In the morning...

It's too easy to fall into the routine. 

And don't get me wrong...routines are nice. They can keep us focused, keep us directed, keep us on track. 

But when it comes to creativity...when it comes to some strange version of "originality" and spontanious creation...sometimes you just need to quietly climb out of the box and stumble into whatever's lying on the outside. 

Will you find it by taking a new route to work?

Will you find it by saying hello to someone you wouldn't normally say hello to?

Will you find it in a kiss, rather than a hug?

Will you find it in the morning, rather than in the evening after a day's work has worn everything out?

Personally, I never write in the morning. 

I sleep. I wake up. I check Facebook. I shower. I rush to work.

Unless I've had a bizarre dream, I never take the time to write in the morning, even though all the other professional writers say I should.  

But today I have, and it feels nice. 

It feels refreshing. 

And I might just give myself more time to do it tomorrow. 

Shake yourself up a bit and take a look around. 

And if you find the time, tell me what you find. 

"Midnight"

This is a short story I wrote a little over five years ago. Some of you may have read it before, but in an attempt to jump-start this "writing more often" kick, I'll revisit my past for a little while. 

This story was written in seven parts, so over the next seven weeks, I'll post each subsequent part on Monday. Hopefully, in the midst of all this, I'll get into the habit of writing and posting other things throughout the week as well. 

We'll see. 

But for now,

"Midnight"

I

It's raining.

 

Scattered drops of water entangle the street-lamps with reflections of a heavenly nature, but darkness still remains. I wander alone, doused in a heavy rubber raincoat, faded yellow and torn in two places near the chest---a metaphor, no doubt. I left my rain boots in the apartment, so my feet slosh around inside my worn-out Nike sneakers. I'll get a new pair someday. Perhaps the streams are what carry me as I splash across the street toward an empty colored wall of an old abandoned building. I can never tell anymore. An emptiness, empty as this alleyway I stumble through, envelopes the outer rim of a heart I no longer feel.

Don't ask me that again, I mutter. It’s over now. 

I never did enjoy wandering thoughts---especially at midnight.

But it wasn't midnight. It was briefly after 2 a.m., and I still hadn't found an open convenient store with the chocolate candy I was looking for. I've tried three already.

How inconvenient.

It was on mornings like this that I found myself questioning who I was --- the inner core --- the solid foundation of what I thought was reliable, because I've come to find that it isn't so reliable after all.

A tall man in a dark raincoat topped with a hood has been following me for the past three blocks. Not unusual, especially in the big city, even more-so downtown. A couple of those gruesome detective movies begin to scroll across my imagination as I round a corner. I'm tempted to run and find an empty doorway to cower in, but everyone knows that the people who try to run and hide always end up dead. I figure I'm screwed either way. If this guy is really after me, I don't think my tired legs can carry me far enough fast enough to do me any good. But he isn't out to kill me, yet. I cross 45th street and he turns right onto Jackson Avenue, tripping over the curb and almost splattering himself onto the sidewalk.

I love rain. It carries with it an emotional sense of intelligence. I know cheesy, right? Intelligent rain. But think about it. Every time it rains, people are compelled to do at least one of three things: sleep, read a book, or watch a movie. Alright, I take that back, rain actually makes you lazy. But the person reading the book must feel at least a nudge of intelligence before they fall asleep by the window. As for me, rain brings memories. 

It never fails.

Mostly.

The first memory is usually of a person, or if I'm really awake, of a few people. It's usually their faces followed by a feeling of regret for not keeping in contact, or for letting them go. Depressing, I know. But every once in a while there's a rare face that ignites feelings of joy and sweet nostalgia. Or, if I'm lucky, it’s a face that I hope to see tomorrow. But those are rare these days because I live alone now. I live in a big city far away from the people that remind me of rain --- in a good way, at least.

From now on I'll probably think of Mr. Jackson Avenue who followed me for three blocks and smile. 

We can all use a laugh at someone else's expense every once in a while.

My Own Catch-22

I've sat in the dark for too long. 

There's a part of me that hates social media. Privacy aside (or lack thereof), it's a constant reminder of everything I don't like about people. 

Or better yet, it's a constant reminder of everything I don't like about myself. 

Yet, I'm addicted.

If you haven't noticed yet, I can be a pretty cynical person.  And if you ask enough of my friends, I have the bad habit, despite my best intentions, of being an asshole.  

