reality. We're making progress.

I've also found that I can lose my own self in being the one with all the good questions. There are not many ways to hide that are quite as effective as being curious about someone else and inviting them to do all the talking, all the while revealing so little of yourself. Professional counselors do this because it is their job. Friends don't.

As I wrote in my journal last night:

I have fewer answers than when I woke up this morning.

2011-05-01T23:39:00.000-05:00

For I know the plans I have for me,” declares Tim, “plans to be content and not do anything too crazy, plans to figure out the next step and stick to the plan.
- Jere-me-ah 29:11

Saturday morning, I saw a young homeless man sitting at the gas station, smoking a cigarette. His cavalier attitude toward the potential of blowing up the whole place in a great ball of fire unsettled me. I stood there and watched him as my tank filled with gasoline, wondering at his willingness to risk everyone's life.

I knew I could go over and mention it to him. "Hey... do you mind not smoking that here?" But for some reason, I couldn't make my feet carry me over to him. I think part of it was that I was not satisfied with merely asking him to save his cigarette for later. We were all still alive, after all. My greater desire was to sit with him, ask him his name, ask how we had got there and where he was going, and is there anything I can do for you?

I also knew that I was twenty minutes late to meeting with some friends for a trip to a nearby swimming hole. I had whatever time it took to finish filling my tank to reach a decision, but that was done before I even thought about making a decision. I had my gas and we hadn't been blown up and he was getting up to continue walking. The moment was gone.

"I know the plans I have for me..." This ugly change to Jeremiah 29:11 popped into my head as I drove off and I frowned. I have no idea what could have become of talking to that man; I just knew that talking with him impeded on the plans I had for the day, so I chose my plans over mystery. Did I do anything wrong? Probably not. Did I do right? I'm not sure.

I don't want the twisted verse to define me any more. Those principals aren't even what got me where I am. I am where I am as a result of God breaking into my world over and over again, through relationships and other circumstances. Everything of value in my life is a gift from Him, not something I created for myself. His plans for me - His plans for us - are great. His dreams are unfathomable and they are wholly good. It is true that

No eye has seen,

no ear has heard,

no mind has conceived

what God has prepared for those

who love Him.

1 Cor 2:9

Hm. What do You want me to hear?

2011-04-27T22:08:00.000-05:00

December found me pondering what it would look like to take a year off of school, leave my current job, and try something radical. These things were stirring in my heart, so I gave them words and began to listen more intently.

All I Want by Future of Forestry gave words to what was beginning to take form.

The Living Proof by Sanctus Real tugged at the same heart strings that I was becoming more sensitive to. It still does.

The Living Proof - Sanctus Real from georg clooney on Vimeo.

I began to wonder what it would look like to devote a year of my life to freeing modern day slaves. I read about it, talked about it with close friends, and learned that what many of them need most is counselors to help them cope with the trauma that defined their lives before they were set free. It seemed almost ironic that to spend a year with them would delay my training as a counselor by a year.

And then of course, there was JJ. January marked a year and a half that I had shared with him, and as the school year draws to an end, it will have been two years. I have watched him find a voice, make new friends, develop his first crush, and had the pleasure of introducing him to Jesus. Not only that, but I have had the opportunity to speak into the lives of dozens of his peers, even counting some of them as my own friends, at least to some extent. So I determined that I would do nothing new, I would not leave him, I would do eighth grade with him, unless God called me to something different.

I have quite confidently told a number of people that I will continue to work at the same school next year. I saw fully that there are a million things I could give my life to and I chose to stay the course. The deciding factor was not responsibility, though that played a role. The true deciding factor was love.

And... I found out this week that JJ and his family are moving back to the city they call home. They're moving soon, much sooner than I would prefer.

It leaves me wondering what exactly God desires from me in this.

I was pretty certain I had got it this time. I thought that maybe, for a season a little bit longer than any past season, I might have arrived where He wanted me. (I do truly believe I'm exactly where He wants me.) His faithfulness over these past two years has been nothing short of incredible and I'm thankful for every day and I kinda thought that maybe around this time next year I could say the same thing about His faithfulness. It would just be three years this time.

Next year, I will be proclaiming His faithfulness just as boldly. I just don't quite know what that will look like.

Cleaned by the King

2011-04-10T23:02:00.000-05:00

καθαρίζω (katharizō)

1) to make clean, cleanse

b) in a moral sense

1) to free from defilement of sin and from faults

2) to purify from wickedness

3) to free from guilt of sin, to purify

4) to consecrate by cleansing or purifying

5) to consecrate, dedicate

My eyes welled with tears this morning during worship. It was that feeling that is so distinctly human: the tightening of your throat, the cracking of your voice, the tears flooding your eyes. It is a feeling I cannot summon on my own accord. It left me vulnerable in the middle of the sanctuary. It left me rejoicing.

I find it difficult sometimes to find tears for myself. They tend to show up when I engage with someone else's hurt or when I am overwhelmed. When my tears are present, I know beyond a doubt that I am as well.

This morning, it took me several songs to become present before the King. I sang the first song halfheartedly, pondering before Him if I should even be singing at all. I was less away as the set went on, and I was fully there as the last song ended. As I sang along with the congregation, I was only aware of Yahweh, of Him making me clean.

I'm not really sure why I can't cleanse myself. I don't really get why my emotions seem to need to be drawn out by someone other than me. These are things I am pondering.

Packing well

2011-04-01T22:43:00.000-06:00

Tonight, tonight felt like the right night to bring out my pipe again. Cradling the bowl in my hand as the fire lingered at the bottom, at the end of my smoke, I wondered about the hands that had crafted my pipe. When he or she put the final touches on it, deciding just how to finish whittling the wood into its perfect shape, did that person know what kind of future that pipe would have?

There's a certain romance to pipe smoking. As the white smoke curls from the bowl or floats lazily from the mouth, I can't help but let my mind wander just as freely. Tonight was a night for wandering, for just feeling and not evaluating. Tonight there was no agenda.

It took a while to get started this evening. I packed my pipe carefully, lit a match, and put it to the leaf. This took a few tries, between a slight breeze and dry tobacco. Likewise, it took a while for my thoughts to settle in any particular place. I wrote stories in my mind as I sat there on my porch. Live music drifting over from the nearby country club. I thought about friends I had shared a pipe with, thought about conversations past, felt the weight of my solitude in the moment. It felt good to sit there by myself and simply anticipate some shared future. It felt really good.

I found that I was eventually thinking about home. I thought about what makes a place a home. It's knowing how to get there and taking my shoes off as I walk in the door. It's knowing how it's going to smell when I enter in, unless there's something delicious being baked or cooked in the kitchen. It's the place where I hear Tim, you belong here and you can stay as long as you like. We want you here.

Perhaps you know exactly where that place is for you.

καθαρός

2011-03-28T21:51:00.001-06:00

From the American Heritage® New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy (man, what a title!):

catharsis [(kuh- thahr -suhs)]

An experience of emotional release and purification, often inspired by or through art. In psychoanalysis, catharsis is the release of tension and anxiety that results from bringing repressed feelings and memories into consciousness.

In my group therapy class on Saturday morning, my professor opened class with this question: "In one word, describe what you are hoping for in class today."

I guess that's not really a question.

The first and only word that came to my mind when she gave us that prompt was catharsis. It was simply there, and once it was there, nothing else would take its place. However, due to the the size of our class, she changed the question by the time it got to me. I don't remember her question to me or my answer. Once she passed me, I resorted to half-mumbling the word so that only those around me could hear what was on my mind. Their reactions were mixed, remembering that a woman in our class had experienced catharsis last time we met. It was nothing short of amazing to me, watching her face both truth and lies and where they had intersected her life, my heart moving in inexplicable ways as tears streamed down her face.

I'm certainly not done with this topic, I'm just out of time for tonight.

Catharsis

2011-03-23T21:23:00.002-06:00

BEAR HUG ME MAN
Take your old school carpenter arms and throw them around my upper body

leaving my arms dangling underneath your's somewhere and I can barely move them because you're squeezing so hard
(But don't pick me up and make my back pop because I hate it when people do that)

And hold me, hold me here in your arms until I start to cry because
I WANT TO CRY
But I just can't seem to do it on my own
I've been teary eyed once recently but not even enough for a drip down my cheek
There's just hurt in my soul that needs to be purged

so hold me here in this hugging pose

until the pain is flowing from my eyes and nose

(from The Hug Poem by Bradley Hathaway)

taste

2011-03-21T22:15:00.002-06:00

I have tasted and I have seen that the Lord is good.

Silence

2011-03-20T20:31:00.001-06:00

Silence begets silence.

I didn't take my journal with me to Big Bend, mostly because it's quite a heavy book. Backpacking makes you rethink the things you really need for a journey into the wilderness:

extra shirt? probably, yes
water bottle? emphatic yes!
change of underwear? ... (in the end, yes)
glasses? nah
toothbrush? yes
two pound book? nope

No journal, then, though I often wished I had it as I walked along rocky trails with much time for thinking. I prayed, wondered about creation, imagined future trips and who I would like to go with, wondered if I had what it took to make it to the end. Backpacking in the desert becomes a mental battle at times, usually a quiet one.

Silence begets silence.

There were so many things to write about when I arrived back home, I didn't really know where to start, or even how. I didn't know what I wanted to record for myself, remembered only half of my questions and half of my answers. I stared at my journal the first night back in my own bed and did not put any ink on the page.

The next morning I took another backpacking trip of sorts, riding my bike sixteen miles across town to visit Jonathan. Again, I took only the essentials (including my grace group body outline, which got to experience the open air for that excursion), but not my journal. Two more days passed and plenty of words passed between Jonathan and myself, but nothing was put on paper.

Silence begets silence.

It doesn't just happen in your diary. Silence between friends tends to lead to more silence. Silent hearts can remain silent for a long time. Silence on the journey can make for a quiet journey.

Certainly, silence has its place, just as much as it has a time to end.

Ponder

2011-03-10T22:27:00.001-06:00

"How many people is the artist inviting into this picture?"

-Carrie Nethery

Do you want to come carbunking with me?

2011-03-08T19:35:00.000-06:00

Dreams don't play by anybody's rules. They fastforwardrewindskiparoundintime
s l o w d o w n pause and generally don't obey the time continuum we are used to living in. My dreams tend to bring together characters from all over my life and put them in places that aren't real but never feel foreign, resulting in situations and conversations that could very well happen if the dream world ever invaded ours. I write this in hopes that you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I woke up yesterday morning with a particular question in mind - do you want to come carbunking with me? It was incredibly vivid in my memory, as if it had been a serious question that I hadn't been able to respond to when asked. It fascinated me all morning, in no small part because carbunking is not even a word, much less a verb. It's just nonsense... and I really want to know what it means.

My dream that night was full of people I know in real life, as well as one middle-aged man I had never met before that kept asking me weird questions. It seems he was important because he served to distract me from the people I really wanted to be with. He wasn't the only fictional character, though. I think everyone in my dream, the dozen familiar faces, was a fictional version of his or her true self. They could only be as real as I imagined them, which meant every detail of their dream being was based on what I do or do not know about them and how I feel toward them. So the girl who invited me to go carbunking with her... she's not a real person, though she had the name and the face of someone I know in truth.

I've been in a vain discourse with my subconscious about this whole carbunking thing and the face given to the one who wanted me to join her. Why did she invite me to go carbunking with her? Is carbunking fun? Is it something like landshark hunting? Is it deeply meaningful? Is it good for the world around me? It could even be both! I have this really mysterious desire to go carbunking and no clue as to how to pursue that.

I feel like a man with a key that doesn't know what it unlocks.

The day after today

2011-03-07T22:10:00.002-06:00

I'm feeling really good about tomorrow

for no particular reason

I'm just feeling really optimistic about it

I hope you are too

run away run away run away

2011-02-27T09:59:00.000-06:00

Salary
Car insurance
Health insurance
Dental & vision plan
Rent agreement
Furniture

These are the things that people in the Western world have. These are the things that tie us to one place, that do not give live, but sustain it. They are the things that the world has convinced us we need, and they are just the beginning.

Yesterday I was driving home from one of the great temples of materialism and all I wanted to do was run away from it all. It was a strong urge, tempered only by responsibility to others. Stories of adventurers with nothing to lose have always fascinated me, but that is not my lot in life right now.

Tension. That's what I feel right now.

Hope

2011-02-25T23:20:00.002-06:00

There are a billion people more qualified, more experienced, and more eloquent than I to talk about hope. This is true, and still I want to add my own words.

It seems I have been moved towards counseling by forces other than myself. I don't think I would have sought it on my own. It is a labor of hope. Like anything else, it is all in vain if you cannot find hope and, once you've found it, cling to it for all you're worth.

Hope. I'm still not sure I get it. Hope is something beyond me; I know this especially when I'm sitting with another person, in their pain and their doubt, and words of hope come gushing like a flowing river from my lips. It rises up from within me, from a place that is not me, but Christ instead. Christ in me.

These days, I'm aware that Hope is holding onto me stronger than I am holding onto Hope. It's not that I don't want to grip strongly, I just don't know how to. I am quite ready for Jesus to come back, but it seems He isn't. At least, not quite yet.

Spontaneous praise

2011-02-24T19:28:00.001-06:00

I've been watching people wrestling with the question of God's goodness over the past few seasons, watching as hard questions surface and they call God to speak to the situation. I understood them; I'm human, after all.

Jonathan asked me a couple of weeks ago what I saw myself doing this summer. He was upfront about his desire that we would have the opportunity to serve alongside one another in the Czech Republic. It's an invitation I haven't had the chance to say yes to in the past. I wanted to wholeheartedly embrace it this year, but I found myself bound by hesitation.

"What do you see yourself doing this summer if you stay in San Antonio?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe get a job at a bike shop or a plant nursery or a job like that. I guess I'd try a short-term job doing something I've never done before."

I couldn't even pretend to be excited about a summer here, and he knew it. So he asked me about the Czech.

"I want to serve with you, Jonathan. I want to live out the Gospel. (I mean, I could do that anywhere, I realize.) But want I really want is what I see in the pictures that I've seen from the Czech. I want to be part of the joy I see on everyone's faces!"

