The Politically Correct Christian

Does your heart delight in what it finds presently inhabiting it? I think that the world sucks. I think that people are horrible and things happen that make us all gasp. These incidences are isolated, but they do paint a picture of what the human being is capable of right now, right here. It is so easy to give up. It is so easy to let the little things like politics and religion (or lack of) send you to the brink of consciously making the decision not to care. This is important because many make the mistake of believing the lie that we have no choice when we feel overwhelmed with frustration, to throw up our hands and live a quiet and silent Christian life. This isn't the truth. It is when we meet resistance that we examine our own faith and either realize you have been wrong all along and walk away from lies, or get fortified with a renewed knowledge that others do not have and truly need.

People don't like the concept of Jesus, much less the idea that He really existed, even much more less, the idea that He was who He said He was. People naturally, in defense turn against the very thought, because they are conditioned to. Then they think of the most PC argument against Jesus that they can find and go with that one because they know it will get them help from other people who are afraid of the truth. They strike out and the meek are silenced. But should we be? Should we be quiet because people don't like our views? Are our views less valid? Politically, they truly are. However, when measured against science, the very people that get so angered have nothing to stand on. We have science. We have something observed and repeated throughout the ages. We have love. We need not embrace anger and hate. We need not argue all night. We need not defend our faith. We need only present love. If it is a lie, love will not be found. God is love. God is in everything. God is real.



Sing.
Migrate.

Buried in The Ground

He could hear the singing above him. He could hear the sound of a guitar and a harp. Somewhere to his slight left, he heard a harmonica soar in like a blaze of fire entering a wicker room. He does not know where he is or how he has gotten here. He just knows he is here and it isn't a dream. The blood dripping from the ceiling of whatever this was would be empirical proof of that. The stinging in his knuckles are his second witness. After several hours of fighting it, he settles back into the realization that something terrible has gone wrong. Someone has made a dreadful mistake. He has been buried. He isn't even dead. It must have been bandits or sociopaths. But why would a bandit dress him in what he could only guess was the suit he wore on his wedding day. He made this assumption based on the buttons his wife bought him as a wedding present. They were shaped like little anchors...ones that matched the tattoo on his arm perfectly. The feel of them reminded him of the smell of his wife's hair when he leaned in to kiss her. How long had it been? She must be in Heaven above him weeping her eyes out. "Or dancing with someone else," he jokes to himself. He wants to panic again and raise another fit and bloody himself, but he knows they will not hear above that harmonica. He wants even more to go back to that memory of his wife's hair. That day. The sun, and the way it beamed through the trees at just the right time to make her squint during every picture. That had been so long ago. She past away 70 years later almost to the day. She left this world, their bedroom, their gaze, holding his hand. Their kids had grown up and gotten old too. His son died of a bowel infection when he was 51. His son's wife never remarried. No women could ever follow that man. He was the kind of kid that a father actually looks up to. The guy that did everything his father did, just better.

This music. What is it? It is dreadful and makes him wretch in his soul. Who would subject their phonograph to these notes and rhythms. Is this hell? Because he could only imagine demons dancing to this. He closes his eyes to regain his calm. He takes long, easy breaths in and out and travels back to last fall. They stood on top of a hill in a very small graveyard in the country. His son's name chiseled into the stone that stood knee high in front of him. His wife's to the right of him. It had been a decade since he had lost his son. His entire family of 7 daughters, 37 grandchildren, 7 great grandchildren, and one living sister stood next to him silently wondering if the old man had the courage to say something. There was a mist in the air that blanketed everything with a thick layer of wet. Everyone's hair drooped under it's weight. He held one yellow rose, his boy's favorite color. He closed his eyes and let a tear drop from his eye and roll over the many wrinkles that formed into obstacles down his face. He took a deep breath.

"I named you after the bravest man I knew. We sat there huddled in front of the stove trying to keep warm. We had all given up. They had broken us. All we could do is look at the ground, our pride in being a God loving Jew was gone. We actually believed we were the rats they said we were. We watched our loved ones die. We worried about our wives who were hidden somewhere in the streets, silently hoping they would get caught just to maybe find out what happened to us. I had no idea what had happened to my love. She watched me get taken from her hiding place. She stayed quiet as I told her. I dared not to look at her to say goodbye. As we sat there silently, skinny, and shaking in exhaustion, we looked at each other to explain to each other that we had given up.

He was always getting beat up by the guards. He was always mouthing off and it was a wonder how and why he was still alive, but he did not share the tone of our glance. He got up and walked over to the guard and began telling him a story about a banker and 3 German policemen. The story went on and on and we honestly were getting bored listening to it. We had no idea what would happen next. The guard didn't realize it right away either. While he was telling the story to the guard, he was urinating on his shoe, but keeping the guards gaze and attention on his eyes that were opened so widely, you would have thought he went mad. When the guard realized it, he was laughing intensely in their faces and spraying them with urine all over. They shot him dead. We were stunned at what he had done, but knew he was gonna get himself killed at some point. We loved our lives too much to risk what he did for a little moment of satisfaction. No, instead, we let them kill us slowly. We named you Albert. Because the two of you were the bravest people I have met. My cowardice allowed me to meet you. The glory of the workman hands of God. More a man than I could have understood how to be. My son Albert, cheers to 10 years of being dead from us, but living in the presence of angels."

