The Beautiful and the Ugly

It’s been awhile since I’ve written publicly. Writing kinda sucks. It isn’t necessarily hard, it just hurts.

Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

The statement is very true, and that’s why I’m most often not very public about what I’ve written. I don’t always wish for everyone to see what’s in my blood, or perhaps more haunting, what makes me bleed.

But I am in love, and I must share this love. So, allow me to bleed for you.

Beauty. I love it.

I don’t know much about purposes or reasons of placement, but I think my main goal in life is to seek beauty as often as I can. And, if I’m allowed to choose a purpose, I’d like to think my purpose is to share with those who still read what I find.

Hiking. I hate it.

I know too much about ugliness, and I know that hiking is of the ugliest. It hurts and you sweat and you stink and your knees scream and you long for something good to eat and you suddenly realize how much you love comfy couches and you curse under your breath and you trip on uneven rocks and you hate how stupid you were for entering the woods and you hate how stubborn you are for not turning back. Then, there’s that breeze. You look up from the trail and you see nothing. And in that nothingness you see everything.

You’re higher than the trees can grow and you have an amazing 360 degree view. You can see where you’ve been and you can see where you’ll go. You can see as far as the world allows before it slowly curves into the unseen and you tighten your laces and push forward, ready to see more of what it has to offer.

It’s beautiful.

And part of it’s beauty is the way it stands directly next to ugliness.

I have a difficult time with people.

I too often think they’re ugly.

They cause me pain and they’re gross and they stink and they yell and they’re gluttonous and they’re lazy and they curse and they cause me to stumble and they’re stupid and they’re stubborn and they’re self loathing.

But the same incredible God who carved the mountains is the same incredible God who molded man.

“For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.”

– Psalm 139:13-14

Humans are so much more complex than a simple trail that I often have a harder time finding their beauty. But it’s there. And it’s much more beautiful than a view of the dying world.

This great love I have for beauty has convicted me.

The truth is I love hiking. As painful and punishing as it can be, the beauty at the top of the mountain always takes my breath away.

People are the same.

I need to sacrifice myself for others as my Savior sacrificed himself for me. I need to bleed for others and hike through their punishing faults and push past their painful insecurities. I need to seek the beauty in all, because only when that beauty is found can two truly connect. And when two connect, lives are changed. It happened to me.

I am as ugly as it gets. My stupidity is vast and my stubbornness is great. I struggle and I slip and I struggle and I slip. But people pushed through that. People found my beauty. And I was and am loved. And in that love the truth of Christ was taught to me in a way it never had been before. Surrendering to him was the only thing I was capable of doing.

Would you like to change lives? Find a person’s beauty and love him. Even through his crap.

“For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

– Ephesians 2:10

Proverbs 3:13-20: Do you understand this wisdom?

Alright, I’ll be honest: I’m only in the third chapter of Proverbs and I’m sort of growing tired of reading about wisdom, and that tiredness is making me exceptionally insecure about writing another post about wisdom. Can we agree that Solomon is overly obsessive and move on?

Nope. Because truthfully, I don’t think he is. I believe we (or at least I) have watered down the importance and power of wisdom just as wise old Solomon expected, because he reminds us

v14, wisdom is better than silver and gold
v15, wisdom is more precious than jewels
v15, wisdom is more desirable than anything you can imagine (yeah, that’s a bold statement)
v16, with wisdom come long life, riches and honor
v17, the ways of wisdom are ways of pleasantness and the paths are paths of peace
v18, wisdom is a tree of life.

Now, I try to be understanding of all people, so I totally understand if silver and gold and jewels and infinitely desirable desires and a long life and riches and honor and ways of pleasantness and paths of peace and a tree of life isn’t good enough for you (NOT), but no worries. Because there’s more. And I think what Solomon writes next is better read and understood if you’re standing outside.

One time, my dad and I went hiking and the weather was terrible. It happens a lot when you hike. Rain was coming at us sideways, our hands were freezing, the trail was muddy and slippery and our feet and knees were sore and tired, and we had a mountain to climb. Everything around us felt so much more powerful than us, and it felt as though every thing was against us. We pushed, though, and we kept taking steps, and though we were slowed, we were never stopped. Finally, we reached the peak of the mountain, and the peak put us just above the rain clouds, but it put us in the middle of a violent cold wind.

In that moment, we felt so tiny. I could see about as far into the world as my bedroom allows me to see. Below us, you could hear the destruction of the wind and rain, and you could feel the incredible size of the world around us. But we were completely blind to it. The world felt so huge.