And as we talked, it surfaced that I don't often expect God give me the things I truly desire. I tend to anticipate a settled life, a normal and unremarkable existence, where joy is not inherent to my circumstances, but it is there. I didn't even see the lie - the God isn't very much concerned with my happiness - that I was living from until I spoke it out loud. It's not that I haven't experienced great things through Him that gave me great joy and satisfaction; I've just considered them the exception, not the rule.

I began my application to go to the Czech Republic that night. It's in God's hands now.

It's weird though, naming a lie like that. You don't just overcome it because you can identify it. I can't even say how deep it goes. Is God truly good? Does He want good things for me? What is "good," anyway?

It's no easy task to answer that question, so I'll throw my lot in with all the others who are wrestling with Him.

Naming the animals (Praying the same prayers)

2011-02-22T21:02:00.001-06:00

How long did Adam walk with God before he felt the weight of his solitude? Maybe it was only a matter of days or weeks, or maybe it was centuries. I bet it was weeks, since that seems like about the amount of time he would have needed to explore the world God has placed him in. I'm a little jealous, when I think about it. Adam got to see everything first. I like to imagine him climbing a tree for the first time, or eating, for that matter. What that must have been like! I see can him squatting down and checking out a line of ants marching to and from the first little anthills ever built. Do you suppose he was surprised the first time he jumped in the water and learned that he couldn't breathe like the fish? Was Adam the first human who looked up at birds in the sky and wistfully sigh as he futilely flapped his arms?

As Moses tells the story, it is God who declared that it wasn't good for Adam to be alone, not Adam. And so our almighty and all-knowing Creator... tasked Adam with naming the animals? Curious choice.

Adam got to name a whole lot of other things besides the animals, too. He named the trees and other plants, he named foods and probably came up with numbers. He got to play with gravity and inertia and other physical laws. I bet he even discovered crawling and jumping and running. And emotions.

I wonder if emotions were hard to name when Adam first experienced them. Or maybe that's when it was easiest, because all he had to do was simply feel and assign a word to that feeling. Adam got to feel content and curious and in awe and probably surprised very often and suddenly undeniably lonely. I bet that felt very unsettling.

So God brought animals to Adam and he started naming them, one by one. And each animal was great, of course, but always missing something. Never able to satisfy the... whatever feeling that was. (If Adam was anything like me, I bet he put off naming that feeling.) There must have been days that Adam was consumed by his work and days when it was rare that he came across any new creatures. I wonder when he named faith or hope or love.

And Adam was finally exhausted from all of it and likely very confused, so he surrenders and takes a nap. He napped much longer than he intended to and woke up one rib short. And standing before him was the first of all Creation to inspire poetry. Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh. (Maybe this sounded more romantic in Hebrew?) In any case, awesome.

Sometimes I feel like I'm naming animals.

I want to be a little more like this man

2011-02-16T20:29:00.002-06:00

"When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up."
- C.S. Lewis

Wish

2011-02-10T21:21:00.002-06:00

"If you could wish for one anything in the world right now, what would it be?"

A profound question to be asked at 7:40 in the morning.

There's an eleven-year-old student at my school who sits with me on the couch outside the front office while I wait for the bus to arrive. We sit there and ask each other questions and fill each other in on world news and the latest ipod apps. Together, we greet the other teachers and students as they come in the door and welcome them to a new day of school.

We're kind of like a younger and friendlier version of Statler and Waldorf

This past Monday morning, he posed his question: "what would you wish for right now, if you could wish for anything in the world?"

That's a hard question even when you're fully awake, which I rarely am on Monday mornings. I thought about it for a bit, pondering the desires that I hold at any given time, wondering what I would pick if I could truly have just one wish granted. I did some mental acrobatics: Should I say that? No, that's probably not what he means. How about this? No, even I think that's a dumb answer and it's not true anyway. Is a good cup of coffee too small an answer?

I decided to buy some time, so I turned the question back on him. Either he didn't hear me or didn't want to answer, and as a stream of people came in the doors, we greeted them and let the question fall by the wayside. I thought that perhaps he had forgotten the question, but I found out I was wrong when he asked me again. I hemmed and hawed a bit, and finally decided on, "well, it seems to me that nothing really satisfies us long term, you know what I mean?"

(I waited for Tracy to call bullshit!, but she wasn't there.)

"So... maybe a new car?" It turns out I can immediately be very content with my life when I don't want to tell others my true desires. I felt very dumb, sitting next to that sixth grader, telling him my greatest wish was for a new car.

"Well, you know what I would wish for you?" he replied. "A wife."

Inside, I wondered how he knew.

Research

2011-02-05T18:48:00.001-06:00

If you take all these words and rearrange them, you'll get my latest research paper.

It's interesting that some of the most commonly used words are not the most important ones. Wordles tend to make that very clear. I wonder if my words are like that; if I were to make a wordle of all the words I use in an average day, what would we see?

Old skin

2011-02-02T21:22:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure what chai latte creamer is good for, but it's definitely not good for coffee, no sir. If you have any idea, then you can have my bottle and put it to better use. And since I have yet to acquire a taste for black coffee, I went without caffeine this morning. By one o'clock, I was really craving some, so I escaped the confines of the school I work at (I had no idea how much teachers have in common with students until I started working here) to seek out the nearest local Starbucks. I arrived there, only to find it closed due to rolling black-outs that happened all over San Antonio today. Naturally, I decided to have some sushi for lunch instead, since those are close substitutes.

My roommate's car has gone on strike because of the below freezing temperatures, so I offered to drive him out to "El Paso" for his evening economics class. I dropped him off and found a parking spot with all the other students who hate the parking situation at UTSA. I wondered if I'd see any of my old professors, wondered if they'd recognize me now, wondered how it would feel to walk across campus again. It was in the 20s this evening, the bitter kind of 20s that make you feel like all of nature hates your face and extremities. I ducked into the bio-engineering building, one of my old haunts when I was a UTSA roadrunner.

I escaped the wind and looked up to see the glorious sight of Einstein Bros Bagels, that wonderful breakfast joint that only takes cash. "I have cash!" I thought. "And they have coffee!" Overjoyed that I was soon hold a hot cup of delicious brew in my hands, I eagerly walked to the counter, trying not to show my excitement.

Big, goofy grin: "One large cup of coffee please!"

A sudden look of disappointment: "Oh wait... I don't have my wallet. I guess I drove all the way out here without my wallet..."

I must have looked really sad because the lady on the other side of the counter did not hesitate to hand me the cup with a generous smile. I thanked her profusely, filled my cup, and sought out a good place to sit and work on my paper while I waited for JP to call and tell me his class was over.

As I sat there and watched the faces around me, I remembered that I had done this very same thing just a few years ago. The faces looked familiar: the same scholarly types, the same intellectual students, the same worries and cares etched in the eyes. I imagine college kids will always look the same, from generation to generation. As I watched them, I remembered the person I'd been back then, studying statistics and probability, wondering if the pretty girls who walked by were dateable, thinking about economics, drawing last minute art assignments in bathroom stalls, oblivious to the actual future I would live.

Today I typed a couple of pages more on my paper, then sat back and thought about the man I've become. He doesn't fit in that old skin any more. He's a little more serious, a little more responsible, a little more disappointed, and perhaps a little more jaded. He's also a little more alive, a little more appreciative of life, a little more hopeful, and perhaps a little bit better dreamer.

I've thought before that I would like to spend some time with past me and future me sometime. I wonder if past Tim would like present Tim... I think he would. I definitely hope he would. Even more than that, I hope we would both love future Tim.

The living proof

2011-01-29T00:23:00.000-06:00

This song has been running through my head ever since I discovered it last night.

As I think about what I want my life to be about, I'm discovering poets who have given words to the things I'm beginning to feel. I want my life to be infused with meaning, but not the meaning that I create in isolation, nor meaning that I cobble together from things I've heard other people speak passionately about. Rather, in the same way Jesus responded to the religious leaders of his time, I want to be able to say that I do nothing of myself; that I only do what I see my Father doing.

Perhaps poetry is part of learning to listen and see.

The Living Proof - Sanctus Real from georg clooney on Vimeo.

And we live in a crowded world where many feel alone
but if we keep an open heart and let our weakness show
together we can be a force that everyone will know

that we are the ones who choose to hold on when hell breaks loose
yeah we are the hearts that survive in the dark
the living proof
that God is alive
and He's moving

and we have made a mess of love
we have the scars to show
and every mark a story of its own
how in our weakness God is strong so all the world will know

that we are the ones who choose to hold on when hell breaks loose
yeah we are the hearts that survive in the dark
the living proof
that God is alive
and He's moving

and He's moving

and we are the weak and the broken and the stories
are made to be healed for His glory

and we are the weak and the broken and the stories
are made to be healed for His glory

and we are the weak and the broken and the stories
we were made to be healed for His glory

and we are the ones who choose to hold on when hell breaks loose
yeah we are the hearts that survive in the dark
the living proof

The things I'm most afraid of

2011-01-27T21:10:00.001-06:00

I think the things I want the most from life are the things I'm most afraid of.

Tuesday's entry ended with a claim that I suppose I ought to substantiate. I could, of course, ignore it and pretend I didn't say it until I forget that I said it. This would be the most comfortable option, but I've begun this blog and I'm determined to finish it and even publish it.

Seeing people who identify as gay on TV is easier than sitting across the table from someone who decided that you were safe enough to tell personally. When you casually ask a girl if she has any siblings and you find out that she's lived in a childrens' home, that for a while she lived with a family that didn't work out, and now lives with her late mother's best friend... well, that's a can of worms you couldn't have anticipated. How do you comfort people who live with chronic pain or who have family members in critical condition?

I'm not sure. Not very sure at all.

But I do know that I'm quite fearful of asking the questions that arise out of shame and pain. And I do know that the questions need to be asked and that Jesus is big enough for those questions. And... somewhere in the middle of all that you might find me.

I'm certainly not the one who can make everything ok. Most of the time I'm tempted to stay far away from uncomfortable questions. Yet, there's this pull toward them because I yearn for the authentic, the genuine, the real. I want to extend that invitation as long as I can see it through to the end.

I don't really suppose Jesus was ever afraid to approach the down and broken. I've never seen reports of it. He quite boldly challenged the masks people wore and faced demons head on and was still gentle when talking to people who had been sexually abused or didn't know life without a disability that left them outcast from society. I think He even spent time with people who weren't cool.

Yes, I confess I'm fearful. In a healthy and safe way, I intend to let that push me forward.

First a happy thought, then a weighty one

2011-01-25T21:16:00.001-06:00

Spring seems to come early in south Texas, perhaps simply because winter has such a weak grip on this place. Last week, I was even able to ride my bike to work. Today was not a biking day, but it was a roll the windows down kind of day, which I did in spite of the school bus in front of me. As I was passing them, it seemed like someone was calling my name. I was confused for a moment, for I was certainly not still in a classroom... then I realized it was students on the bus who know me. My heart, already glad for the weather, was lifted even higher by their jubilations. I waved at the hands protruding from the windows as the bus pulled ahead of me again.

I have one of the best jobs in the world.

Yesterday, as I was helping JJ eat breakfast in the cafeteria, I was joined by a couple of other students I've come to know quite well. Our conversation went a number of random places, a fact I've learned to appreciate when working with middle school kids. (If you get bored of a topic, don't know what to talk about next, or find yourself having said something embarrassing, just change the subject!) We started at talking about cereal and ended at one student's statement: "Actually, I'm gay. I don't really like girls."

Under-react, under-react! my brain screamed at me. My face tends to let everyone know exactly what I'm thinking and it felt weird to physically feel my eyebrows coming back to a relaxed position. I responded as if that was a common thing to hear from a seventh grader. I nodded, mmhmm'd, and politely asked when he had come to that conclusion. His reply was just as casual, as if we were just talking about the weather.

I'm going to take you on a quick rabbit-trail now, but I'll bring it all back in a bit. I was watching TV with my family one night, and in one scene a grown daughter told the camera she was 28 or something like that. A couple of scenes later, her parents told us they'd been married 27 years, and as soon as they said it, I'd already done the math and figured out their daughter had been born before they'd been married. Not only had I made that call, but I had also frowned at their decision. I did all this without knowing their story and without honoring that they had been married for nearly three decades at this point.

Yes, I am quick to see places where "their lives don't align with what the Bible says is right." I saw it immediately in their story and I saw it in his.

Quick to make a judgment call and slow to love.

That's not what I want my life to be like. I don't want to see sin before I see a person. I don't want to be calloused to sin, either, understanding that God is sovereign and He knows what is best for us. I want to hear past the actions and see the person as He sees them. I want to ask hard questions and know how to receive their answers.

I think the things I want the most from life are the things I'm most afraid of.

Bachelor cooking (1 of ?)

2011-01-19T21:20:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while, you'll find food in my pantry or fridge that provide evidence that sometimes I have these grand intentions for cooking a legitimate meal for myself. But cooking by oneself, for oneself, is not a habit I find personally rewarding when I'm not doing it (when I'm doing it, it's a different story), so it's a rare occasion.

Tonight, I intended to begin writing my research paper, which meant it was high time to give some attention to my kitchen. My thesis about half-way written, I left to examine the contents of my fridge. I found some snow peas that have been there entirely too long and would make the perfect base for a bachelor dinner for one. I had to pick through those poor, neglected green vegetables to find the ones that were still good after a trip out of state, holidays at home, and a couple of busy weeks once work started again. A dozen or two made the cut and the rest were discarded.

I tossed them into a pan, then looked around for something else to sauté with them. A sausage that had been cooked and then frozen a few weeks ago seemed like a perfect pairing.

Turn on heat, add a little olive oil. Hm. This seems to be lacking a certain something.

Fortunately, a bottle of wine was standing next to the stove. Opened perhaps a year or two early, I had decided to put it to use the next time I cooked, which ended up being tonight. I poured in a little bit, then a little more, until I realized that boiling it off would take too long if I continued to add the Cabernet. In case you've ever wondered, or if you're wondering right now, the answer is no, it's not a good idea to sauté with red wine. I put a top on the pan, grabbed a beer, and watched to see if this would all come together.