But what's that have to do with anything?

Well, be it words or music (or the occasional tree-sketch), I love to write (or at least the idea of it). And anything written, in my own, general opinion, isn't worth anything unless it's shared with someone else. Granted, I understand that many people write journals and diaries and poetry and songs for themselves alone. 

And that's fine.

But I've always been under the impression that if you have any sort of talent when it comes to putting something on a page, be it words, art, or musical notes, then you should share it with someone else. Not for the sake of attention, or money, or fame (although those can be some perky benefits), but for the sake of connection with others and inspiration for others in the midst of a broken world. 

And in this age of social media, lack of opportunity for artistic exposure is no excuse. 

As for myself, I've done my best to refrain from sharing too many of my creations for the simple fact that I believe deep down that the expression of these creations isn't good enough. 

But good enough for what? A record deal? A book deal? Fame? Fortune? Attention? Respect?

Heck, I don't even write enough for any of that. 

Or...is it just not good enough to be remembered for?

Like most people, I don't want to be remembered for something shitty (if I can be so blunt). And like most amateur (or aspiring) artists, I think that's what our general impression of our own work is. 

One big fat turd. 

Which, I'll be honest, most of it is.

But they're our turds. And they're still important. And those little nuggets of our own creation, which many times stink and function about as well as a sloth in a horse-race, eventually turn into something more:

beauty, inspiration, and significance for someone else.  

So, thanks to time alone and to certain friends, I'm going to try and come out of my proverbial closet and write a little more often.

And sing more often.

And create more often.

And most importantly...share more often.

Some of it might inspire. Some of it might not. But I hope that all of it gets us somewhere eventually.

Even if it's just a few laughs. 

It's a great big world out there, and we've all experienced it differently. 

Let's share it with each other.

For the Sake of Beauty...

Just because something is beautiful, doesn't mean it's right. And just because something is right, doesn't mean it's beautiful.

It's strange to think that a year ago today, I was still going to college in Texas. Change is inevitable...and change can come on so quickly. One day you're enjoying the company of friends and not worrying about all the bills or the hours or the prospect of "responsibility," even though you know you're preparing for it.  You're still learning, and a sheet of paper with red ink is infinitely safer and much more forgiving than experience and hindsight.

You follow?

I've lived most of my life knowing what I enjoy, and I've pursued that flippant feeling of happiness (even if unintentionally). Were I honest with you, and for those who know me, my general disposition is a mellow one. I'm not easily excitable (I don't think), a trait that has come in handy in my profession (the airlines). And even if I am excited...unless it crosses some sort of intangible threshold, it doesn't show. I look about as excited as a sloth relaxing in the sun...even though on the inside there's a 10 year old boy running around, anxious to see what's next.

But in the pursuit of that feeling, I've found nothing but failure. My life isn't what I hoped it would be 10 years ago. I'm almost 30. I haven't written the Book. I haven't recorded the Album. I haven't gotten the Girl. I haven't started the Family. And thanks to Facebook, that all encompassing, seeing eye, I get to see where I've fallen short compared to my peers. I'd like to think it's because I'm following in the footsteps God has laid out for me, but at times, I'm not so sure.

But I'm not complaining...honestly. Because I've learned that what is beautiful isn't always right.

The pictures in my head, the dreams, to me, are beautiful. But for now, for this season, they're not right for me.  Should I still pursue writing and music and love and growth? Most definitely. But in just the last week, I've learned a very important lesson about myself: I focus too much on what I don't have...and not enough on what I do have.

And I've got a very beautiful friend to thank for that.

The story goes something like this: I met a girl six months ago and my heart leapt at the sight of her. She was wearing a red dress, smiling, and had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen.

She also asked me about the guitar I was carrying. Score.

And then, over the next six months as I got to know her, all that beauty was seemingly diminished by who I thought she was.

When I was in school, they'd give us these comparison charts using intersecting circles. You know the ones I'm talking about?

They're also called Venn or set diagrams (thanks, Wikipedia).

For about the first five months, in my head, the circles of our Venn diagram were miles a part. They always say you have to have stuff in common for a relationship to work, right? Well, if our circles did intersect, it was only on a very basic level (we work for the same company...we breathe oxygen...we both still have 10 fingers and toes...you know...the basic stuff). But everything else "they" tell you you'll need in a relationship just wasn't there.

I could go into more detail, but the point is, deep down...I really liked this girl. 