Solomon writes in verse 19 that by wisdom, the Lord created the earth and by understanding, He created the heavens. In verse 20, he writes that by the Lord’s knowledge, the deeps broke open and the clouds dropped down their dew.

This world –that has the ability to make us feel so tiny– was created by the same wisdom, understanding, and knowledge that the Lord is offering us. This wisdom that is ours to claim put the very ground beneath your feet.

Do you understand this wisdom?

Proverbs 3:1-12: How to live the good life

In Proverbs 3:1-12, Solomon writes for us ways to live an incredibly good life.

v1 & 2: If we are to keep God’s law, our lives will be lengthened and filled with peace.
v3 & 4: If we are to keep steadfast love and faithfulness, we will find favor and success in the sight of God and man.
v5: Trust in the Lord with ALL YOUR HEART; lean not on your own understanding.
v6: Acknowledge the Lord in ALL YOUR WAYS; He will make straight your paths.
v7 & 8: Heal your flesh and refresh your bones by being not wise in your own eyes, but by fearing the Lord and turning away from evil.
v9 & 10: Honor the Lord with your wealth and firstfruits, and your barns will be filled and your vats will be bursting with wine.
v11 & 12: Do not despise the Lord’s discipline or be weary of His reproof, because He disciplines and reproves those He loves.

As I mentioned in the post about Proverbs 2, these lists Solomon creates for us may sound easy, but eventually, being the buffoon I so often am, I’m going to fail at least one or all of these.

Keeping God’s law: From committing adultery (lusting) to not always honoring my father and mother; from having worldly items become “idols” to being a murderer (I haven’t actually taken a life, but I’ve hated people in my past) — I have not always kept God’s law.
Please see the bullet point above to see that I have not always kept to steadfast love or faithfulness.
With ALL MY HEART? Really?
In ALL MY WAYS? How?
“Refreshment to your bones” just sounds incredible, but why does my pride have to be so big? And why does evil have to look so attractive at times?
But it’s my wealth. I worked for it, I keep it (or spend it).

Solomon knew his readers were going to fail at some (if not all) of these, because Solomon was human, too. And God also knows we’re not always going to be able to keep these. That’s why in verses 11 and 12, we’re hit with grace:

“My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline or be weary of His reproof, for the Lord reproves him whom He loves, as a father the son in whom he delights.”

We (every single one of us, even the wisest) are subject to sin. All of use are capable of failing these “simple” steps in living life, and if you’re like any of the humans I’ve ever met, you will. But that’s okay. The Lord is ready to discipline us and reprove us because the Lord always loves us. In our worst, when we do not wish to be seen or heard or known, the Lord, as a father the son in whom he delights, is ready to lovingly make our ways straight.

Sitting Around.

The complete collection.

Proverbs 2 (or, 7 Easy Steps To Wisdom, 3 Steps To Make It Easier, and 10 Reasons Why You Need Wisdom)

I am obsessed with the pursuit of wisdom.

At least four times a week I’m using the internet to find lists of books. Some of these lists are as things like “30 Books You Should Read Before You’re 30,” “The Best English-Language Fiction of the Twentieth Century,” and “1000 Novels Everyone Must Read.” I own many of the books that make the lists I find, and a lot of them are truly incredible; and some of them were written by wise men and women. But no matter how many of these books I finish, my soul is never pleased.

You can learn a lot from books, but as Solomon writes in Proverbs 1, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.” In the beginning of Proverbs 2 (verses 1-5), Solomon instructs us on how to understand the fear of the Lord and how to find the knowledge of God:

Receive and treasure God’s law
Make your ear attentive to wisdom
Incline your heart to understanding
Call out for insight
Raise your voice for understanding
Seek it like silver
Search for it as you would for treasure

Other lists I sometimes enjoy reading are “self-help” lists. Some of my favorites are lists like “100 Skills Every Man Should Know” and “Become a Man’s Man With These 65 Life Hacks.” Not that I need these lists, I just…you know, enjoy seeing where other men lack. If Solomon were living on earth today (and was a blogger), Proverbs 2:1-5 would be titled, “7 Easy Steps To Wisdom.” Because that’s essentially what they are. But, like with most of the lists I find, there are always a couple of steps I eventually fail. I may be good for a day or two, but by the third, I’m back to the same old Jacob. Thankfully, the Lord wants to help us and make us wisdom-qualified.