When the wine was mostly gone (hmm... what happens to wine vapors?), I moved the peas to a bowl, then sliced and added the sausage. In the future, it would probably make more sense to slice the sausage first, now that I think about it. And... for what it was, it was quite tasty. The peas were a glorious green/deep purple color and the sausage proved its worth. A hoppy Sam Adams wasn't quite the right pairing, but it's hard to guess these things.

Was it a success?

Yes, for what it was, I think it was.

See-through

2011-01-17T10:55:00.001-06:00

I met a guy last night that I may or may not have known some thirteen years ago. We used to go to the same church when we were kids, and this many years later, he was spending a couple of nights at my parents' house while attending a convention this weekend. Mom told me I should come over and get to know him, so I obliged, figuring there was at least home-made ice cream cake available in case the evening was otherwise unremarkable.

I'm wrong a lot, and sometimes I really love that fact. I wasn't wrong about the cake; it was there and was fully delicious. There were also chocolate chocolate chip muffin tops, authentic German streusel cake, and fresh baked bread that had just come out of the oven. There was no stranger though, at least not at first.

Then Adam arrived, spilling out light-hearted stories about some homeless people he had met downtown, immediately engaging in the life that was happening in the kitchen. As we migrated to the table, cake in hand, I realized that I was meeting a rare person. Over the next few hours, I heard about his passions and found myself allowed to reveal to him mine, entered into the world of a screenplay he is writing, listened to stories of a ministry he's been involved in, and, somehow, found myself taking part in his grieving for a friend recently lost.

Yesterday afternoon, I spoke with a friend about what it means to be known by friends. I was expressing frustration with this girl I've known for some time who thinks she knows me, though there are so many parts of me I've never shared with her. I'm quite selective about who I let in, but even as I conceded that truth, faces came to mind of people I've barely known before I allowed them to know me. It happened again last night with Adam, when I least expected it.

Seeing into each other can be the hardest thing to do, and somehow, it seems to be one of the simplest.

[unfinished, partly because I don't know how this should end and partly because I think I ended up writing about two different things]

Scribing

2011-01-12T17:09:00.002-06:00

As I've alluded to in previous posts, I've picked up journaling once again. I've been on a roll for nearly two weeks now, so I'm only about a week away from reforming the habit, according to authorities on habit-formation. It has felt good to close my leather-bound journal each night before I turn off the lights and say parting-words to our Father, knowing that I have record of the things I thought worth remembering, as well as those worth hoping.

I am not short on words when I write for myself. If I am brief, it is because the things within me were succinctly worded. Unexpectedly, rekindling personal writing has not made blogging any easier. I've begun a few recently, only to reach a point at which I couldn't continue without knowing who was receiving my message, and how, and what he or she thought. I say those things even though I have a good idea of who reads timburrito regularly and without any implication about feedback. (So to those who comment: thank you for your kind words! And to those who don't: thank you for reading!)

I made some significant progress into a blog in which I interwove two rather unrelated stories not too long ago. I was having fun with words and enjoying interjecting my opinions about friendship along the way until I arrived at a place where I had to make a choice: would I unveil what was really provoked in me by the two instances? If I chose not to, the blog had to end where it was.

(It ended where it was.)

Do you ever wonder what it was like in the days when paper was a precious commodity, literacy was a privilege, and being a scribe was a profession? I don't want to go back to those days, but I yearn to know how precious each written word was back then. There must have been very few silly blogs back then, when each letter was worth its weight in gold.

I simply don't know what to blog about any more. The things I want to write about are becoming increasingly personal and I don't want them all over the internet. If you find I'm retreating from the blogosphere, you might have to come after me.

Excerpt from a year ago

2011-01-09T22:51:00.001-06:00

I ended my journaling last January ninth with this prayer.

God, I don't know how to long, so my spirit groans for You.

I really want to hope well this year.

All I want

2011-01-01T11:55:00.001-06:00

Earlier this year, Jon Acuff of the blog Stuff Christians Like got this crazy idea that maybe he and his readers could raise enough money to build an orphanage in Thailand. They raised the money in about a day and a half, if I remember correctly, and then turned around and raised the some amount of money again to build a second orphanage. As I read, I knew I wanted in. I was able to give, and it was one of the most fun causes to give to that I might never see the fruit of on this side of eternity.

That small action got me on Samaritan's Purse's mailing list, since they were the ones taking the money we raised and making this dream a reality. Over a quiet breakfast before work about a month ago, I was reading one of their prayer/devotional booklets they send me regularly when I was suddenly consumed with a desire to take a year of my life and devote it to going and being God's hand and feet. The idea has settled so far into my mind that I wonder if it wasn't put there via inception... even though that's supposed to be very difficult and dangerous, if not impossible.

Whenever I get an idea in my head, I like, even need, to bounce it off other people that I trust and see what they think. My mind works more freely when I'm processing out loud. This one has been hard, since I have had a hard time naming just what exactly it is I want to do. I've described it the following ways:

I want to spend the year intentionally, or I won't do it at all.

I want the Gospel to be the reason I wake up every morning.

I want to see the world in a way I've never seen it before.

I want it to be helpful for my counseling degree.

I want to serve others.

I suspect it will ruin me for normal life. I almost want it to.

A few days ago, Dan and I were downtown and I was trying once again to give language to what's been stirring up in my heart and mind. He listened patiently as I sketched vignettes of what I thought that year might look like, explained how I arrived at this desire, and expressed my uncertainties. I'm still in the same place, though the idea is being refined each time I examine it again.

As he and I drove, Dan was introducing me to some of his favorite songs by Future of Forestry. One song in particular struck a chord in me. Listening to it a second time with him, I became aware that the lyrics painted a wondrous picture of what I want out of a year spent deliberately. The song is called All I Want.

I will go where glory meets the crude and weak
I will go where mercy meets the shame
I will go where strength will find the small and meek
I will go where magic meets mundane

And You're all I want
You're all I want
You're all I'll find
You have my heart forever
You are all that I could need

I will go where grace and healing love restores
I will go where peace and rest is known
I will go where friendship finds my heart in Yours
I will go where beauty leads me home

This is my new year's resolution.

2010: It really happened

2010-12-31T08:08:00.004-06:00

What happens to our past? Where does it go once we've lived it? Each morning when you wake up, all you have is a collection of trinkets from yesterday, some titles and positions you've achieved, and maybe some little black numbers in a "bank account." Those things can all be manufactured, they could all be part of a huge conspiracy, if you like to think about things that way.

There are perhaps only two things that cannot be altered overnight: relationships and memories. I thank God for each.

I'll end my blogging year the same way I ended the last two, with brief snapshots from my first blog of each of the past twelve months.

January

Every human being needs a cause in life, a passion. If you don't have something in your life that can make your heart pound, that can move you to tears of joy or tears of sorrow in about thirty seconds, then my friend, you are not fully alive. Life is too precious to go on in such a half-awake condition. You can do better. You deserve better.
-Wess Stafford, Compassion International

February
I don't want to teach. I want to save kids.

March

Words I own or want to own:

real
sacrifice

substance

restoration

sorrow
hope

risk

April

I want to be awake or asleep. This in-between feels like death.

May

But maybe that wasn't even his question. And maybe first impressions mean less than we like to think they do. Our circles of friends would look entirely different if they were all based on first impressions, wouldn't they? What an odd thing to think about. I can think of very few friends that I decided to stick with because I liked them so much from the get-go and live in thankfulness for the friends who gave me a chance despite my first impression. Friendship has so little to do with performance, and still I get anxious just like an eighth grader when I start to think about the first thing I want others to know or think about me. How silly, says third person me to myself.

June

It has been two very full years since I first asked you to be with me and in many ways, I feel like I'm on a lot of "other sides." Looking back at two years of writing, there are things I'm proud to have written, things I wish I could take back, things I'm still surprised I wrote and then published. And though I've walked far and you've walked a great deal of it with me, my very first entry feels very me.

July

Munich is a wonderful city, but difficult to appreciate if you're hot, jetlagged and tired, and then find yourself running around the city, seeing everything worth seeing in under two hours. I don't know what I saw and I forgot to bring my camera. Actually, all I can really remember about downtown Munich is that it has three Starbucks and a multitude of people. I felt distinctly American while I was there and really just wanted to sit down and enjoy a cool drink by myself. At some point, culturally-prepared Tim will return to München (as the natives call it).

August

At times it was difficult to decide which tales to tell and I wondered why certain stories surfaced quickly while others felt elusive, but when you sit with someone who is willing to listen and engage, I've found that where you start is not nearly as important as where you end up.

September

October

November

take away....

close community is good for Tim's heart and soul.

missing the close community we used to share.

looking forward to the time when we will see you face to face and commune together again.

-Tracy

December
At the end of the day, I am in Him and He is in me, and that is quite enough.

Resolution

2010-12-28T13:49:00.000-06:00

I began the year with a quote from a book that I read at the end of last year. I'll share it with you again.

Every human being needs a cause in life, a passion. If you don't have something in your life that can make your heart pound, that can move you to tears of joy or tears of sorrow in about thirty seconds, then my friend, you are not fully alive. Life is too precious to go on in such a half-awake condition. You can do better. You deserve better.
-Wess Stafford, Compassion International

It became my new year's resolution to discover that cause, that passion that would truly make my heart pound and even move me to tears. I'm not quite sure that I've discovered it quite yet, but I'm certain I've gotten closer. Perhaps I've even found it, but I haven't been able to put a name on it just yet. I know what it's not. It's not teaching. It's not even youth ministry... at least not in the form I've experienced it.

I tried to be very aware of what exactly moved me to tears this year. I've shed a few tears of frustration, but I don't think being frustrated with something counts as a passion. I've cried tears of desperation and I don't think that was quite it either.

There are several memories that stand out clearly and above the rest. They were all times I felt that familiar lump in my throat and knew my eyes were becoming wet with tears. The first time was out at Enchanted Rock, enjoying the pleasure of my Father while he made the His warm sun shine down on the back of my neck. The second time was the day I stood up for two troublemakers in JJ's math class, kids who thought that no one cared about them until I stepped in. Tears welled up as their attitudes softened and they allowed me to encourage them. The third one... well, I'll have to tell you about that in heaven sometime. Same goes for another instance, and both are reasons that compel me toward counseling.

The best tears I have shed are tears of Hope. If God's collecting my tears, I hope He gets a lot of those.

Peering through a haze

2010-12-24T15:17:00.000-06:00

I've remarked to a couple of friends that I don't think I'll remember much from the last three or four months of my life. It will be easy enough to recall that I had a job I liked, that I began grad school around September, and that I lived in a house with my friend JP. Aside from that, I rather expect things to be pretty hazy.

Haze - vagueness or obscurity, as of the mind or perception; confused or vague thoughts, feelings

I keep a journal so I don't forget things, so I can sit back at look at my day, watch for trends, call things what they are. My journal has a lot of blank pages right now... I think I've only written in in twice since moving into my new house. It won't provide me with any clues to this past when I read it in the future. My blog mostly helps remind me of the haze of the season, with words mostly used to hold feelings, not stories.

I came across a series of metal modern sculptures near the base of the Tower of the Americas a few weeks ago. I'd ridden through there on my bike with some coworkers a month prior and as I trekked across the grounds with them, I remembered there was something I needed to remember there. Together we breezed through it, but on my own I stopped to linger. The metalwork was no great art, but each piece held words about the importance of memory. The artist wanted us to know one thing: without memories, we have no past.

I need a past.

A couple a days ago, I was in a car filled with some of my absolute favorite people in the world. They were driving me to the airport and it was one of those moments where I just wasn't quite sure how to feel. Do you ever have those moments? It wasn't ambivalence and it wasn't quite neutral or without emotion. I simply didn't know what to feel.

Suddenly, Katy asked me a question that led me to feel. It broke through the haze within and left a trembling deep in my chest and brought tears to my eyes. Would Jon and Tom be there to pick me up at the airport? I blinked hard, took a breath, and answered her question. Yes, I told her, I think so. I hope so.

It was good that I didn't have any important last words to say as I said goodbye to each of the Johnsons; I don't think I could have gotten any words out. And contrary to how I've joked in the past, I can cry, even if the tears tend to stay in my eyes. Perhaps it simply takes a hug to squeeze them out. :)

Sitting at a quiet airport gate in Kalamazoo was one of the hardest things I've done in a long time and I fought back tears as the people on TV droned on about the President's accomplishments since the midterm elections. I boarded the tiny plane that took me to Chicago and, flying west, watched through hazy eyes one of the longest, most beautiful sunsets I've witnessed in a long time.

I wonder if the sun rises and falls at Home. In that place where Daddy and Jesus are waiting for us, in the one place where we'll no longer feel alone, I wonder what beauties we'll behold. I wonder what stories we'll tell each other. I'm not sure, but in the coming season, I hope some stories take place that are still worth telling when we're all home.

Tired of the internet at twenty-two

2010-12-18T00:03:00.000-06:00

Dear Internet,

Let's just be friends.

Hm. That was easier to say than I thought it would be. I thought, after all, that it would be harder to break off a significant relationship that we've shared since the middle of fifth grade. Haha, do you remember those days? Do you remember booting up the computer back in 1998, at least once a night in December, because I had to log onto lego.com to enter the advent calendar drawing? I never won anything. Or further back, in second grade when I first heard the sound of your 256k, lovely modem song? My teacher said it was just two computers talking to each other, but I recognized your siren song.

We've had some good times, you and me. This is probably not the best place to recount all those memories; I've already made up my mind. You see, I've changed. I'm not satisfied with living life with a screen in front of my face and these things you've been doing lately to entice me to come back for more... they just leave me feeling more empty. I just don't know how to explain it without hurting your feelings.

Are you sure you want me to name it? Ok... it's just that I keep getting this feeling that you're actually more of a tool than anything. I don't want to have a relationship with a hammer or a dictionary, you know? No, not even a tool that enables smart searching with algorithms that learn my browsing patterns. It feels kinda clingy, you know? Look, maybe this is a conversation for another time. It's late and I don't want to say anything stupid.

Really, it's not you. It's me. I need some time to sort things out and to reconnect with other friends. Yes, they're real. I think you've met them. Really, I mean it when I say we can still be friends. That's what we should have been all along, if we're honest with each other. It's better in the long run. For both of us.