And deep down, she really annoyed the hell out of me.

And I know I annoyed the hell out of her, too.

Because of our differences, I could never see a relationship working out...even though there was, initially, something mutual there. And because I liked her so much, and because it conflicted with everything I wanted in a girl, I tried my hardest to put it off...to emphasize that I just wanted a friendship...to keep my heart as distant as possible so I didn't end up making some sort of mistake and find us 3 years down the road with intersecting knives in our skulls.

Seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life.  

And then, about a week ago, something changed.

I was working out of a different city, assisting with the management of an airport going through a rough transition. I was going to have some time off over the weekend, so I invited her out for a visit. She had lived in the same city a few years ago, knew some friends she hadn't seen in awhile, and it was near the beach.

I know, right? Perfect setup.

And then, of course, everything went wrong. I won't bore you with all the details (there are pages of them), but all of our plans fell through. Her return flights overbooked, and we ended up making a last minute drive 600 miles back home so she could make it to work in time.

I think it was on that drive where everything changed. For 6 months, all I could see about this girl was everything she didn't have. All I could focus on was how she didn't fit inside the box I had created inside my head. I never really saw her for who she really is. And as those miles rolled by, as I thought back on the last 6 months and what I really knew about this girl, and as she sang and danced at the top of her lungs to cheesy country songs to keep herself awake...

...I realized that who she really is, outside of my own selfish expectations, is pretty amazing.

Who she is, is someone who makes me think outside the box. Who she is, is someone who won't put up with my bullshit. Who she is, is someone who loves to laugh and have a good time. She's not ashamed to be goofy. She's not afraid to sing at the top of her lungs off-key even if she doesn't remember all the words. She cares about the well-being of her friends. She loves her family and wants one of her own. She loves God and is faithful to her church. She's adventurous. She loves to travel. She doesn't like drama and she wants her friendships to last.  She's creative and can come up with the craziest doodles at the drop of a hat. She loves conversation...even if it's about frozen grapes. She loves camping and the outdoors.

And who in their right mind wouldn't want to be a part of all that?

It took a crazy weekend and a random road trip for me to realize that I had been looking in the wrong place all along: at myself.

I know it's cliché, but God does work in mysterious, wonderful ways. I'd love to be able to tell you that I shared all this with her and that we're now pursuing a friggin' amazing relationship.

But we aren't.

I shared my feelings with her (most of them, anyway, but not as eloquently as above) and explained that if she wanted to pursue a relationship, I wanted to as well.

But she doesn't.

And you know what? That's alright. Because despite my revelation, we are still very different, very hard-headed people who might be better off as just friends. At the end of the day, I care more about her happiness...our mutual happiness...and our friendship than my loneliness.

And because, at the end of the day, what is right isn't always beautiful.

Not yet, at least.

But God is here faithfully finishing our stories. And though she and I may never be together, I know that our friendship, and this season, will serve to lead us in the direction we need to go.

Even if it isn't in the same direction.

So to her, I want to say thank you. And I'm sorry for judging you so quickly.

And to everyone else: don't get so caught up in what you think your life (and relationships) should look like and miss all the beauty that's actually there.

Thrown By the Father

Dear Anonymous Reader,

There's a verse in the bible that speaks of Jesus as the author of our faith. Like most, I envision Him sitting before a book that is my life, and I immediately know that such an image is as far from the truth as anyone can get.

Because it isn't about me. I don't have my own book. I don't believe He sits there in whatever infinite study Heaven contains and writes a book dedicated to my life alone.

But then again, He's God. Maybe He has the time (C.S. Lewis thought so).

Instead, if we're still using the book metaphor, I see Him sitting before a massive book, something so titanic in scope that even the words written within its pages couldn't describe just how mind numbingly big it is. It contains every life, every interaction, every piece of that infinite puzzle that makes up eternal history.

And there, on page seven billion and twenty-seven, somewhere in the margin, is a blotch of ink. It's a liquidy, iron, charcoal-black drop, and it's slightly smeared, as if His hand brushed over it while finishing a sentence on the opposite page.

I mean, could God do that? From whatever pen He uses (I imagine one of those old, feathery fountain pens that you have to dip into the inkwell every few sentences), could some stray, divine, story-creating ink randomly find its way into the outlying margins; a genuine, seemingly misplaced speck of writing material?