According to Proverbs 2:6-7a, the Lord is the giver of wisdom. Wisdom and understanding come from His mouth, and He stores that wisdom for the upright. Remaining upright in this crippling world can be incredibly difficult, but

when we walk in integrity, the Lord will shield us
He guards the paths of justice
He watches over His saints

And in doing that, He helps us remain upright — making His wisdom ours.

In Proverbs 2:9-21, blogger Solomon creates another list: “10 Reasons Why You Need Wisdom.”

You will understand righteousness, justice, equity, and every good path.
Wisdom will be in your heart.
Knowledge will please your soul.
Discretion will watch over you.
Understanding will guard you.
It will deliver you from the ways of evil men (perverseness).
It will deliver you from the forbidden woman (lust).
You will walk in the way of the good.
You will keep to the paths of the righteous.
You will remain upright, and the upright will inhabit the land.

We need wisdom to live. We need wisdom to help others live. No matter how many more books I buy and no matter how many more lists I find, all wisdom comes from the Lord.

The Wise Man vs. The Fool (according to Prov. 1)

The Wise Man (or woman)…

FEARS THE LORD
Knows wisdom and instruction
Receives instruction in wise dealing
Receives instruction in righteousness, justice, equity
Gives prudence to the simple
Gives knowledge and discretion to the young
Hears and increases in learning
Hears his father’s instruction
Does not abandon his mother’s teaching
Does not consent to enticing sinners
Turns at His reproof
Knows His words
Dwells securely
Is at ease without dread of disaster

The Fool…

Despises wisdom and instruction
Consents to enticing sinners
Walks the ways of sinners
Loves being simple
Delights in scoffing
Hates knowledge
Refuses to listen when He calls
Does not heed when He stretches out His hand
Ignores counsel
Ignores reproof; despises reproof
Killed by turning away
Destroyed by complacency

Even for one who has chosen the ways of the foolish for days, weeks, or years, being wise today is within reach. Being wise isn’t necessarily a state or a level in which we hope to one day reach. Becoming wiser is, but being wise is a choice. It’s something we can choose to be today. Don’t let pride, complacency or comfort get in the way. Choose wisdom.

Slave.

After surviving a night of terrain-changing, shelter-crushing, ear bud-cracking storms, the Appalachian Trail led me and a group of lonely hikers to Franklin, North Carolina.

It had been raining for three or four days without ceasing, and everything we owned was drenched, so we all decided to split up and share some cheap motel rooms and enjoy the town for a couple of days — also, Overdrive, one of the long-haired hippies I hiked with, was expecting some of the finest marijuana money can buy (if you can find it), and because he was getting it for free he wanted to share it with us all. We couldn’t wait. One of Overdrive’s closest friends is a leader in the “legalize marijuana” group, NORML, so whenever she had the chance, she would mail him “medicine” to help ease the pain in his knees.

Franklin is a blur.

My clearest memory is when I ate more food in about two hours than I could normally eat in a week. The hikers I hiked in with and I walked about a mile from the motel to eat at a Mexican restaurant. I ordered the steak dinner. The plate was about half the size of my torso.

After we all devoured every last crumb, we started walking back — about halfway to the motel we stopped at a McDonald’s; I ordered two combo meals and finished them before the motel was even in sight. As soon as we got back a man offered us all a ride to Walmart. We accepted because we knew there was a Chinese buffet in the same parking lot. We feasted until they kicked us out. Then, we hitched a ride back to the motel and I shared a pizza from across the street with two other hikers. When you hike up and down mountains all day, you eat constantly. When you smoke pot all day, you eat constantly.

I think I was in Franklin for three days, but it could have been more. I remember sitting in a plastic lawn chain in the middle of a parking lot watching cars drive by for what felt like days. The sun had finally defeated the rain clouds, and it was nice to sit out and enjoy its warmth. I also remember Franklin’s sidewalks scaring the crap out of me. When you hike, you hike alone. You enjoy community in the mornings and in the evenings, but during the day you hike alone. The only things you hear are a few random animals, sometimes the wind and rain, and always the constant rhythm of your feet. At first it’s nice, then it’s unnerving, but eventually it becomes the most calming thing in the world. You go from that to walking on concrete next to a busy street with loud, fast cars and you’re gonna need a change of underwear.

Other than the delicious food, the plastic lawn chair, the deadly traffic, and, of course, the large amount of weed (oh, and I remember watching the Royal Wedding on a tiny television), I don’t remember much of Franklin, but what happened immediately after Franklin still makes me angry with myself.