Yeah. So I'll see you around, right? Ok.

-tim

At the end of the day, at the end of the week

2010-12-05T23:08:00.004-06:00

At the end of the day, I am in Him and He is in me, and that is quite enough.

_

2010-11-29T22:52:00.001-06:00

{mood music}

I draw my life in pencil most days, not ink
It feels pretty lackluster compared to a Savior who painted with His very blood

(if I stop here, then I have a postmodern poem)

And if I stopped there, I won't have captured all that's on my heart tonight. There's a lot of hope within me tonight, the kind of hope that comes from asking a lot of questions you have no answers to. They're the kind of questions I don't want answered just yet, for it's far too soon to know.

Favorite things

2010-11-27T00:20:00.001-06:00

Memories are a funny thing. They're funny, those things we hold in our subconscious, the things we don't know are there until that one word or look or image brings them back as real as if they had just happened. Anyway, here are some Christmas memories in order of association.

I believe in Santa more today than ever before in my life. I believe he might just enjoy hot buttered rum, that he sings bass when he's caroling, that he loves Christmas morning just as much as he loves Christmas eve. I imagine that he ends every text message with MLIC and that he knows Jesus is the reason for the season. I suppose he knows that the best gifts are the ones that flow out of relationship, that they're a way to say I love you.

I believe that coffee with peppermint and mocha is what Christmas ought to taste like and that rules are meant to be broken (how else would Christ have come?). I believe in colored lights as much as white lights and that it can still be Christmas even without snow, even though snow's preferable. I believe in scarves and coats and boots and that holding hands is better than mittens.

I wonder what he loves best: cookies, fudge, or Oreo truffles? Does he like fruitcake? What does he eat for breakfast when he's done delivering presents? Does he really have a good and naughty list or does he believe in grace?

It might have been eighty degrees a couple of days ago, but I still look forward to a Christmas that ends this winter.

I need Christmas

2010-11-25T23:52:00.001-06:00

I need Christmas because I am broken.

I need Christmas because I love myself more than others.

I need Christmas because I can't hold it all together.

I need Christmas because I am full of pride.

I need Christmas because I can't see myself clearly on my own.

I need Christmas because I don't know how to love.

I need Christ.

I need Him because I have so little hope without Him.

And for that, among countless other blessings, I am thankful.

Merry Christmas

2010-11-18T18:43:00.000-06:00

Christmas has already begun. There's a student at school who will alternately wish me a Merry Christmas! or Good night! every morning when she arrives at school. I started listening to Sara Groves' Christmas From The Prison album last week and discovered Jenny and Tyler's Christmas tunes tonight. I bought my first large bottle of peppermint mocha creamer two nights ago, though I've been adding it to my coffee all year anyway. Last Sunday night I lit my first fire of the season, roasted marshmallows, and sipped hot cocoa while listening to Christmas jazz with friends.

I think I need Christmas this year. I'm not sure I even want to put my finger on the why, at least not just yet. There's something about peace on earth - Shalom - and goodwill towards man that feels to me like water in a parched desert.

I can't shake the reluctance to explore this tonight... but I'll get there.

Catch

2010-11-06T23:53:00.000-06:00

Roommates... make me feel selfish. This is, spending a lot of time over many days with people who are not my family bring to light the fact that I have opinions that I like to hold as universal truth, and these truths tend to make me look better than the other person. For example, I believe it is self-evident that video games are a waste of time. Therefore, people, like me, who do not play video games are somehow superior, right?

My roommate likes video games and the values I've formed over the course of my life say that's dumb. We've lived together for just over a month and it has bothered me nearly every time when he has chosen games when anything else would be better. I figured out quickly that retreating to another room or place was not a sufficient coping mechanism. I tried finding like-minded people to vent to, people who understand what I mean when I complain about the vanity of video gaming. That didn't work either and I found that both methods only served to make me feel more indignant and even self-righteous sometimes.

I spent this morning volunteering at the Botanical Gardens with special needs kids. It was a lot of fun and I came home to my roomie vegging out to college football. I kinda like football, but not all day long, which is what seemed to be his plan. I pondered my options: get ahead with reading? Go for a bike ride? My endorphin craving made that an easy choice. I changed clothes, but at the last minute thought I ought to invite JP to more.

"Wanna go for a run or something? Maybe play some catch?"

JP loves baseball. My enjoyment of baseball generally lasts for about an inning; sometimes even two if I'm at the game. But we played catch last Monday and it was really relaxing, so I suggested it again. He grabbed the gloves and we found our way to the park to snag some balls and some sun.

Catch is surprisingly therapeutic. If you stand close, it's great for conversation, and if you move back and throw further, you can get lost in your own thoughts while still spending deliberate time with another person. In one of my drawn back moments, I let my mind wander...

...the last time I played catch ended with a bloody lip and a chipped tooth in fourth grade, over a decade ago

...perhaps I am secretly a baseball prodigy (then my next throw missed JP by a mile) ...maybe not

...this totally beats my passive anger at couch-potatoing - did I just create a new verb? Twice in three days? It feels excellent to choose communion over selfishness.

...I want dinner, and I want it with friends. I feel alive when I invite others to something good.

Today - Heute - Hoy

2010-10-16T23:46:00.000-05:00

A Saturday, according to one definition, is a day in which you may set your alarm at whatever time you desire the night before and then entirely ignore for as long as you please the next morning. Everything after that is just details, though it's agreed that life is in the details.

Today was a day of moseying. I finally fell out of bed around nine - my alarm had been insisting it was time to get since eight and I have no idea why - and convinced myself into the shower to wash away my sleepiness. I dawdled in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. (Oh! The light in the history room works independently of the hurricane fan now, although by that time the sun was shining in the side-by-side windows.) I took my time finishing my reading for ethic, then puttered off to my parents' house to rediscover the color of my car with my mom. We had just finished drying it when Joshua Rosen called to let me know he was done with wrestling practice.

I picked him up and we made our way down to the cheesy heaven called Chris Madrid's, showing him the complicated way to get there when you think it's on San Pedro and forget that it's on Blanco. It was my way of thanking him for helping me move several weeks ago and I was looking forward to hanging out with him anyway. Our conversation had to be put on hold while we ate our way through two macho burgers, after which we shared events from our life, discussed theology and school, watched some youtube, and talked halloween costumes.

After dropping him off again, I took my time on my way to meet Norma at HEB, stopping to buy some new Anberlin and Jars of Clay since Norma lives on Mexican time and I live on German time. We shopped for soup supplies together. She told me that she felt healthy shopping with me (we spent a lot of time in the produce section), which felt ironic as I recalled the taste of hamburger and a mess of cheese from just hours before. Naturally, we walked the aisles slowly and took time to chat with the employees handing out samples, but this is almost always my policy at the supermarket.

In my spare moments, I took time to pray a few times and to miss Jonathan and to wonder what Katy and Allison were up to. Tom and Dan, I thought about you too.

The night began with a birthday party celebrating Taylor's big 2-0. Dave Salisbury and I pondered together what the 2-oh represented, arriving at many wrong answers. I decided that I need to have a 2-oh party sometime. You're invited, thought the time and place are currently unspecified. That party probably wrapped up many peoples' nights, but not mine. I had yet to get back to my mother's kitchen to do some cooking.

Mom and I (with some of Mallorie's help) created a couple of soups for lunch after church tomorrow. I was glad for her help. When you spontaneously tell new friends at church they're invited over to eat, I've been taught it's good etiquette to provide delicious food and these soups do not disappoint.

It's 11:46, my house is clean, my blog is blogged, and I just realized I forgot to bike today.

Ceiling fans

2010-10-13T19:58:00.000-05:00

One thing is always unpleasant: freezing hurricane winds when you've just stepped out of the shower and all you're still wearing only a towel. I would go so far as to pronounce that to be universally unpleasant, but there's always someone who will disagree with statements like that just for the sake of an argument. Let those people disregard the rest of what I have to say.

JP and I decided that we would put both of our beds in one room, though we have a two bedroom house. This allows us to have a "history room" where JP can hang his various Texas and Russian flags and display all of his toys while preserving my sanity. The history room is also where all of my clothes are, so I can get dressed after my morning shower without disturbing his still sleeping self. It's a good system, except for the fact that the pull chain mechanism in the ceiling fan in the history room is broken. It only has two modes: off and tornado alley. Naturally, the light is only on in the second mode. I get dressed by the light of my closet most days.

After nearly two weeks of having to trek back over to the bathroom or into the kitchen to see if I picked out two matching socks, I decided it was time to fix this wayward machine. Upon opening it all up, I found that a previous tenant had destroyed the pull chain switch... apparently by playing Tarzan of the Apes with it. Looking outside, I found that JP's car was in my way if I wanted to drive to the hardware store, which was just fine by me. I look for any excuse to bike rather than drive these days. (These days being the past seven days.) A quick trip to Ace Hardware and a backpack of tools and parts later, I had a quick project for the evening.

Except it hasn't gone exactly according to plan. My new switch is only sort of compatible with the old. It can give me two modes, I think: still full-on hurricane and a slightly less intense hurricane. And now it is too dark to bike back to the store (and the store is too closed anyway) for a correct mechanism. It leaves me in a most unsettling place - there are pieces of hardware and tools strewn across my table and there's no light or fan in the history room, and all the while I know I have the skill to fix it, just not the opportunity.

Do I have a Plan B? Not up until now.

On grace

2010-10-06T20:37:00.006-05:00

All you really ever need to know about economics is the law of supply and demand. Technically, they are two laws... or four, depending on how you look at it. It gets progressively more complicated the more you observe life and try to measure it or sit and think about it with other economically-minded people. The study of economics is really a study of life, a social science, but with numbers attached, which is why I was able to get a bachelor of arts degree from a business school. It looks very nice spelled out in fancy lettering on my diploma.

When you break it down, supply is what people are looking to provide to others and demand is how much those other people want it or need it. When we want a certain something a lot and there aren't many of those somethings available, then whoever is willing to pay the most for it gets first dibs, which is why the price of that something then climbs. Conversely, if nobody needs substance X, but a lot of people have produced substance X, the producers are forced to sell X at a bargain price in order to get it off their shelves.

I'll stop here before I lose everyone who hated economics in high school.

Economics was on my mind the other day, as well as grace. (I don't expect you to be able to relate to that one right now.) I was meditating on just how infinite God's grace is, when suddenly it seemed very important to me to examine what that meant, economically, in terms of its value. Generally, when something is in abundance, it costs very little because it's easy to get and no one's afraid of it running out any time soon. Demand, or need, plays into the "equation" too - if demand is still very high, then even something that there's a lot of can remain costly.

At this point, I was still asking my original question: how much is grace worth? Or to ask it another way - how much do we value grace?

There's one thing I do know: I know that there is value in the grace I offer others. It's one of my favorite ways to imitate Christ, but when I twist it, it can be sinister. I do that when I withhold grace from people - I restrict the supply, so to speak - so that I can make the small amount of grace I offer later seem much more valuable. It usually has nothing to do with fairness or justice, but rather I use grace for my own means. This is my old self, my unredeemed, pre-grace self. But even that self knows that other people need grace and they know it doesn't always come easy or without a price.

I need grace. I need it a lot, in abundance, overflowing, washing me away. I need it as soon as I wake up in the morning and every time I enter into relationship with someone else. I need it more by midday and I fiercely desire it by the time I surrender to the night.

Grace is valuable because our demand for it is as infinite as finite beings can muster. Maybe that's why everyone is surprised by grace - our demand is so great that we don't expect to ever receive enough. Yet, somehow, by God's love and mercy and grace in Christ, He crowns beggars as royalty. He makes us ambassadors of His grace - and so much more. That's a privilege I'll never get into my head, probably because it barely belongs there. Grace is costly. It cost Him His son's life.

I don't know how valuable grace is until I need it, and sometimes not even until I receive it. But I do know that I can never give it until I've received it, which means I have to face my need for it. I'm in daily, desperate need for something I can never pay for... so He bought it for me.

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
(2nd Cor 12:9)

T minus 36 hours

2010-10-01T12:09:00.001-05:00

Who knew that research papers could be so challenging? I am one short page of being done with a paper I started just under two week ago and I'm hesitant to just sit down and hammer out a conclusion. In a way, I don't want it to end and simultaneously, I'm just plain out of new ways to say "counselors and clients encounter each other outside of the therapeutic relationship - that's called a dual relationship." This paper has called out new ways of being creative out of me.
Mom read my paper this morning and gave it her stamp of approval, an awesome thing, considering I'm learning the things she's already a pro(fessional) at. She told me she thought it flowed pretty well and that while there were a few places when she wondered where I was going, I always brought it back. "I have to get some creative writing in there somewhere," I smile and explained.

I'm grabbing coffee, then I'll finish my paper, and then I feel like expressing myself a little more creatively on the topic of grace.

Au revoir.

It's submitted now. Here's a wordle - turns out I used a few words over and over again.

First thesis in a long time

2010-09-18T15:05:00.002-05:00

This is why I probably won't be blogging much in the next two weeks:

The nature of the counseling relationship between a counselor and his or her client necessitates certain boundaries to protect the rights and privacy of the individual seeking therapy, as well as those of the counselor. As a client seeks assistance from a professional helper, an unequal balance of sharing, vulnerability, and power grows. It is vital that the client feels safe so that a trusting relationship may be built, which is the basis of any effective counseling. However, counseling does not occur in a vacuum: both the counselor and clients lead lives outside of the counseling relationship and it is unrealistic to believe that those paths will never cross. It is important that counselors know how to act ethically and wisely when these interactions do occur. A counselor must understand both the risks and benefits of encounters outside of the professional relationship. It is worth identifying the types of extratherapeutic interactions a counselor can expect to experience with clients and examining both the dangers and potential benefits of such dual relationships so that a counselor may at all times approach a client with prudence.

I'm already beginning to develop a love/hate relationship with writing academic things. I've tried so hard to avoid sounding precocious on my blog that it is simultaneously great fun and a little frightening to write as if I'm an authority on a given topic.