(Now, I understand some of you are already pouncing on this page theologically (I am, too), spitting accusations of how that isn't how God directs our steps. Then again, I don't care. They're my thoughts and my virtual paper, so hush up and let me finish.)

And if so, can that splotch of black turn into a person's life? Could it be my life? Could there be millions of these splotches riddled throughout the book that is God's story of His creation: those of us long dead, those of us dying, and those of us yet to come?

Have I been thrown by the Father into the margins? And if so, and even if I'm smeared by His hand, even if I'm separated from the rest of the story, from the paragraphs of all those lives intertwined, does that mean I'm just as seemingly insignificant?

Or does He purposefully place these blotches of ink? Is He still working, even when I don't understand it all? Is He still writing me in, somewhere, even when I feel thrown to the side? Are the words that have created me, breathed life into me, taking shape inside the margins, even though I appear accidental?

Thrown by the Father. Those words hammer themselves through my prefrontal cortex like an obstinate drummer. So many of us find ourselves thrown by the Father into lives that, at the time, don't make any sense whatsoever. We're abused, confused, misplaced, and alone. We struggle not through existence, but for existence. In a society that's constantly changing, we wonder where, and if ever, we fit in.

Thrown by the Father: the question of relevance.

Thrown by the Father: the question of purpose.

Thrown by the Father: our question of love.

In the same way, I see a man hanging on a tree. From his hand, nailed tightly to the bruised wood, a drop of blood falls. It lands in the margins below, but its purpose is overwhelming and undeniably eternal.

That drop in the margin begins to take shape.

And sometimes, I wonder if it's me.

Sincerely,

-Sean

For Sale: Relational Monkeys

Dear Anonymous Reader,

Let's face it...I'm awesome. I mean, look at me: I've got the car, the hair, and I can play guitar.

I mean really, who wouldn't want to be me?

Right.

I was playing guitar last night...alone. So I shot up some Facebook and noticed there was an open mic going on downtown. What's better than playing guitar alone? Sitting at a bar playing guitar in front of people, heck yeah! 'Cause who wouldn't want to partake in this acoustical, melodic awesomeness?

Right.

Truth is, I'm pretty shallow. I sit at home and watch a show about cars because it's more entertaining than folding clothes (although, I guess I could fold clothes while I watch the show), and it's a heck of a lot easier than writing a story...or anything at all, really.

Painting the kitchen is a lot of work...and it's dark outside, so that's out of the question.

I'm pretty sure I'm not tired enough to sleep just yet.

Not that any of that makes me shallow...it's just a general statement followed up by my own interpretation of laziness.

Not that I'm lazy or anything. I work at a job, yo.

Aw, look at the kitty

Anyway, I've come to learn that many people are probably more prideful than they give themselves credit for. And by many, I mean me...'cause I'm the most important person in my life.

Which is bad...right?

Or wait, maybe not. How does that verse go? "Love your neighbor?"

Oh wait, that's right, it finishes up with "...as yourself."

So I've gotta know how much I love myself to know how much I should love you.

Which, I've gotta say, I love me a lot. Again, just look at my car and fancy hair. And maybe my shoes.

So if I love me that much and I'm supposed to love you that much...then I must really suck at life. I'll make sure I've got food...and wheels...and attention...and a job...and a place to sleep...and a shower...and maybe some socks...

But what about my neighbor? In fact, who is my neighbor? Or better yet...am I neighborly...regardless of who it is?

Or am I just someone that likes to talk a lot?

*reads previous paragraphs*

Ah.

Sincerely,

-Sean

Ages ago, before dinosaurs and women...

Dear Anonymous Reader,

It's easy to talk about imagination.

It's even easier to imaginate...as it were.

It's so easy, in fact, that I'm doing it right now.

(now scroll fancy pictures of an Oregon coast, a fast car, a ranch full of trees and rivers, and some girl that actually enjoys putting up with my nonsense who I call my wife)

Then imagine none of that being good enough for no reason at all.

Finding myself lost on the tail end of summer isn't anything new. It's quite easy, in fact. So simple, that if you were to ask me how I felt at any particular moment, you'd be bound to a chair amidst dull conversation about the size of the universe and how God seems to enjoy watching us try to "figure it all out."

And then I'd tell you how much I enjoy pizza.

Of all the things to worry about, my lack of direction isn't one of them.

Really.

I have enough sense to know that with a year of school left, I have no need to worry about what's after that. Some might find it a foolish conclusion.