After hiking north for a while, leaving Franklin behind, I found an old, overweight man sitting on the trail with a homemade pack that he claimed weighed more than me – I believed him – and an empty water bottle. Not just an empty water bottle, but a tiny plastic bottle with a Sprite label still around it.

He begged for water as soon as he saw me. I knew I had more than enough to make it to the next water source, so I filled his bottle.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked him as he gulped down the water. I asked him kindly, but probably not as respectfully as I would ask a man of his age off the trail. On the trail, though, age is not measured by years or time — it’s measured by miles and experience, and this man was a baby and I was disappointed in him for being so ill prepared.

The man explained to me that he used to call Franklin his home, but he had lost his job and shortly afterward his house. So, he grabbed a tarp, put everything he could in it, tied it up, strapped it to his back, and hit the trail. My heart broke for the man and I knew that I needed to help him. I asked him how far he was hiking for the day.

“To the shelter,” he answered. There was a shelter just a few miles up the trail. “Do they have food there?” My heart broke even more. The shelters are nothing more than three walls, a roof, and a wooden floor. And if you’re lucky there might be a privy nearby so you can have a somewhat private poop. There is no food at the shelters, and after I explained to him what the shelters are his shoulders dropped lower than they were before. I knew there was a stream next to the shelter, though, and I told him he would have all the water he could need. I wanted to share my food with him, but I had just enough to make it to my next restocking point. I was so stoned the days before I had completely forgotten to restock on food until I was about to hit the trail, so I ran to a gas station across the street from the motel and bought what they had to offer. Normally, I carry more food than I need, but then I only had candy bars, beef jerky, and a few other gas station type foods. I was worried about myself making it, and I knew I couldn’t take care of him. I refilled his water bottle, asked if there was anything else I could do — after he said no I continued walking.

As I walked I thought of a way I could help him: I was going to hike to the shelter, set my pack down, and walk back to the man to carry his pack for him. The weight of the pack worried me a little, but I knew I could handle it. I was excited about this good deed and I hiked with new strength.

Soon, I saw my buddy Overdrive sitting on the trail with his pack off. I asked him what was up and he pointed to a wooden sigh. The sign explained that the shelter wasn’t actually on the Appalachian trail, but on a side trail about a mile away.

“I’m not walking two extra miles,” he said, “I’m just going to the next one. What are you going to do, Zappa?” The guys called me “Zappa” because of my mustache and soul-patch — they said I looked like the eccentric musician, Frank Zappa.

"ZAPPA"

“Not sure,” I answered, as I dropped my pack and sat next to him. I wanted to stick with Overdrive because he had the pot, but I also wanted to help that poor, struggling man. As we sat there, a few of our buddies began to show up. I asked each one if they had seen the man. They all answered yes and laughed and joked about him. It sounded like he was still sitting in the same spot. Thankfully they all claimed to have shared their water; one said he even gave him some food.

I knew that if I helped the man I wouldn’t have enough sunlight to catch up with Overdrive and the gang, and we were already planning for a long hike the next day, so unless I wanted to kill my already swollen knees, I wouldn’t ever be able to catch them. I decided the man wasn’t worth putting distance between me and the marijuana, and just like that I never saw the man again.

I barely slept that night — I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I thought I had officially run away from my evil self. Life off the trail had become so full of self hatred, sexual immorality, drunkenness, and so many other sins that I had to escape. The hike was supposed to be my walk of purity into goodness. It wasn’t just from Georgia to Maine — it was from “wreck” to “figured out and complete.” But, away from everything I was still allowing sin to prevent me from being good. And I knew there was nothing I could do about it.

A few weeks later I was in a church office of a good friend of mine. I was not a Christian then, and he knew it, but he believed something was different about me. Perhaps there was. Perhaps I was finally allowing God to change me. Perhaps I was just finally getting to where I didn’t hate God so much I could have a conversation about Him without getting angry. Whatever it was, I assured my friend I was the same crappy human he knew from the year before. He asked what I thought about God and Christ, and I told him I wasn’t sure.

Then, I told him the story about the old guy on the trail. I told him about how badly I wanted to be good. I told him I had been made fully aware of the fact that I was a “slave to sin” and that there was nothing I could do about it. I needed sin to live. Sin prevents one from being good. So, I could not live a good life. He leaned back, smiled – almost knowingly – and said, “It sounds pretty scary to be a slave to sin.”

After hashing it out for about two months, I dropped to my knees on July 5 of 2011 and for the first time in my life I was freed from my sins by the power of Christ Jesus. And I was made good.