This on that

2010-09-14T22:17:00.002-05:00

A few weeks ago, I woke up like everything was normal. I took a normal Monday morning shower, ate a normal breakfast, got to work when I always do, picked up my student from the bus like I always do. I helped him eat a normal breakfast and -

Oh wait. That's not entirely true, now that I think about it. My mind was a few sentences ahead of my fingers as I composed those first few lines and as I was thinking about where I was when I got the news, I suddenly remembered that I was by myself when I heard it first. My student was late to school that day, so I was quietly minding my own business in the main hall, putting up a poster for the school nurse. It was second period and hopefully students were learning, leaving the hallway I was in mostly hushed. The design parts of my brain were active as I tried to make a fairly bland poster eye-catching; my heart was still.

Ms. R came around the corner as I was absorbed in my work and asked if I had heard the news: JonMichael, a guy I had gone to school with, had died in an accident that weekend. "Edward's taking it hard," she told me. JonMichael. Edward. In the four years since I graduated from high school, I hadn't spent any time with either of them.

Inwardly, I shook my head to clear it up. I hope my eyes communicated my sympathy and my sudden sadness, because my words were few. I find my vocabulary lacking here, for I have not often been, or had to be, on the receiving end of such words of comfort and empathy. I have not known death with anyone close to me, except for my great grandmother, who I wish I'd known better. The only words I found myself with were rough approximations of what was going on inside of me.

She had been on her way to her classroom and she continued in that direction. Still stunned by the news, I turned back toward the poster I had said I would complete. I finished it in a new kind of silence, the kind that a multitude of questions grow out of. How did this happen? Where is he now? What is this lump in my throat? Am I going to cry? Why haven't I thought about him a single time in the last four years?

There was an article about the accident on a local news website. I read about how the accident went down, wondered how much of the horror he had experienced just before impact. I read comments on the article: strangers to me expressed their condolences to the family and a few people bickered about sensitivity to motorcycle accidents... and I recognized the name of one of the commenters. I had gone to high school with her. She had been JonMichael's friend, but I had been stand-offish when she had offered me her friendship, back when she was a silly bright-eyed freshman and I was a too cool senior. I saw other friends honor him in social-networking status updates. It was all a little surreal.

I missed his funeral. I had gone back and forth trying to decide if I would go. I was afraid because I didn't want to own the fact that I barely knew him now. I wanted to go to support his family and friends. I really needed to be at work. I wanted to go and mourn a while. My student at work needs me. His funeral happened and I missed it and there's no re-do on that one.

JonMichael, I want to tell you that our friendship mattered more than I knew.

Tired of singing sad songs

2010-09-12T22:20:00.000-05:00

There's a song I like to listen to when I'm in the mood for something pensive, but not quite sad. It's a song by SaraBeth Geoghegan, appropriately named Tired of Singing Sad Songs.

You wouldn't know it by the weather around here, but summer ended a few weeks ago. School started back up, like it does at the end of every summer, so I had to start wearing my adult clothes again. About this same time last year, I got really jazzed about it. I liked the monthly drops into my checking account, I kinda actually enjoyed writing checks to pay all my bills, and even when I lamented it, I took pride in going to bed "at a reasonable hour."

I do like my job and being responsible feels good, but I'm catching myself reviving a bad habit I picked up last year when I was working and, like we were probably all guilty of as children, trying to grow up too soon. My bad habit took the form of melancholy. I started listening to more somber music, I engaged in conversation in a heavier way, I made fewer jokes. On the positive side, I was better at connecting with other peoples' pain, though that's often where I stayed with them. I played less, having "put childish things away."

This was not across the board, mind you, but my friends started to take note. A few years ago, I was looking at a picture of Opa, my mom's dad, and noticed that the wrinkles in his face reflecting a lifetime of laughter, which got me thinking that I would like to wear my face that way someday. Much of last school year, the expressions I made did not help me make progress toward those deep laugh lines I much desired.

It's September now and many of the people who remind me to live life joyfully are hundreds of miles away. Songs will come up on shuffle that remind me of grey days - the ones where the sun goes down before you're ready and you wear a sweater because you have no choice. It's not grey here, but sometimes I want to embrace the greyness and just sigh for a bit.

Except... that's not me. I love life , and to be honest, I'm a little tired of sad songs. I'm wondering if I've been more pensive these past few weeks than I even deserve to be.

It feels a little odd when I consider that I'm pursuing a degree in counseling and a career in pursuing a lot of people into the painful places in their lives. Who am I to do that? A couple of weeks ago, I found out that a high school buddy I hadn't seen since graduation lost his life in a motorcycle accident recently. I missed his funeral because I was at work, but hearing about it stirred up new things in me. Death has never felt quite so close to me. I expect I'll be do a lot more exploring of my own story in the near future and I suspect there will be reasons to mourn. Will I do it without letting it push me into sadness? Or rather, how well will I live out a full range of emotions?

We'll see. I hope you'll be with me.

There is a time for everything,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance
Ecclesiastes 3

A wedding post

2010-09-05T22:18:00.000-05:00

A Wedding Song was running through my head as I took the familiar Sunday morning turn at the corner Northwoods on my way to church. The song by my friends in Darcy has been in and out of my mind this whole week as I had been mindful of Bekah's upcoming wedding. (The wedding was this afternoon - it was beautiful.) I've heard the band perform it a couple of times now, and both times the singer told the story about how he wrote it for a wedding and was told it wasn't really a wedding song... until he checked it with the bride and groom, who both loved it.

I don't like to post lyrics to entire songs, but this one is best in its entirety.

And if our wedding punch is spiked with 7-Up
Then I hope Jesus brings some wine, and when he passes me the cup
I'll drink to every girl I've ever known

Because I have had so many loves before
And I want to forget what I pretend I don't remember anymore
Because memories like dreams aren't always fair
And when I sleep, I may see other bodies there, beside you

And so I'm leaving everyone
I'll end it with my former loves again
Yeah, I'm leaving everyone
I won't be going back to anyone of them
Because I'm leaving everyone for you

And I like the way you look in that white dress
Your hair is pinned so neatly, but your head is such a mess
That you look just like a girl I used to know

And I want you, with your lips so near my face
I turned away once 'cause I was scared that your embrace
Might make me leave you 'cause I'm a restless troubadour
I've got a girl for every song I won't be singing anymore

Because I'm leaving everyone
And I'll end it with my former loves again
Yeah, I'm leaving everyone
I won't be going back to anyone of them
Because I'm leaving everyone for you
Yeah, I'm leaving everyone for you

Instead of going to bed on time a few nights ago, I found myself flipping through a facebook photo album: pictures of myself, actually; not out of vanity, but for the sake of seeing the people I've shared life with. It got me thinking about past relationships I've had and about the guy or man I've been in each of them. I reflected on levels of pursuit I had undertaken, on the amount of daring I took in each situation. I pondered the amount of selfishness and selflessness that I lived each time.

I wish I could say I have no regrets, but I am human and to deny any regret would be to say that I never did anything I wish I could change. Someday, when I am the man standing before all my friends and family, watching my bride walk toward me down the aisle, I don't know if I'll sing all the words to that song, but I hope I sing the chorus in the way a man who has lived a life of integrity may.

Laying my weapons down

2010-08-28T23:16:00.004-05:00

I am the first born child of two first born children, therefore

I AM ALWAYS RIGHT.

Bullshit, I know, but I forget that a lot. That saying, the one about what it makes of u and me when one assumes... I am often not mindful that it applies to me too. It's unfortunate, for my mind is constantly making connections, following clues and finding logical conclusions, and though I'm not Sherlock, I think I'm kinda good at it. I like figuring things out on my own and I find a certain satisfaction in knowing I'm correct.

As I told a younger friend last week, I have a tendency to go into difficult conversations with guns drawn. I know I shoot from the hip, that people only get hurt when my case comes pre-prepared and my defenses are high. I'm a danger to others and to myself when I want to be right at all costs.

There are a few people who can meet me eye-to-eye when I am dangerous and force me into a draw. I am thankful for friends like that. Then there are those who understand how to disarm me and even take away every defense I have. Those are the conversations that I walk away from limping, not unlike Israel when he wrestled with God and lost. I read that story and think, awesome, I want that, but walking away never feels very good. I don't like losing and I don't like being wrong.

But at the end of the day, I think I like not having to be right all the time. Even more than that, it is good to let my friends be right.

Here, now.

2010-08-27T16:18:00.000-05:00

I have no fancy words today.

With the exception of last Friday's post, it seems like every time I've sat down to write these past two weeks, it has been as if there was an extra measure of resistance in my keys. My fingers have been able to get a sentence or two out at most, but by the third, it's as if it is too difficult to complete a thought. I don't even have any unpublished works in the draft folder.

Life happens even when I don't write. It happened before I ever penned my first thought, it continues on despite my best efforts to keep up with the best moments, and it will continue long after I lay down the privilege of authorship. Remembering this, and reading better writers keeps me humble.

I want to say that real life started again this week, but by that I would mean that my job started again after three months of vacation and that would mean that I spent three months living something that was not real life and that my friends who are away at school or are occupied by other things aren't living real life. And what does real life mean to me, anyway? It means that every time ten o'clock rolls around, I know that I've missed my chance at eight hours of sleep and that each moment after that had better be worth sacrificing sleep for. It means wearing socks all day and keeping track of time.

I have no particular interest in staying present here, now. At the same time, this feels like a paradox because it's the moments that keep me going. It's a word from a co-worker, a smile from a student, the satisfaction of a job well done, the bliss of a comfy chair.

It's said that it's best to write in the morning, which probably means that directly after work is not one of those times.

odd...walla

2010-08-20T22:53:00.003-05:00

The taste of Odwalla Strawberry C Monster reminded me of two things:

1. I was running a fever, alone in my apartment last time I drank this and
2. I prefer the original C Monster, which is everything orange juice was meant to be, short of being freshly squeezed in my grandparents' Florida home. (Also, why can't a juice company that claims to stand for excellence in everything they do come up with an opening that feels better on my lips?)

Still, my drink was delicious and I was glad to have let my beverage decision fall on someone who is not me. The extra bonus was delivered when my two Odwalla drinking friends and I were passed by a mother of two adorable children, each bearing their own Odwalla drink. Solidarity, there is something to be said for your existence, and that something is mostly nice things.

There was a time constraint on my juice enjoyment, the same time constraint that felt heavy on me as I greatly desired that this last time with these two dear friends would be especially meaningful. But it's hard to force meaning out of spending time with just one person and it's more than twice as difficult with two. Significance will not be coerced.

I listened to their words and I carefully followed their body language, reading what their eyes would allow me to see. We talked about... things. I mean, if you wanted to know what we talked about, I could tell you, but the things that were of note have already been written down and blogged about. We talked about how each of our days had gone, sipping fair trade juice in between. Toward the end, our words to each other began to feel deliberate, the way confession feels when you think you've still got something to lose. I don't feel that I have anything more to add.

I have nothing more to add because what was truly important to me as we sat in heavy wooden chairs around a heavy wooden table was that we were there. The three of us were there, if only for an hour before we all pursued various obligations. I wanted to sit there and I wanted to know that they loved me even though they've seen all my flaws and I wanted them to know that I loved them too. And when that hour was over, I embraced each one of them tightly, if not fiercely, not knowing what roads lay between us and our next reunion.

So next time I take a sip of Strawberry C Monster, there's a chance it will remind me of trying to break a fever, but I'm very certain it will remind me of Katy and Dan.

Unbearably loud

2010-08-12T11:05:00.000-05:00

A few intense rounds of "Bottle" in the pool last Saturday night left that annoying feeling of water in my right ear. I kept waiting for it to go away that night, but when I could still barely hear on my starboard side Sunday morning, it became clear that I would need some kind of drops to fix this problem. And when the ear drops off the HEB pharmacy shelf didn't help, I knew I had to seek the help of a specialist.

It felt highly unnatural to me to hold a phone up to my left ear, but I had to do just that in order to hear the kind voice on the other end offering me an appointment of relief on Wednesday morning. She and I made the arrangement early Monday afternoon, so after hanging up, I settled into waiting in a half muted world. Every once in a while, I would catch a few sound waves sneaking in. As I got used to a partly deaf life, I began to find it very peaceful. Aside from missing a phone call from my right pocket Sunday morning, it was cool to just tune out unimportant noises from that side and it made me more attentive to people whose voices and conversation were truly important to me.

About four years ago, when I first had to see a person with a PhD to clear the lines of communication, I found out that I have narrow ear canals. This was news to me... as was the fact that they were entirely full of ear wax. (Gross, I know, but true.) It surprised me, since I had never failed a hearing test, nor were there any indications that I had any hearing loss at all. In fact, I thought I had the best hearing of anyone in my family. I guess our ears can compensate for a lot.

I found out yesterday that specialists in the ear cleaning field can make a lot of money, but if that is the cost for receiving supersonic hearing, then maybe it was worth it. Flushing the toilet in the guest bathroom at my parents' house sounded as loud me as an airplane lavatory - which is something that at 22, having been on and off planes for over 20 years, still freaks me out a little. Mom had never noticed that bathroom is unbearably loud; perhaps I'm the only one who's ever thought that.

When I turned on the water in my shower this morning, I had to grimace at the cacophony that echoed through my own bathroom. My ears eventually adjusted to the sound of a thousand heavy raindrops smashing into the walls and tub, though I wondered how many days it would be until it wouldn't bother me any more. Perhaps I will even move out of this apartment before that happens.

My coffee maker makes odd noises now... but it's also possible that I've simply never noticed those little sounds before.

Hearing clearly is much stranger than I remembered.

A comment on commenting

2010-08-08T17:13:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason, Google seems to be directing a lot of people toward my blog lately. I feel a little honored, even if the traffic is simply due to computer generated algorithms. It has led to some genuinely interesting comments by other bloggers, but mostly it has meant an increase in entirely random comments. You've probably seen them.

I tweaked some settings. You can still comment, they just won't show up until I give the thumbs up. So if you're one of those people who comments on my blog hoping I won't ever notice your feedback, then you're out of luck. ;)

"In plush ripe tones joy is rushing through my bones!"

2010-08-06T16:50:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was one of those breakthrough days, but one of those days that I'm not exactly free to tell all about. Still, I am sitting here and composing because I think there is something to say.