"You need a plan!" most yell from the scaffolding above my apartment.

Well no crap, Sherlock. I've got a plan.

However, I'm fully away that a year from now, that plan will most likely look a little bit (or a lotta bit) different.

Why?

Because every year before, it always has been.

It's not to say I'm flippant or unsure of myself. It's just to say that I'm unsure and flippant about who I think I am, what I think I want, and where I believe God is taking me.

Roughly five years ago (my insincere apologies to all unbelievers and general "religion is ridiculous" nay sayers out there) God, after years of "searching," gave me a couple of simple, fairly straight forward directions.

"Finish school," was the first. The second isn't really important to anyone else, but it had nothing to do with women, children, a car, Oregon, or even the songs I so desperately thought should have made me famous by now (not that those aren't important, but there's nothing worse than a big head itching for fame).

So for the last 5 years, I've been doing just that: school. I take my time with it, obviously, since I've been going off and on for about 7 years now, but I guess I'm not in as much a rush as most everyone else. I don't have this vision of a career with kids and a wife and a house and a car and a dog that loves to jump when I come home and a perpetual Christmas with family.

Although I do enjoy the idea of it all.

Truthfully, I'm just sitting here watching an entertaining car show, enjoying how goofy things look from a couch and two spread out bottles of beer (yup, I enjoy a drink or two now and then).

I never thought, 5 years ago, that I'd be in the position I'm in. Single, still unsure of a definite career direction (sorry dad), and more interested in the circumference of the universe than how I'm going to retire well off enough to own a boat, a plane, annnnd a nice house with horses and mountains in the background (cause Lord knows that's what I think I want at this point).

In the end, and maybe this is what's most important, I just want to know, and then do, what He wants me to.

And you know what? I suck at it.

Like anyone else, Paul especially, I can't do the simplest things. Don't lie, don't lust, don't be prideful, feed the hungry, visit the orphans and widows, pray without ceasing, etc. etc. etc.

So many natural guidelines that should flow from love of a Creator...but I suck at following even the simplest one.

I mean truthfully, at the end of the day, I many times wonder why I bother. What does it matter? I'm some finite human being. Christianity these days seems to be more egotistical than a harmonious picture of what the Body of Christ should look like. It's all about me, me, and me and does God show Himself in enough convincing ways to be believable or is He just...outdated?

I digress.

God is our refuge and strength, A very present help in trouble.” Psalm 46:1

The verse of the day. Shows up every evening around 11pm, and I find it one of the very few things worth posting on Facebook. Most get lost in Mankind's assumption of what an all-powerful, creative deity should be and do. Our parameters fill books and libraries and tired minds until no one understands what the fuss is all about anymore.

It's just that, after so long, what's been presented just isn't good enough.

And that seems to be my own problem these days. I'm stuck in the rut that nothing's good enough. The girls, the cars, the society, the careers, the writing, the songs, the dreams...

...none of it, even the idea of it, is good enough.

And you know what? None of it is.

But He is.

His Grace, whether you believe it or not, IS good enough, and it makes all the other things He sets before me good enough.

I'm not good enough for anything, really. I can kind of carry a tune, but only so much. I'm not as compassionate as I'd like to think. And I can't cook to save my life.

But His sacrifice...that wasn't only good enough...that was enough.

The proverbial definition of true fulfillment.

And even though, in the midst of life, doubt, death, struggle, success, and almost certain confusion, His grace will always be good enough.

You don't have to believe it for it to be true, or effective, it just is.

And at the end of the day, regardless of where it began, I hope it can end with the knowledge that He is our strength, and He is our very present (not distant) help when we need it most.

And most importantly...to me, anyway, He is our refuge. When all other protection falls away, He remains...felt or not...a hedge over all other things dark and dangerous. And even though I may wander, He values me enough to leave the 99 to bring me back.

To hoist me over His shoulders.

To even break my leg when I can't seem to get it right.

To love me enough to cause me pain for a bigger picture and purpose I cannot see nor understand at this finite point in history.

Even unto death...for what is death but just a door I just can't see behind? Too simple? Maybe.

I imagine a lot of things, but His love isn't one of them. Regardless of what you believe, the one thing I can share with any sense of certainty is that when I'm at the end of whatever rope I'm holding, when belief has long fled from my mind and heart, He's still there watching over everything great, terrible, beautiful, and small...

...and in it all is His purpose.

Sincerely,

-Sean