“But I want you to know, brethren, that the things which happened to me have actually turned out for the furtherance of the gospel, so that it has become evident to the whole palace guard, and to all the rest, that my chains are in Christ.”

– Philippians 1:12-13

I pray for the man when I remember him, and I remember him often.

An Exercise.

Before you begin reading, know these things: 1) There is no point to find in the writing below; 2) This is a writing exercise; 3) This isn’t a story, it’s an attempt at a theme to a story I hope to one day work on.

Enjoy!

__________________________________________

The young man sits in the waiting room and waits patiently with his backpack under his right arm, and earphones in his ears playing music with lyrics about a girl, and the lyrics remind the young man waiting patiently of no one.

At first glance the waiting room in which the young man waits looks rather typical. Its walls are a light shade of blue, and they are meant to calm its occupants and make waiting patiently a task waiting patients may accomplish with more ease than if its walls were another color’s hue. The young man sits on a comfortable couch that has seen many years and has been the host of many waiting patients-some who waited patiently and some who did not-and across the room from that couch is a light blue wall with a sliding glass window in the center. The closed window reveals a room with the same colored walls and a desk that holds many papers that are being marked by a pen and shuffled about by a young female secretary with frizzy hair. Inside the waiting room to the right of the sliding glass window is a cheap piece of art with a cheap frame that hangs squarely between the window and a corner of the room, and in that corner sits a brown, weathered chair, and to the right of the chair stands a small table with a lamp and some magazine that tell their readers what humans are supposed to want in life, and to the right of that table and that lamp and those magazines hangs another cheap frame holding another cheap piece of art, but this one sports a quote from the man who once lived named Gandhi, and it speaks of change; and to the right of that quote sported by that art in that frame is another corner, but this one with a large green plant, and to the right of that plant stands another table that holds another lamp and more magazines put together by systematic salesmen with savvy words that spell old ideas in new ways, and to the right of that table sits the young man on the comfortable couch with his backpack under his right arm, and to the right of that couch all the way to the left of the sliding glass window are blue walls and more furniture and more sales pitches and another quote from another man who once lived. The only differences on that side of the room are two doors–one that leads to the world and one that leads further into the building. The young man watches the latter, waiting patiently for it to open as he listens to a man sing about a life that is about a girl, and the young man who watches and listens also imagines, and he entertains his mind with thoughts of a life so simple it can revolve around a single person.

He tries to imagine a life he can live freely–free to have relationships with others; free to make decisions; free to have desires; free to feel emotions; free to sing about a girl; free to live as he wanted; free to design a waiting room that is supposed to look typical; free to have accidents and accidentally make a waiting room look so typical one waiting patiently in it might notice that the designer tried too hard to make the room look like a typical waiting room, so hard in fact, that the room really looks like a desperate attempt to impress waiting patients, and to perhaps even make them believe that the psychiatrist the patient patients are to see is indeed worth waiting patiently on.

Suddenly, the young man’s thoughts are interrupted by the opening of the door he has been watching. A smiling woman steps in holding a file that reads, “Matthew Hall,” on its tab. She says something to the sitting young man that goes unheard. The young man quickly but calmly removes his earphones and stands as he straps his backpack to his back.

“Hi, Dr. Campbell,” the young man says as he walks toward her. While making small talk, the woman leads him to another room, and the young man sits on another couch as the woman takes a seat across from him and opens the file and begins asking question that would be difficult for some to answer. But, to the young man, the questions are easy, and he answers each one with a practiced lie. And as the questions go on, the lies continue. The young man tells her lies to protect secrets known by very few beings, and even fewer humans; and secretly he lies to her to protect her smile, because it is one of the few he sees, and he looks forward to seeing it every week.

An hour of questions and lies goes by and their session comes to an end. After farewells, the young man walks himself out. He walks quickly, for it is time to be home, and at home his master waits.

Practicing Love.

The music is blasting and the wind is rushing in through the open windows as I drive as if there is no such thing as a speed limit. The hour is late, the sky is dark, and I am alone on this flat country road.

Suddenly I realize how shallow and stupid my thoughts are: I’m air drumming like nobody’s business to the music that rattles my speakers as I imagine myself rocking out more than anyone ever has before on a huge stage with an even bigger audience. And, of course, there’s this girl. We all have “this girl.” She’s the one so beautiful she’s even the prettiest girl in the world in my made up life. And she can’t keep her eyes off of me as I hit each drum so hard you can see the head stretch, and I hit the cymbals so hard splinters of wood fly up with each crash. Then, I make eye contact with her, and she knows she’s the only one I’m playing for, and I know I’m the only one she could ever love. And there it is. I “wake up” and I’m instantly ashamed for such shallow thinking.