I spent all day at a professional development training, learning more about autism and everything there is to know about it, much of which consisted of talking about what we don't know about the disorder. It was fascinating and exhausting. I walked out of the auditorium in a good enough mood, but quickly descended into feeling inexplicably irritable as I drove back to my place. I was definitely not looking forward to meeting with the student from my youth group that I have been meeting with regularly for the last six months or so. I really, really had no desire to see him and I felt bad about that fact, in the same way you feel a tinge of guilt when you blow off your younger sibling when you need your space.

He arrived a couple of minutes late, but in good spirits and that helped me a lot. As we warmed up and moved into the conversation, I asked more intentional questions than I had the last several times that we had met, knowing from the outset that I had a very specific note I wanted to end on.

"I have to tell you something you might not like..." I began. I stopped to study his face, then swallowed because I felt my throat tightening. My eyes started to soften involuntarily. "I am going to cry," I realized as I heard the words coming out of my mouth, full of truth and washed in grace. They felt so genuine that I knew they weren't really my own words. I can speak truth and I can extend grace and when I do, I do so with all sincerity, but I don't think I've ever done it quite so well on my own.

I watched a change come over his face and I knew that he understood what I was saying. He wasn't angry or upset and he didn't shut down like I had anticipated. Instead, I saw relief and gratitude in his eyes. It left me hopeful... full of hope. We didn't fix anything yesterday, but we took steps toward healing and I took steps toward joy. I knew that was exactly where I needed to be in that moment.

2:5

2010-08-05T00:05:00.003-05:00

Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus (NKJV)

I wonder how Jesus approached relationships while He walked here on the earth, knowing that He would die to save us from the punishment for our sins. How did He maintain "I love you!" without falling into "Hey bud, you have no hope apart from what I will do for you very soon."?

I'm not the savior of the world. I'm not even the savior or redeemer of just one person. I'm simply me, only ever able to love truly because Jesus loved me first... and somehow I can get it into my head that I am a gift to other people, that they are better off for being in relationship with me.

And that's gross because then it's not really even a relationship any more. It becomes a challenge to me to become the best me I can be to them so they can benefit even more from me and see how much they gain from me. That's ridiculous and robs both of us of genuine love.

How did He do it, then? How did the King of Glory make Himself not a big deal, and not only that, but make Himself the lowest of all of us? How do I?

Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus (ESV)

"Come be our sixth staff member!" (the conclusion, sort of)

2010-08-01T23:29:00.001-05:00

A few days before departing on the trip that would put me in situations I could never have anticipated, I beheld the spark in John's eyes and listened as he excitedly told me about how our trip to Boston was going to go down. We would land in Baltimore because it was significantly cheaper than flying into Boston itself, then drive to Philadelphia and spend some time taking in some rich (though relatively recent) history. After that, we'd just jump in the car and zip on over to Beantown and spend the night at Boston University. A five hour trip according to Mr. Garmin turned into nine.

In case you've never been informed, you should never plan to take a "quick" road trip through New England. (The drive back to Washington/Baltimore took over fourteen hours.)

I think we must have bonded almost as much as a group on those two car rides than during the entire week we spent on actual mission. It gave us a chance to experience life at extremely close quarters, to see some of the best and worst sides of people, to give up on keeping up appearances, to have discussions about music and literature and the authority of Scripture (it's an interesting thing to be deeply engaged with a student on the Gospel and then find out that he's an agnostic), to discover sleep positions no one has ever heard of, and to flex our knowledge of Disney characters.

I almost missed the majority of that by nearly giving into temptation of an awesome opportunity.

Friday morning found us tearing ourselves from new friends from Tennessee and North Carolina and various other states, reluctantly releasing each other from tight embraces, the kind that are only born out of an intense week of serving in Christ's name. It felt unfair to miss out on sharing more time with many of them, especially the summer staff that had just finished their eighth week of hosting youth groups like our own. They were some of the coolest people and I was disappointed to not have the opportunity to get to know them better. I jumped into the driver's seat of our twelve passenger van, put on my road trip song (Caution, Dangerous Curves Ahead by Maylene & the Sons of Disaster), and pulled out of the parking lot just to find myself stuck at the very first red light. The summer staff came running around the corner to continue the good-byes. Seconds before the light turned, one of them yelled out to me, "Come be our sixth staff member!"

My heart skipped a beat at those words. Could I...? Could my group get along without me? Our first van is already halfway down the road... Are they serious? That would be sweet! As sweet as getting home? ...Oh, there's the green light.

Sitting in a former "confession chair" back in my apartment this evening, I can't help but wonder what my week could have looked like. I don't in the least bit regret the choice I made, but I'm aware that even though the invitation was spur of the moment, I gave something up in staying the course. It's always that way, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow sometimes.

This past week found me reflecting on Acts 2:46, pondering what it meant for the believers back them to meet together daily. I just spent nine days straight with 18 other people from my youth group and another fifty or sixty-some other brothers and sisters. Youth ministry as it exists doesn't seem to be able to capture that. My wish to linger there in Boston and to continue to experience that was great indeed. It leaves me wondering how to live right now.

"Come be our sixth staff member!"

2010-08-01T17:18:00.000-05:00

Hmm. These black keys feel familiar, like they might have been used for some kind of communication in a past or foreign culture. How long has it been since I sat down and did this? Where have I been and how do I account for my time? ...when you wake up at 2:42 in the morning after what feels like days of travel, everything feels a little surreal.

I just returned from a mission trip right outside of Boston, Massachusetts and from seeing much of the rest of the northeast and life is slowly coming back into focus. Riding home with my mom and brother, I realized how out of whack my body clock was when she informed me that my desire for a beer at ten o'clock in the morning was far too early. I rested at home (their home? what is home?) for a while, enjoying healthy food again and thankful for sustaining conversation until I felt that tug that said it was time to go.

My next stop was at a place that has felt like home to me for years in all of its different states and all our our different seasons. It felt natural, even more so than going directly to the place that I pay money for each month so they'll let me live (or at least keep my stuff) there. I shared a caffeinated drink with Mark and Tracy and told them stories as best I could between the jubilations echoed by their youngest daughters. At times it was difficult to decide which tales to tell and I wondered why certain stories surfaced quickly while others felt elusive, but when you sit with someone who is willing to listen and engage, I've found that where you start is not nearly as important as where you end up.

I left their home when it was time and as I drove to my apartment, I became aware of the urge to call up another friend, to preemptively make sure that I was in the presence of someone I felt known by. I continued on, knowing I would have companionship soon enough.

[I haven't even gotten to the source of my title yet, but in the interest of a better ending than I can write this afternoon, I'll continue this as soon as I've found more rest.]

In pen

2010-07-15T17:01:00.001-05:00

Allison observed once that guys like to change their hair and/or facial hair styles when something significant happens in their lives. I listened as she spoke those words, knowing them to be true. And knowing them to be true, I countered that because my own folical lengths experience such regular change, it could only be considered coincidence. Sometimes change just happens to happen at the same time as another change.

My friend Eric had a sweet house in Lubbock his junior year that he shared with two roommates until they both moved out for various reasons. That left him with a two-story, two-bedroom house with two couches and one bathroom. He let me stay in the empty room when I came to visit and one morning as we quietly ate breakfast together, waiting for his girlfriend to arrive, he confessed to me that when he lived alone, he noticed he became quite selfish, especially with his time. I found that odd until just recently.

A few days ago, I donned my Euro-sunglasses and told Tom I was leaving for a walk. "Good-bye, Brad," he told me as I left. (He thinks my new sun protection eye wear makes me look like Brad Pitt.) Though I strolled off in the manner of one who wanders aimlessly, I very deliberately ended up in the park where I have so many childhood memories of sand-filled shoes when visiting family in Germany. I seem to have outgrown most of the playground equipment and like Alice's story, it feels quite curious to walk those grounds.

I shaved my beard yesterday. After nearly a year of practically living indepedent of any other person, my time in Germany has left me feeling rather out of control of my circumstances. It has been a blessing to live life with family again, but also trying as I relearn how to consider other peoples' schedules and communicate my intentions to others. I'm beginning to understand Eric's words, more and more as I find myself frustrated by unexpected hang-ups or simply waiting for everyone to be ready for the next thing I look forward to doing.
It is humbling to see my own selfishness, to allow others to tell me how my day will go, to accept opportunity as it presents itself and to say good-bye to some of my own desires. It has been good.

Life in Germany has an adundance to offer, yet in many ways, I feel as if I have outgrown this town. I love this place, but my own life is elsewhere and I reminded of this nearly every day. That life feels far away, out of reach and beyond my influence. Life is in motion and for all my joyous movement here, I feel like I am standing still.

Yesterday morning, I looked into a mirror and wondered how long I would let my facial hair grow. Hours later, as if the act could carry me across an ocean, I shaved my beard off entirely. The nakedness of my face reminds me that things are changing, and I am not in control.

Germany, part 2

2010-07-07T16:50:00.000-05:00

Cousin Tim
My brother and I are something like rock stars over here in Germany, at least when we're with our cousins. I've never met any actual rock stars, but I've met a few members of bands I really like, long enough to say "hey, great show tonight" or to awkwardly ask for an autograph. I don't know how to act around them, but I never considered that they might not know what to do with a random fan, either. Likewise, I'm not sure who to be with my cousins. With my verbal humor stripped away, I find I mostly smile and laugh a lot. I wonder what qualities they enjoy about me when my own favorites are inaccessible. There's something about family that transcends just about everything else.

Feinschmecker Tim
I used to be a rather picky eater, so much so that I was a bit ashamed of it myself. I think two things changed that: first, I had to get over my distaste for potatoes. Second, when you like a girl and her mother makes artichoke for dinner, you quickly decide to become a more adventurous person, even if she's not even there. This has been awesome, for it has allowed me to truly enjoy a far larger variety of foods this trip. I've had wild boar, different kinds of fish, delicious tiny mushrooms, amazing homemade jams, and breads with so many grains that I couldn't identify them all. And of course, every evening has brought an introduction to a different kind of beer or wine. Thinking of the return to my own place and the deplorable state of my pantry is a sad thought. Things will have to change.

Traveling Tim
Having reached my home in Germany a couple of dasy ago, I'm ready to see some other things. Tomorrow promises a trip to the mountains of Bamberg, which is really an excuse to try Rauchbier, or smoked beer. Together with my aunts and cousins, we'll canoe up a nearby river, and at some point, we'll make use of Germany's excellent (and efficient) train system to see more of Bavaria. And now that I'm here and reminded of the word, Wanderlust is indeed setting in, especially as I consider all the opportunities that are just outside of my grasp. It's an itch that a single scratch can never satisfy.

Germany, part 1

2010-07-07T05:13:00.000-05:00

Baby Tim
From San Antonio to Munich, it takes about twenty-four hours, depending on layover times and traffic between Frankfurt and Munich. I spent over half that time sleeping and the rest of it eating. I got on the first plane, read for a bit, then slept, pretty much only waking up to drink the juice and eat the little snack the flight attendant brought me. The stop in Chicago was short and consisted mainly of drinking my last Starbucks and later eating a large, yet rather bland burrito that did not quite satisfy my craving for Tex-Mex. Flaying across the Atlantic, I was really only truly awake long enough to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks 2 (not worth it), eat something like dinner, and watch The Time Traveler's Wife (well worth it). The six hour drive to our final destination looked similar.

Spoiled tourist Tim
Munich is a wonderful city, but difficult to appreciate if you're hot, jetlagged and tired, and then find yourself running around the city, seeing everything worth seeing in under two hours. I don't know what I saw and I forgot to bring my camera. Actually, all I can really remember about downtown Munich is that it has three Starbucks and a multitude of people. I felt distinctly American while I was there and really just wanted to sit down and enjoy a cool drink by myself. At some point, culturally-prepared Tim will return to München (as the natives call it).

Fly-on-the-wall Tim
When I was a child and would visit family in Germany, it was easy to tune all the noise out because I didn't understand the language. When I lived here and knew the language as well as I knew English, I finally understood that people weren't always yelling at each other; German is simply an excitable tongue. The first few days back have been exhausting, for understanding and speaking with others is now a labor-intensive task. Much of the time, I simply sit back and listen, while I relearn how to express myself intelligently.

Missing communication

2010-06-23T22:36:00.001-05:00

Because my blog is where I write all of my secrets, I'm going to let you in on another one. I do have one request first, before I continue baring my soul. Can you turn around and check to make sure there's no one reading over your shoulder? It would be totally awkward if your mom was reading this.

Ok. Here it is: I have a secret love of miscommunication. This doesn't leave the world wide web, 'k? You can ask me about it over coffee or a beer if you like, as long as you use some kind of code word when you initiate the conversation.

As it seems we are all here right now, I'll explain myself so there's no further miscommunication. There's a reason for my claim.

Miscommunication is defined as a lack of clear or adequate communication or an unclear or inadequate communication. Both are tragic in their own respect. It's the second definition that I think is the most promising of the two.

I hope no one miscommunicates on purpose, but whether by intent or not, it happens, and often. It has the potential to lead to disagreements, conflict, confusion and hurt feelings, anger, feelings of betrayal or of being violated. It can lead to good things too, on occasion, like when your parents give you two desserts by accident, but these seem to be more seldom than the less fortunate former.

To be honest, miscommunication pains me. I always cringe when the protagonist in a movie gets in trouble with the girl because one of them misunderstands the other because I know that feeling in real life, in all the arenas. Between my parents and me, between coworkers, at church, between two friends or a friend and myself. It's rather a damaging thing, this misconstruing of information or misreading of nonverbals.

And now the explanation behind my secret: I love seeing miscommunication cleared up. The sincere apologies, the oh, that's what you meants!, the restoration of communion between two people or parties. I don't really love the reasons that we need our relationships to be mended, but just like a home made beautiful when it was once in ruins, there's something exciting about restoration.

When miscommunication happens between us, it also begs some important questions: do you know me well enough to spot how that's inconsistent with who I am? You were confused when I said that, surprised that I would do such a thing; it was shocking because you know me and it seemed so out of character. That first question invite a second: do you care enough to pursue me there, to seek clarity? That's the more important question. Can our relationship bear the weight of miscommunication on my part or yours?