It was the very first time he had spoken of Austria to anyone in his family, except his wife who went with God. The wind blew over him in a way it had never before. The water in the air pierced through the veils of the women with him, but it only fueled what burned inside of him. It was a reminder that you don't weather a storm by running against it, you survive by fortifying yourself to it. This was the way he had lived his entire life. He wasn't just living to survive, but to be alive to meet what beautiful thing God would bring him next. Every passing moment of misery promises something beautiful that cannot be taken away. This is what kept him alive in Austria.

But now he isn't in Austria. He has realized the music has stopped playing. He knows he is dead. No one alive appreciates the things that are gone so much. No one remembers the smell of his wife's hair until they don't smell it anymore. He has been gone for some time...maybe years, maybe centuries. Up above where he is now probably looks the same. The music is different, but the fact that there is still music tells him that people are still dancing and laughing, which means that life is still beautiful up there. Up there everything goes on as if he were not ever there. Maybe he hadn't been. The window above his bed that let in the light that woke him every morning is probably still letting in that light, just not to his face. His box full of old photographs and letters are still buried next to the tree his kids used to swing on as kids. The ground has swallowed up all evidence of his life. He just can't let go. He cannot let go of his life. He cannot walk away from what he knows was true beauty, even to access Heaven for fear of hell....the hell of being forgotten and forgetting. He cannot close his eyes and let go because he is scared of losing everything.

Yet the voices continue above him. Telling him to let go, telling him it's ok to go, they will be fine. "Am I dead? No dead person feels this scared. People who are alive are scared of letting go, not dead people." He feels something squeeze his hand and something reminds him of his youngest daughter and how he used to hold her hand until she fell asleep when she was scared. She squeezed it just the same way, rubbing each finger separately. He knew he was alive now. But he knew he needed to go. It was time to trust in that God that has kept him alive. It's time to see his wife and son.















Sing.
Migrate.











Thanks for reading...Z

Me. Me. Me.

Me. Me. Me.

This is why I haven't been posting. Getting annoyed with talking about me, when others really fascinate me. Instead, I have been writing fiction stories about other people. It gets tiring though; making up stories about interesting people that do or do not exist somewhere in the world. It takes so much work. People here are just as fascinating, just not how I want them to be in my little mental pictures I like to paint them in. I want to paint them in with my own ending and be in constant control of what happens in the end....this is the American ending that movie goers really pay to see. I never thought myself one of these happy fruity smelling farts kind of people. I am far more sophisticated than that. I like Bon Iver and Sufjan Stevens, surely I am different than them.

Maybe not. Maybe I want a happy ending after-all, at least the ending that makes me happy. So I can see now how being able to control the outcome would be so attractive. I can see how people have an issue with not being able to control something.

Life isn't about control. It isn't by far. Life is about handling with grace a life that is spinning in a direction foreign to you. Life is about not understanding anything anymore. Life is found in trusting someone you cannot see and cannot touch. A long time ago I wrote a praise song to God on a night I didn't feel like writing for God. I felt like writing something sad and stupid for me. This night I wrote a song about what God was to me when I was broken. I wrote about Will in it. I wrote about my disappointment with God in it. I wrote about the failure to thrive on my own and the absolute need to fall at my God's feet. I sang it in church and in youth group to the best of my ability, avoiding each time what it meant to me to keep from tears. Then a wonderful women from my church who has lost so much, but not everything, reminded me that God is very much real and good and made a difference in her loss through that song. Made a difference to her husband. She made me sorry I wrote the song because of my pride and foolishness, but thankful that that I wrote it because God is so good to use an idiot to reach a servant.

Sorry for my stupidity.


Sing.
Migrate.

Castle Donington

Last short story of the week. Taking a little break from reality. I will keep writing them and putting them on my Arrested Development page, which I will probably change the name of because I intend to complete them and not leave them unfinished. Actually I have completed everything I have started on that one, so the name is inappropriate anyways. This one is not intended to offend, only to tell a story about a middle aged dreamer named Paul.



