Statistics are statistics, but God is God, can I get an Amen?

But despite, it is the Lord’s plans that prevail, not mine. So who’s to say the 10 years I supposedly have left with my mom is really just that short instead of the 4, maybe 5 decades I had thought I’d have? 
(Man. It’s still hard to talk about, even though the Lord has been so faithful and compassionate.)

So I resolved, “Hey, I need to get married within these next 10 years and have kids before she leaves.” But is it selfish of me to not want that so I can spend all that time with her instead? I know she’d want to see her kids living, going through those major “checkpoints” in life. But no matter where I’d be going it’d be further away from her. Leaving, sometimes visiting. I still have so much left to do with and for her. 

“That’s how life is.” 

All these wedding photos on my newsfeed just got me thinking how I’d like my mom to be there when I’m in white. I don’t want an empty chair by my dad. 

Lord, let her at least hold all her grandkids.


Complete surrender

April 27, 2014

Don’t hide it, don’t manage it, don’t handle it.

Cut it off and throw it out. 


April 13, 2014

It’s a strange thing to be caught in a place of the now, the then, and the where-to. All three in one moment, intermingling and being passed on among all who listen. It’s traveling back to past times with the bearer of those memories and singly, silently probing ahead into the maybes of the future. It’s bittersweet. It’s comfort. It’s nostalgic scent of things long gone. It’s excitement for things to come.
Thanks for coming back, alum.

to behold

April 6, 2014

jumpseat confessional

Most museums are places of motion. Not rapid motion, mind you, but the distinct and meandering flow of a stream. The exhibits are designed for this, designed to carry you gently along from entrance to exit so that you can drift past as many great works as possible before rushing off to your dinner reservation.

And this is a shame. For you can see a painting without ever seeing the painting.  Letting one’s eyes sweep briefly over a canvas as you slowly hurry past is not the equivalent of actually encountering a work of art. It reduces the art to a mere decorative object, silences its call, and places demands upon it. For if it wants more than a few seconds of your time it had better be pretty enough to catch your eye or else famous enough to be recognized.

I am guilty of this, sure, and guilty of…

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April 4, 2014

I do not know what kind of friend you categorize me as, but I’m the kind of person who wants to be the friend who doesn’t fit in any. I’d rather be a part of it all than have you designate when and where I can be friends with you. Let me be me, which means letting me care about and for all your facets and letting me be there for you in all circumstances. Especially the ones you try to hide out of shame. Do not compartmentalize me. I do not fit in a box.


April 3, 2014

Sometimes I think we miss chances and opportunities in life by a couple days. Perhaps even a few hours. I don’t know where things started going wrong, though I have some idea. The angle of our diverging paths is so steep it’s almost as if one of us tripped over a pothole, or maybe a firmly lodged rock, before plodding on again. Honestly, the chances of me being where you are was once quite high. We were very much the same, weren’t we? Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we stayed friends, but I know I don’t want wherever that would have taken us. Come home soon, buddy. All is not lost and it’s never too late. I hate seeing you like this, a pure canvas ripped and spattered with the refuse and grime this world pushes at you because you think you’re not good enough.

Come home soon. Come home soon.