I invite your questions.

In the bathroom mirror

2010-06-19T20:03:00.000-05:00

If you stand before my bathroom mirror and the door is open and you're not intently gazing upon the wonderfulness of your own reflection - for I know that all of my readers are incredibly attractive people - you might notice that you can see a segment of the back wall of my bedroom. You would see the top of my bed and above it, a cork board affixed to an otherwise uninspiring white wall. On that board (did you know that cork comes from the bark of cork oak?) is my collection of postcards that were sent to me by friends from distant places. There is also one from myself, from the past.

But it wasn't any of those postcards that caught my eye this morning while I was preparing to meet the day and all the people I'd come across. It was below all of them: a piece of hot pink paper, covered in reds and pinks and glitters and crayon and hearts. It was the single Valentine's card I received last February that wasn't from my Grandma. It was a gift from a five-year-old.

I don't think she actually made it for me. I was visiting someone else in her family and it was lying on the coffee table in the living room and remained there for my entire stay. But on my way out, she picked it up and handed it to me. "This is for you," she told me, so I smiled and thanked her as I received her gift. I didn't really know what to do with her card when I got home, so it drifted around until finding a place by the postcards.

Catching that glimpse of pink this morning probably wouldn't have meant nearly as much if I hadn't just been thinking about her while putting away some shoes in my closet yesterday. On top of my shoe shelf there's a big blue shield from the same admirer. And in my car there's a little stuffed penguin named George that I was given this past Memorial day. Two of her princess drawings are on display on my refrigerator. She is five and she knows how to give lavishly.

She's the same girl that proposed to me just over two years ago. She brought her desire to me: pure, unadulterated, unplanned, unexplained - a wish laid before me as if it was just the thing to say at the time. I love how radical she is, how opposite her life is from the way we're taught to live.

What would the world say if we gave, we hoped, we loved like that?

Off a couple of napkins

2010-06-18T19:14:00.001-05:00

Stacks of Good Housekeeping
Reader's Digest of old jokes
     and formerly inspiring stories,
     tired advice
News magazines that aren't

Yes, once again the standard
     intake sheet
     name
     DOB
     address
     insurance?

Again the particular smell
     of...
     old people?
     disinfectant?
     nervous expectation?
The smell of waiting.

It's familiar, like the smell
     of your mom's house
     or your sweetheart's perfume
     minus, of course, how pleasant those things are.

There's a certain restlessness
that overcomes you when you
don't quite know what you're
waiting for
     or for how long. And there's
no discernible pattern. [end of napkin]

CHAPTER 2

But hope that is seen is no hope at all.

There's inexpressible comfort in that.
The kind that helps you sleep at night.

Hands, feet

2010-06-16T17:35:00.000-05:00

My fingertips need a break from constraining guitar strings for a moment. If beauty comes from pain, then here's hoping for a lot of beauty because there's already been a lot of pain.

It's summer and my body is showing signs of it. The criss-cross of pale lines on my feet show where the straps of my sandals find themselves comfortably when I'm walking, there are numerous scratches and scabs in all the usual places, my hair is blonder than it was a couple of months ago. This is my summer skin.

I've got a scab on the top of each ankle. After slightly hurting my left ankle at Enchanted Rock, I decided to brace it before I continued running. The Velcro strap bandage rubbed a small spot of skin raw as I ran... it didn't occur to me until afterward that I ought to have worn a longer sock to prevent this. My right ankle bears witness to me having worn tennis shoes for six straight hours on Monday at the kids sports camp I'm assisting to lead.

There's a temporary scar on my thumb from too hastily thrusting my hand into a jar of bulk sliced pickles. It's ok if traces of my blood were shared in the pickle juice, they were just for ammunition for the biggest food fight I've been a part of at Mess Fest 2010, just another hazard of working in youth ministry. Occasionally I sit back and wonder what these events have to do with Jesus because He's definitely not obvious on the surface on some of the events I'm part of hosting. I can be my own biggest critic sometimes, until I see that handful of airborne pickles and the mountains of shaving cream that followed soon after are a ticket to sharing authentic life with today's students. That's incredible and crazy; generally nacho cheese and insane amounts garlic aren't thought of as things that bind a group of people.

At least abusing these fingertips hasn't affected my ability to type. It feels good to construct some good sentences when I can't put two chords together yet.

You have been with me

2010-06-05T09:00:00.021-05:00

Will you be with me on the other side?

It has been two very full years since I first asked you to be with me and in many ways, I feel like I'm on a lot of "other sides." Looking back at two years of writing, there are things I'm proud to have written, things I wish I could take back, things I'm still surprised I wrote and then published. And though I've walked far and you've walked a great deal of it with me, my very first entry feels very me.

I'm looking forward to another year, excited to invite you along with me, desiring to walk with you too.

I am a pitcher.

2010-05-25T23:53:00.002-05:00

"You sent me to bed without a story last night," Maniac kidded.

Grayson brushed a yellow speck of egg from his white stubble. "I don't got no stories. I told you."

"You wanted to be a baseball player."

"That ain't no story."

"Well, did you become one?"

Grayson drank half his orange juice. "Just the Minors," he muttered.

Maniac yelped, "The Minors!"

"Couldn't never make it to the Majors." There was a frayed weariness in the old man's words, as though they had long since worn out.

"Grayson--the Minors. Man, you must have been good. What position did you play?"

Grayson said, "Pitcher." This word, unlike the others was not worn at all, but fresh and robust. It startled Maniac. It declared: I am not what you see. I am not a line-laying, pickup-driving, live-at-the-Y, bean-brained parkhand. I am not rickety, whiskered worm chow. I am a pitcher.

(from Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli)

I read these lines to JJ this afternoon and by the end of the last paragraph quoted here, I was so choked up I could barely speak the next words.

If you asked me why, I'm not sure I could tell you. It's something I'm turning over in my mind and it moved me in a way I don't want to forget. So here it is and if you stick with me, you can help me discover why.

Unspoken

2010-05-23T23:14:00.001-05:00

Every Monday night, there's a Bible study that meets at a friend's house. Two friends, actually, and they happen to be married. I go over there to satisfy my kid envy, or perhaps to stir it up (it's hard to tell sometimes). I also go over for the fellowship and to be nourished in the Word since I can't count on that happening on Sunday morning. It's an event I've come to look forward to and have even invited friends to join us.

The diversity of the group is impressive for its size, with about a dozen or more people in about as many places in life. Despite that fact, we are a community and I feel like I know each person individually. No one in the group is a "filler person," now are there any token members, except for maybe my roommate. He would be our token metro guy, but I think that's a title he'd take just a hint of pride in.

At the end of the night, we make time to take prayer requests. I want to give you an overview of what our prayer time looks like, but I feel like any description would be misleading if I didn't tell about last week first.

Almost everyone shares something with the group, so following suit, I offered up a praise that was on my heart. I got accepted to grad school and I also found out that I get to continue my job at school with JJ next year. They were two things I was excited to share... and they were safe things to share. That night, we were asked to pray for the person to our left. The girl to whose left I was sitting leaned in right as we were starting to ask me to repeat what I had said. I did. Then she looked at me with a "that's it?" kind of face and asked a "that's it" kind of question, to which I nodded.

I was the last one to pray that night as we went around the circle, which meant she was right before me. She did thank God for the things I had shared, then went on to lift up the "unspokens" in the group and then mentioned something about me again and when she was done, I was a little flustered. Had she really called me out for not sharing a genuine prayer request? My praise was perfectly legitimate! Wasn't it?

It stirred something up in me and I unpacked it with a friend over lunch yesterday. As his listening ear helped me process my thoughts, I told him that it felt a bit like she was calling me out, like she knew I was hiding a secret. He asked me about that. He asked if it was true that I was holding back or if was perhaps because the group does not invite that level of vulnerability.

I've come to see that many of my prayers are nested within relationships and I often don't know how to share those things with a group without the stories they are born out of, added in with the complexity of how much I'm allowed to share about the other person's life. And so I sit in circles where prayer requests are talked openly and I find that there's little room for me to partake, not much that I can share even with fellow believers that care about me.

I still cherish time spent in prayer on Monday nights. Corporate prayer makes me long for the early Church the most.

Questions, questions, questions

2010-05-17T17:51:00.000-05:00

Periodically in my journal, you would come across a page of just questions and nothing else. Sometimes just one or two, sometimes full pages of them, some of them would be trite and others would attempt to plumb the depths of my own soul. Some are asked in earnest seeking of an answer, some don't expect much of a reply at all. It's a bit surprising, given the constraints of English sentence structure, how many different emotions are given birth in these moments of asking, crying out, accusing, searching, and simple humility.

I didn't know it at the time, but a few years ago I set out on a quest to learn to ask good questions. The ones that invited an answer, that saw through the lies and the hiding and offered life. I wanted questions that cut to the heart of matters and I desired greatly to become one who could protect others in their vulnerability. I sought good questions not for their own sake, but for the sake of truth and freedom.

These past few months have been full of practice. Like scales falling from my eyes, God has been showing me pain I'd never seen before and has made my heart tender in ways I didn't know it was possible. Brokenness must have always surrounded me, but I have never been so aware. And so I'm reaching for the questions, the ones that, yes, find explanations, but are truly seeking to bring healing. I'm sitting in stories with others, exploring, asking for more.

It has been glorious and it has been very dangerous. At times I have been too intent on learning more that I have almost forgotten the Truth I know. Questions ought to serve truth and truth is not always dependent on good questions to be found. I pressed hard into a student's life recently, wanting to find all the roots that were producing a certain fruit, when what he needed just as much was some useful advice and a good dose of reality. We're making progress.

I've also found that I can lose my own self in being the one with all the good questions. There are not many ways to hide that are quite as effective as being curious about someone else and inviting them to do all the talking, all the while revealing so little of yourself. Professional counselors do this because it is their job. Friends don't.

As I wrote in my journal last night:

I have fewer answers than when I woke up this morning.

Bus stop conversation

2010-05-08T17:43:00.000-05:00

I was almost late to an appointment at church a couple of Thursdays ago. Running about 45 minutes early, I stopped to pick up a bite to eat, still planning on having a leisurely half an hour to munch on it. There's a bus stop on the way that I like to check ever since I encountered an acquaintance there and got to offer him a ride to his apartment, saving him a wait in the cold with his tiny son. And wouldn't you know it, I saw another friend there that day. Punching my brakes, I then flipped back into the parking lot to see if she wanted a lift.

I'm not entirely sure how she and I know each other, but we have lots of mutual friends and I see her at work once or twice a month and that's good enough for me. Some weeks ago, we were chatting after she had helped me pick up some supplies for a project and I was kinda babbling on like I sometimes do and I asked her how the married life was going. The wave of emotions that crossed her face told me that the answer was not the one you hope to hear from a married woman. It was a weird way to let a conversation end and I didn't know whether or not to wish I hadn't brought it up.

She jumped in my car, settled her groceries by her feet, and gave me a few directions to get me started. We talked about some things that I can't remember until I asked a follow-up question about the conversation we had last ended on.

He husband, who is a couple years younger than me, is apparently finding that marriage is more difficult than he anticipated. Watching the lives of his single friends is reminding him that there are sacrifices a married man has to make, that he exchanged certain freedoms for another life. He's not sure he wants in any more. Hearing her story saddened me and having entered the pain, I wasn't entirely what my place was. I offered her a few words of encouragement as we arrived at her home, then we parted ways again.

I don't know her husband, but I heard the sting of his desire to act like a boy again. His wistfulness and wish to live a life with fewer responsibilities were not fair for the one he had promised his love to. And it struck me especially close as I've been working with students who want to know what being a man is all about and as I've been taking steps to assume more responsibilities, to be and act more like a man than life has required of me while I was still a student. It actually surprises me that anyone would want to regress in that arena. It's hard work growing up and I think it's completely invigorating.

Talking to girls (A how-to in 3 easy steps)

2010-05-06T21:39:00.002-05:00

I spent the day at work floating around and being helpful wherever possible, from the aiding the nurse to filing absence excuses in the attendance office to miscellaneous jobs in the library. The truth is, I don't really have a defined job when my student isn't at school, but I am obligated to do something to earn the money they pay me. On Tuesday I spent the day reading The Silver Chair while keeping an eye on the single student in suspension that day.

I was barcoding some new teen novels in the afternoon when my ears heard the librarian drop my name in conversation with another teacher. I looked across the room inquisitively. Apparently they were discussing a student who had questions about how to talk to a girl and the librarian thought I could be of assistance. (This is the same librarian who has offered to set me up with her daughter who already has a boyfriend and lives in Seattle... this weirdness compounded by the fact that until I realized how much older she was than me, I had been interested in getting to know better. But I digress.)

Had I had any advice for the guy, I would have gone to share my words of wisdom with him. But I didn't, so I didn't. Instead, I remained where I was, feeling a little silly while I continued on with a menial task that wasn't going to further any middle school relationships. I know how to talk to girls and I'm quite good at being friends with them. I even know a bit about valuing them well and how to pursue a woman. But as to how to make an intentional good first impression? I feel ill-equipped to do that.

But maybe that wasn't even his question. And maybe first impressions mean less than we like to think they do. Our circles of friends would look entirely different if they were all based on first impressions, wouldn't they? What an odd thing to think about. I can think of very few friends that I decided to stick with because I liked them so much from the get-go and live in thankfulness for the friends who gave me a chance despite my first impression. Friendship has so little to do with performance, and still I get anxious just like an eighth grader when I start to think about the first thing I want others to know or think about me. How silly, says third person me to myself.

Man, I think I missed a good conversation.

The driving fly

2010-04-26T17:28:00.000-05:00

It's not hard to imagine Aristotle meandering around ancient Greece and coming up with brilliant ideas like spontaneous generation when flies make his theory so easy to believe. Where do flies come from? Science claims an answer, but I have yet to meet a scientist who can explain how they end up in random places like the inside of a driving car, often entirely uninvited.