I try to increase the depth of my thoughts.

Eventually, I get to the subject of God. God. Slowly I begin to feel ashamed again. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to Him. Not only that, but I’ve been avoiding Him. I don’t have anything to hide–sometimes it’s just easier to not think and to live comfortably without ever bringing God into the equation. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And for a short time that sometimes seems true. But honestly, I miss Him.

For a while I try to clear my head and focus on Him. I like to think I’m capable of doing this with my music playing. I like to think I can use the music to better carry my thoughts to God, or some kind of hippie-trippy crap like that, but really the music is just a distraction. I always end up thinking about the lyrics, or some memory tied to the song, or girls, or rocking out on stage, or how I’m some kind of hip, cool Christian because I can use secular music to worship God. After arguing with myself for some time about the music, I win/lose and turn it off. The only sound I hear now is the wind entering my car, but without the excitement of the loud music and the incredibly strenuous air drumming (yeah, I’m a sick air drummer), the wind gets too cold, and so I roll up the windows, and I then experience silence–a silence I’ve long avoided.

I sit there for what feels like five or ten minutes hoping God will just start talking to me. Really, though, it was probably only thirty seconds. Without sound waves to ride, Time moves incredibly slowly, and floats around leisurely on his back.

“Sorry I suck so freaking much,” I finally say, breaking the silence–and as soon as the words are out I’m criticizing them.

Mom always used to say when you’re apologizing, you say, “I’m sorry.” You say, “Sorry,” when someone is sick or something, but when you’ve done something wrong it should always be, “I’m sorry.”
My elders don’t like the word ‘suck’ and I’m sure their elders despise it. And if my elders’ elders’ elders were alive, the word ‘suck’ would probably kill them. God is the eldest of all elders, so I doubt He really cares for the word. It also just feels rather disrespectful.
Reread point two, but replace ‘suck’ with ‘freaking.’

After a while of getting on to myself for my poor choice of words, my thoughts return to God. And then I just start talking.

“I don’t know You that well. I barely know You at all. I don’t love You as much as I should. I think that’s probably because of how little I know You, but still, it kinda sucks that sometimes my love for You feels limited. I’m sorry for saying ‘sucks.’ I want to know You better. I need help reading the Word. I get so distracted and sometimes it just feels like work. I want to love You like You love me. I want to discover how much You love me.”

There’s this letter this girl gave me that sits on my desk. It’s the most beautiful letter I’ve ever read. I read it quite a lot. Never have I ever felt more known than when I first read that letter. I enjoy keeping secrets, and I enjoy hiding my patterns and my ways of doing and thinking. I don’t necessarily like being known. So, if she simply listed everything she knew about me, the letter wouldn’t be as beautiful as it is. She didn’t do that. She listed everything she knows about me (some things are things you don’t even tell people–they are things she’s noticed over the years) and then she tells me how much she likes them. Never in my life have I felt more known and appreciated and loved than when I first read that letter. It was overpowering, and I had to sit down on my floor after I read it, and I had to make myself remember how to function.

I want to feel that emotion every time I experience God–and I should, because God is love. And He is the most powerful force of love we will ever encounter, because there is no greater love.

I can give God a definition with the English language (a very limited one, mind you). Nearly anyone can. I know of God, and I know of His characteristics. But, I don’t know Him like I should. I’m becoming more aware, though, that knowing Him takes practice. And now, my faith is reminding me of playing tennis.

See, I was raised playing tennis, but after I graduated high school I stopped playing. I still know the sport well, though. I know where to hit, I know when to hit, I know how to hit, I know how my form should be, I know how to make my opponent hit the ball where I want the ball to go. And if I were to play tennis with you, I could figure all that out between you serving the ball and the ball crossing the net. As the ball approaches me, my arm goes back and I get ready to send a wicked forearm covered in nasty topspin right down the baseline. But, something happens. Somehow my mind doesn’t explain in enough detail as it tells my body what to do. If I’m lucky, the wild return lands on your side of the court, but odds are it sails out of bounds, goes straight into the net, or I completely miss it. All because I don’t practice. And because I lack patience with myself, I get angry because of the lack of skill, and I don’t pick up a racket for another six months. Then, the next time I play I’m even worse than before.