A certain Mister Gregory McFly, probably of Scottish descent, found himself in a white Mazda 3 a few weeks ago. It was mid afternoon and he was doing that thing that flies do best - though no one's sure of what that is - when he suddenly discovered he was trapped by an invisible barrier. His cage was immeasurably large, steady and steadily in motion. Inorganic. McFly was alone, with the exception of the silent giant next to him.

By the time the glassy gate was lowered and McFly was released, he was lifetimes away from where had begun. Perhaps this is the reason flies don't keep families, don't leave forwarding addresses, never answer their email. McFly's world transformed in a matter of minutes.

What happened to him? (Or her? Have we been judging Gregory's gender all this time?) Did McFly give up and just die? Did he try to return home, if indeed that's where she had been stolen from? Maybe he didn't know any difference, except a slight change in wind speed. And perhaps he met the love of his very short life at the red light the Mazda had stopped at.

Where are you now, Gregory McFly?

Right now

2010-04-08T21:51:00.000-05:00

melpo mene, a band that does not care about either part of their name being acceptable to spell-check, provides the current soundtrack for the evening, a musical delight among many in the current folk mix drifting out of puny laptop speakers. My tongue is slightly, yet pleasantly, singed by the Early Darkness smoke pulled through a pipe that was chosen because it seemed like one that Sherlock Holmes might have packed. Laundry is in various stages around the apartment, put on hold because blogging was chosen over lemon cake.

I was talking to God about hope this morning while I was driving to work. When traffic is reasonable, God and I have a lot of chats during my morning commute. At the intersection of Blanco and the Loop, I started asking Him what I should hope for in a certain relationship. The question just sort of tumbled out of my mouth, or maybe it marched out, but it certainly came out without asking my permission first. Like someone who walks in on someone else's conversation, I quietly waited for a response.

His answer seemed surprisingly simple. Isn't what you hope for up to you? If I tell you what to hope for here, then aren't I kind of leaving you out of the picture entirely? Bystander-me frowned; he had expected something more concrete, or even just a "wait patiently for something more concrete." Real-me, who had asked the question, took the answer to heart because he is beginning to understand. He is finally comprehending the same things he already tells his friends and students.

It seems that most questions are answered in the present tense, a lot in the past tense, but very few in the future tense. The answers I sought a year ago are being revealed in the now, not back when I was looking for them. Each new day has a tendency to answer yesterday's questions, but not tomorrow's. I feel that hope is there to keep us on our toes, asking new questions today in sweet anticipation of answers that seem to be consistently better than I can imagine.

Dreaming

2010-04-06T22:40:00.000-05:00

I tried napping this afternoon, only to have something like a lightning bolt tear through my brain and wake me up immediately. I can't explain it any other way, except that it was something like a hypnagogic jerk contained within my cranium. It was weird. But not to be deterred, I put my head down again, determined to turn my empty schedule into a time of recharging. Weird dreams about small rodents and white lab coats and birds with sharp beaks invaded my space and then a phone call brought me back to consciousness. My alarm went off too soon, so I reset it and shoved my head back into the pillow.

It wasn't a very restful hour.

I've been neglecting sleep and it has shown up in two ways that I cannot discount. First, this weird dream is the first I can remember in weeks, maybe months. I haven't been dreaming recently and I normally dream regularly. And second, lack of sleep is beginning to wear on me. I took an account of my work performance over the last several weeks and found myself mediocre at many times; this is quite unacceptable to me.

I want to be awake or asleep. This in-between feels like death.

(to be continued?)

PE kids

2010-03-30T16:00:00.001-06:00

In Texas public schools, it is mandatory for sixth graders to take one semester of physical education. JJ took care of other requirements last semester, all the while greatly anticipating PE. We would talk about it as I pushed him from class to class in his wheelchair; I spent my time wondering what that would look like - how would he participate, what would I wear in gym, would the other students know how to receive him? He just dreamed about it.

Well, now PE is his favorite class by far and it's one of my favorites, too. Sometimes I arrive to the next class all hot and sweaty from pushing him around and trying to keep up with whatever game is going down. I've wiped out in my boots on the gym floor during indoor soccer. I slipped in wet grass in the middle of a football game yesterday and just barely saved getting my pants all muddy. I took two dodge balls to the face this afternoon. I check my dignity at the door most days. It's the class I'm most likely to forget that I'm not in sixth grade.

We share the gym with the eighth grade PE class. I sat and watched them at the beginning of class today, sitting in their spots or sprawled out on the floor, messing around or just wandering around. They're the non-athletes, the underachievers, the underdogs you don't really root for because they don't even care. I beheld each one of them, studying them as I have done most days for the last two and a half months. I tried to pick out which boy was most like me at their age, but I could not find one among twenty-some of them that I could or wanted to identify with. Though my eighth grade self was about equal to them athletically, it made me sad to see such a large group of boys who just seem to have given up on excelling, with not a single coach even trying to inspire them. The coaches seem to have given up at the same time the students did.

It struck me suddenly that they were probably some of the very same kids that Jesus chose when he was calling his disciples and my of them view sobered up quickly. They shouldn't be given up on like I am too often wont to do. Jesus hasn't given up. They need Him just as much as I do.

And I need Him just as much as they do.

The part where Tim wept

2010-03-27T19:30:00.000-06:00

I have two "go to" stories when I'm telling about times that I acted out in my anger. Here is the full version of one of those.

Sixth grade was my first year at a Christian school (Freie Christliche Schule Heidelberg) I went to in Germany for four years. When I started, I was the fourth student in my grade and the school only went through eighth grade. It's a safe bet to say that I knew almost everyone at my school quite intimately within a short amount of time. The headmaster and some of the teachers had connections over in the United States and that year, a group of American high school students came to sing some songs and show us their wonderful bell choir skills. (I hear bell choirs are generally thought of as awful - I do not have this bias.)

This visit set into motion the dream of sending the senior class on a trip to the US each year. The 8th graders became ninth graders the next year as the school expanded and their class made the dream a reality. The next year, my class started raising money for a similar trip. By the time we were in ninth grade, we had gained two more students and that spring we were ready to go on tour.

The six of us -three girls, three boys - set off with our extremely conservative headmaster and his wife, who was our main teacher, and their solemn oldest daughter, who was also a teacher on a three week trip along the east coast. I have mostly fond memories of the trip. I also have a really intense one.

Andreas and Ralf were the other two boys. Both were older than me and gifted with tall and broad Russian genes. I had one giant advantage going for me - I was the one who spoke English comfortably and very fluently. (I didn't have the heart to break it to one of the couples who hosted me that it was because I was, of course, American.) A little over two weeks into the trip, the stresses that had begun to mount upon us began to leak. We had nowhere to vent, and the only time we had to ourselves was the time we spent in the bathroom. It began to spill out in our room one night when Andreas and I began to heckle Ralf about how he always introduced himself, especially girls: "Hi, my name is Ralf. With an F." I just thought it was silly. Ralf did not think we were being funny.

In the dark, he began to vent about how angry he was, about how he just wanted to punch something. Not taking him seriously, I goaded him on, then turned over in my bed on the ground to go to sleep. Next thing I knew, a sharp pain rang out in my ear - he had punched me in the ear!

I don't even know what came over me in that moment. I moved as a man possessed, throwing off my covers, grabbing him, and throwing his significantly larger body to the floor in a split second. I had raised my foot above his head, ready to slam my heel with all my might into his temple. But before I could act, God's grace stopped me.

Trembling, I crept back into my bed and started to weep. I was blubbering and silent sobs racked my body. I didn't know why, I didn't understand what had just happened, I could make no sense of it. I had lost all composure and Andreas and Ralf had no idea what to say. I don't remember if I felt shame. I know I sensed that they cared, but had no idea how to comfort me. From across the room they told me it was ok to cry, thought they could not understand why I wept and I could not find the words to tell them. I fell asleep aware of a sudden ache for home.

A part of a something

2010-03-24T15:57:00.000-06:00

You have no idea how much I don't trust you right now.

The very words I spoke to Steven has he led a blind me through the parking lot. He dragged me at what was probably a brisk pace for him - for me it was breakneck speed as I became ever more convinced that he was about to lead me straight into a random curb in the middle of the road and I'd end up sprawled out on my face. If trust was purely a mental exercise, I believe I would have figured it out a long time ago. Instead, as I learned that day, no matter how much I say I trust someone (and I would have said 100% before we started together), I still feel a great need to protect myself.

I've run into a number of people who like being in control; many of them are the oldest of their siblings. I find solidarity with elder siblings easily, though for a long time I preferred to act confused by their need for control and pretend like I don't want it just as much as them. It's hard work to make control look effortless and even harder to make it look like I don't care.

And I don't bullshit anyone quite as well as I do myself, do I?

A good reputation

2010-03-08T17:36:00.002-06:00

Last night, I sat in a circle with other men and women and we talked about church, talked around church, were the church. We were a lot of things and we said a lot of things. It was neat and frustrating and beautiful and very real. Church, if anything, should not be manufactured and our group certainly isn't.

We spent our time in Paul's first letter to Timothy in the chapter where Paul talks about overseers (also called bishops or elders in other translations of the Greek) and deacons in the church. He describes the caliber of an overseer's character in this chapter, concluding that such a man "must have a good reputation with outsiders."

A man I respect spoke up last night, highlighting this verse. He did little more than say that he thought this is important (it is), but I couldn't contain a quick response: Jesus didn't have a good reputation.

Isn't this the carpenter's son? Isn't his mother's name Mary, and aren't his brothers James, Joseph, Simon and Judas? they asked in Matthew 13. I don't even want to ascribe the word they were thinking to the Messiah, my savior. (That one that starts with a B and means your mama wasn't faithful to her husband.) John the Baptist wasn't exactly though highly of, either. Jesus says it himself: For John the Baptist came neither eating bread nor drinking wine, and you say, 'He has a demon.' The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and you say, 'Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and "sinners." ' But wisdom is proved right by all her children.

That's such an odd contrast, on the surface at least. There was a chuckle around the room at my comment, but the conversation moved on and we didn't talk about that. Still, it has had me thinking.

I don't want to earn the same insults made about Jesus the easy way. I will not wastefully indulge in too much food or wine. But... I think I do want that reputation. I want to be like Christ and I want outsiders to wonder how that lines up with me spending time with people that aren't, especially the ones who are "too broken" to belong to Him.

I have a feeling that within the next few years, I'll look pretty different than I did a year ago.

Being Shaq

2010-03-04T16:41:00.002-06:00

For the past two weeks, JJ's PE class has been playing basketball. He got picked to be on team Ballas, which was rockin' news since he wasn't even there the days the teams were chosen. He is a key player on his team and the his teammates even created a signature play for him, appropriately named Beast, in which he gets to take the ball down the court and make a shot. Today the Ballas laid the smackdown on the Blue Devils who were previously undefeated, winning with a score of 15-5.

JJ is not the first one called, but also never the last one picked when teams are being chosen, which is always in the old-school process. Team captains take turns picking the players they want on their team and the boys go above and beyond to make him feel welcome and let him know he's a valuable player. It's really impressive.

Of course, it helps that when JJ gets picked, Shaq is his shadow.

That's me, naturally. All five feet, nine inches. Dream Team material, boy, let me tell you.

It's interesting, finding the appropriate level to play at with a bunch of sixth grade boys. JJ and I generally run defense and with his wheelchair to block and my long arms rebound, most of the guys are forced to shoot from outside the paint. I preferred to shoot as few baskets as possible, though I won't tell you if my reason behind that was because I thought I had too much of an advantage or because I was trying to hide the fact that I'm not at all gifted at putting a ball through a hoop.

Being a shadow for these past five months has been an experience unlike any I've ever had. I've written JJ's name across dozens of papers that bear my work in my handwriting. The busywork is easy to pass off as his, but I admit that I have signed a piece of artwork that he received a grade for and have turned in a few essays that were definitely greater than sixth grade material. Still, it is JJ who is enthusiastically greeted each morning, who is missed when he's not there, and is applauded when I take him to the front of the class and present his projects for him. I am JJ's shadow, humbly so.

I scored two baskets in the game today and JJ got the high fives. I got his smile and that was my satisfaction.

Specific listing

2010-03-03T16:30:00.002-06:00

Words I own or want to own:

real
sacrifice

substance

restoration

sorrow
hope

risk

The ones I do not wish to own:

morose

troubled

melancholy
obligatory

contempt

survival

And the ones that fall in between:

ordinary

expectancy

pensive

Follow You

2010-02-28T23:28:00.000-06:00

You have to understand that the world will not fall apart without you, and still know that the world desperately needs you.

Smith makes a decision

2010-02-25T19:21:00.002-06:00

The man ironed his pants... pensively.

Pensively?

He stopped and thought about it. Was he using that word right? Why was the word pensive on his mind, anyway? Did it simply have to do with the fact that pensive and pants have similar starting sounds... alliteration! Smith smiled, content enough with this new turn of wordly events, realigned the crease of those pesky khakis (never buy cheap khakis), and continued his work.

Just a moment into the resumed chore and Smith was actually suddenly and unexpectedly pensive - adj. suggestive or expressive of melancholy thoughtfulness - which was common when he was in the middle of housework without music to determine and drive his emotional state. No longer was he engrossed by the complexities of his Egyptian cotton slacks and questions like does this mean the cotton was grown in Egypt or is it just a style and aren't my bedsheets made of this same material? No, Smith had more melancholy thoughts, if you'll forgive him for feeling by the dictionary definition.

He frowned, unable to understand why he was still asking the same questions he could remember asking in middle school. (He hadn't asked these questions in middle school. He just thought he had.) These questions always had tidy answers in the movies and Smith was certain that if his life was a movie, the pensive pant-ironing scene would have led up to some kind of key realization that he was living life too small and would have pushed him to action. He looked around the room for a director sitting in one of those chairs or someone with a camera, suspicious for a moment.

No sign of this being a movie. This room definitely had four walls and authentic insulation in each one. He had replaced the battery in the smoke alarm a few months ago and knew it was certainly too small for a hidden camera.

Smith looked at his pants again with new eyes and chose not to finish ironing them. He unplugged the iron, opened his closest, and picked up the duffel bag he had prepared sometime last week. He had what he needed for the next seven days; all he needed was a place to arrive.

Naming the animals

2010-02-23T16:50:00.002-06:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm naming animals.