I’ve been told how to have a relationship with God since the day I was born, but I didn’t start practicing until recently; so, naturally, compared to certain others, I suck at it. And I get discouraged and angry, and sometimes I just want to drop it and turn my back for a while. But then I remember that sweet love that I once tasted, and desire has me turning and running back to His arms, thanks to the perfect and pure Jesus Christ.

“Thank You, God, for always loving me.”

One day I want everything to show me how perfect and wonderful God is. I want everything I experience to increase my love for Him.

I want to stand on a mountaintop and be overcome by the beauty of the art that lays before me, and I want it to drop me to my knees as I praise Jesus for purifying me and making me clean so that I can come before the Artist and worship Him.

I want to meet someone I instantly want to hate, and I want him or her to say or do something so mean and so hateful to me that I’m brought to tears because I realize that God’s beautiful love is just as strong for that man or woman as it is for me, and for you, and for the holiest, most perfect Christian we know.

I want to see the sunrise and be reminded of the Light, Jesus Christ, rising from the dead, and I want to cry out to Him, and worship Him as the light chases away the darkness.

This is probably stupid, and it’s definitely cheesy, but I want to kiss a girl, and then want to sing praises to the Lord, because His mystery and love is even in this act. Please know that I’m not at all saying we should go about kissing tons of people, but what if when the time came to kiss, worship came with it? Never will I understand why pressing lips to lips is enjoyable, but I think only a creator who has made over 25,000 different species of fish is capable of making it enjoyable, and I thank Him dearly for it.

I want to hear laughter, and then laugh so hard my cheeks hurt, because I’m suddenly full of the joy of the Lord. And laughter! Only a God with a personality would even bother to create laughter and all the different kinds of laughs.

I want pain to remind me of the days I will soon spend in my Father’s courts, and when I feel that pain I want to worship Christ, and thank Him for letting me in those courts.

I want my past mistakes, my present mistakes, and my future mistakes to glorify the forgiving nature of God and the gift of Jesus Christ.

I want to hear music, and I want the bass, and the guitars, and the drums, and the piano, and the violin, and the vocals to fill my body with such emotion that I cry out to the Lord in thanksgiving for creating such a thing as beautiful as music.

I want to read the bible, God’s love letter to me, and I want to be so overpowered by His love that I have to sit on my floor as I worship Him, because I can feel His love blasting through my heart and soul.

I want to love God with everything I see and everything I do and everything I hear and everything I am.

“God, show me how to love You like You love me. Show yourself to me in everything. Thank You for knowing me, and loving me. Show yourself to me so I can love everything about You.”

“Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood the foundations of the earth?
It is He who sits above the circle of the earth,
And its inhabitants are like grasshoppers,
Who stretches out the heavens like a curtain,
And spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.”
– Isaiah 40:21-22 (NKJV)

“O Lord, You have searched me and known me.
You know my sitting down and my rising up;
You understand my thought afar off.
You comprehend my path and my lying down,
And are acquainted with all my ways.
For there is not a word on my tongue,
But behold, O Lord, You know it altogether.
You have hedged me behind and before,
And laid Your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
It is high, I cannot attain it.”
– Psalm 139:1-6 (NKJV)

One of Those Typical Christmas Posts.

I’m sort of new at Christianity; this is my first Christmas as a Christian.

Last night I thought about writing a post about realizations. For two reasons: 1) I thought it’d be hip and edgy (because I’m an idiot and care about such things) to write something that has nothing to do with Christmas and 2) I was frustrated about the lack of realizations in my life, and usually writing helps me release frustration. I never have “break-through” realizations–especially not in my spiritual life. It’s usually a long, slow climb, but the view at the top is so beautiful it makes every difficult step worth it. But still, I often get frustrated when other Christians suddenly realize something and it changes their lives.

This Christmas I was worried I wouldn’t understand or grasp or respect the true meaning of this day like I knew everyone else would. And for the first six hours of the day, I did not. Nor did I even try climbing. The day started and-even though I’m twenty years old and supposed to be mature-it was all about my gifts: the many books I received that I can add to my collection and lose myself to their stories; the new journals that are still pure of my thoughts and ugly pen marks, and will one day know me better than any man or woman ever could; and the money that was in my stocking and whether or not I can handle a steeper phone bill every month, because I so badly-though it’s difficult for me to admit-want to join the “cool club” and own an iPhone.

There’s this family at our house this morning spending the Christmas day with us. I don’t know much about them, but I’ve gathered a little info from my parents: the family had/has a difficult life. It’s a woman and her ex-husband (at least, I think they were once married) and two kids. One of the kids is six or seven and he is…”owned”… by both, the man and the woman. The other kid is a small baby girl and she is just her mother’s.

When they first arrived, I spent my time observing them and probably judging them, because that is my nature. Observant, but only so I can judge.

I like the lady, because-even though she doesn’t yet know how to receive healing, for she is not a Christian-she has admitted her brokenness. And she is rather comfortable with herself. And I respect that. I respect that a lot.

The man, though, doesn’t stand a chance. As soon as he walked in our house, my mind was excited about tearing him apart. It’s obvious he suspects we think he was the “bad one” in their relationship. I don’t think he was technically invited to our house, but because he wanted to be with his son on Christmas, my incredibly loving parents accepted him with open doors and open arms. And, of course, good food.

He came way too overdressed. Not necessarily because he’s wealthy, but because he knows he needs to make a good impression. He talks too much, his stories are too focused on his own accomplishments, and his voice is too high. And he’s too uncomfortable to sit down and so he’s always standing and shifting his weight from one leg to another. It’s hilarious.

I don’t pay too much attention to the kids just because I don’t really care for small children.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the baby trip on her own foot and fall to the floor. She barely even reacted, but for reasons unknown, I suddenly found myself at her side helping her up.

As she grabs my arm I instantly feel a love for her that tries to start inside my chest, but I try my hardest to kill it before it grows.

I don’t like babies. I’m good at acting like I sort of do, because it’s normal for everyone to love them, but they just make me feel awkward. True, nearly everything makes me feel awkward, but babies, being so young in age, shouldn’t have the right to make me feel uncomfortable. I’m bigger than them.

I hate that everyone acts like idiots around them, and I hate that they all change their voices as if the baby will understand our language if we try to sound like them, and I hate how loud babies are and how they usually stink, and I hate that everybody just goes nuts as soon as one comes into the room. I’m just not a fan of babies.

I set her back on her feet, and as soon as she had her balance, I let her go and she began to walk away. “She really sucks at walking,” I thought as she stumbled on. Then this happened and I don’t know why: she turned a little bit so I could see her face and she could see mine and she gave me a little smile.

If there’s a pen in my hand and paper before me, I will be brutally honest and I’ll tell you whether or not I think your baby is pretty.

This baby…she’s alright. I’ve seen better, obviously, and I’ve seen worse. If this baby was in a group of other babies, she definitely wouldn’t catch my eye–unless, of course, it was a group of ugly babies. But when she smiled at me-even though it wasn’t the prettiest smile on the prettiest face-I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

Before I knew it I had scooped her up and I was holding her tight against my chest. I love that baby girl. She is precious and she is nice to hold.

She and I walked around the house for a bit, and then I sat down on the floor with her. I sat down with her, turned her towards me, and she reached up and touched my face. And I smiled. And I hate for my face to be touched, but I couldn’t help smiling.

Molly, the family dog, came over to see what new creature I had found, and I felt so much joy when the baby’s face lit up with excitement when she saw Molly. I introduced the two, and taught the baby how to pet Molly. And Molly was wonderful and patient as she looked at me with frustrated eyes while she received perhaps not the softest strokes from the precious baby.

Then, something strange hit me, and though I wasn’t used to the feeling, I’m quite sure it was a break-through, because I suddenly had a beautiful view and I had done no climbing.

I don’t believe I have some new ideas for you, because if you’re a Christian, you’re a better, wiser Christian than myself, and if you’re not a Christian, you’re probably an American, therefore you have most likely heard the story of Jesus Christ. If not, here’s something rather neat: the savior of the world started His life on earth as a baby. A baby. The man who walked on water probably once sucked at walking. The man who loves me more than I will ever be capable of understanding probably lit up with excitement when He saw a dog for the first time (everyone loves dogs–fact). The man who died for me and for everyone else in this world was probably once held tightly to one’s chest as the holder realized just how precious babies are. My “break-though” view is this: Jesus Christ is surprisingly real. For me, at least.

Also, after I discovered that new love for the baby (I still don’t even know her name) and after I discovered even more love for my savior, I discovered love for the baby’s entire family, even the man who I still might not “like. ” I love him, I love them.

Now, I am sorry, but I must go back downstairs and try my best to express this love without being awkward. Perhaps I’ll just smile. That’s what the baby did, and it definitely got through to me and even made me someone better than I was when I woke up.

Merry Christmas to you.

“And she will bring forth a Son, and you shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins.”

– Matthew 1:21

Jacob Scott Moore.

Figuring life out one post at a time.