He opens his closet to possibly the neatest wardrobe that had ever contained clothing. Black t-shirts pressed with deep creases on the short sleeves on one side. Black jeans hanging from the boot openings on the other. On the rack above is a clear Tupperware box filled with stacks and stacks of old concert tickets. On the floor beneath the clothing are 5 identical pairs of boots, each with a different color of shoelace, blue, red, green, yellow, and purple. Paul looks through the closet pointing at different outfit configurations, speaking silently, but focused intently. He starts playing air drums with his fingers as he closes his eyes getting lost in the music playing only in his head. He continues for a moment before smiling and grabbing a pair of black jeans from the closet, a black Skid Row t-shirt, and the pair of boots with the red laces to match the skid row emblem on the shirt. He moves over to the tower of speakers next to his bed and moves the wheel up in a clockwise direction, watching the the bars increase until the volume reaches 75%. The house seems to rumble as he thrashes around in his room, dancing and playing various air instruments with the music.

It was 1988. It was one year after "Appetite for Destruction" was released and it changed Paul's life.

Paul and his mom and dad sat in the kitchen decorated in late 70's wallpaper. The table was a dark brown oak with a leaf in the middle separating him from his parents. He had made a conscious effort to separate himself from his parents since he heard "Welcome to the Jungle" a few months prior. He would sit on the floor before sitting next to his parents on the huge plush wrap around couch in the living room. His parents knew he was reaching for some independence, so they didn't make too big of a deal about it. This morning they were having eggs, toast, and bacon. Paul sat tapping his fork to the plate, leaving his food untouched. His mom and dad sat staring at him, obviously annoyed. He opened up his eyes and looked back at them. He looked deep into their eyes and just continued to tap the plate. He had a look of fury on his face and was resolved not to compromise. "Paul," his dads says. Nothing, no reaction. "Paul!" Paul gets up suddenly, leaving the table and marching upstairs. He gets to his room and turns the volume knob all the way to 95% and plopped onto his bed, staring at his posters. On the ceiling, he has a new Gun's N Roses poster, with he symbol of the "Appetite" album art. "Welcome to the jungle baby, you're gonna die!" he says at the top of his voice.

"Paul? Paulie honey it's time to go." says mom. She grabs the handle of the door, but it won't turn. She knocks gently. It is quiet in his room. The tape ran out hours ago without any remedy to the absence of noise. He must be sleeping. She knocks harder and he bursts out the door. "Let's go! Late! Almost late!" He grabs his mom's sleeve and drags her down the stairs, almost pulling her to the floor. Indeed, it was time, and they were almost late. But for what? Only the most exciting thing to happen to Paul since the tape player was invented. It was Gun's N Roses day in Donington Castle. He had two tickets and had written this date on every calender he came in contact with, even the one on the church office last Sunday. His mom grabbed her purse from the table on their way out the door and climbed into the wooden paneled station wagon parked in front of their house. The entire ride to the concert, Paul told his mom random facts about Guns N Roses, whether she wanted to hear them or not. "Did you know Axl used to teach Sunday School?" He says. "I did not sweety," says mom. "Did you know Izzy is the only band member to graduate high school?" "Did you know Duff has 8 brothers and sisters?" "Did you know Gene Simmons tried to produce the Appetite album? Hmm, good thing he didn't. I hate KISS."

The light show was fantastic. The sound was perfect. The pyrotechnics blew his hair back, literally. He stood in the front next to the metal heads and rabble-rousers. He had no interest in their activities. How could they enjoy the show when they were slamming into each other and throwing punches. A couple of girls next to him even passed out. He understood this action perfectly, hoping that he wouldn't do the same. They got removed from the show. He looked up with amazement in his eyes as he watched Axl stand back to back with Slash during the guitar solo on "Mr. Brownstone." Paul was in another world. His mom wanted nothing of the front of the stage, so she awaited him at the general admission area in the back. The crowd was pushing forward. People were drunk and throwing punches. The place was in hysterics. This was the rebellion that Paul was looking for. "Welcome to the jungle baby, you're gonna die! Haha, WE"RE ALL GONNA DIE!" He shouts this over and over as the guitars shred through his ears. Next song up......"Sweet Child O Mine." The riff begins and the place erupted. Fans pushed even harder to the front and Paul found it difficult to keep his footing. "Move it retard!" is shouted in his face by a guy with no shirt on and a bloody nose. The guy pushes him aside and takes his place in front of the stage. More people follow suit, many of them laughing at him and asking what was wrong with his face. "She's got eyes of the bluest skies........." Paul looses his footing and falls to the muddy ground. This opens up a a hole in the crowd and the fans fill it in quickly, stepping on lumps and soft hills that seemed to crack when dug in on. Paul struggled to breath and pick himself up, but the current was too strong and he found himself face down in the mud with feet stepping on the back of his head.

Guns N Roses completed their set and the ground cleared as people filed out of the castle. Once the smoke cleared, there was only Paul lying flat in the front and his mom standing anxiously in the back. She recognized his red shoe laces and ran to the front to help him up. It was 6 songs too late. Paul was dead. He was one of three dead at the front of the stage. Sadly, only two were reported and advertised in the media. Despite numerous suggestions by Slash for the crowd to calm down, their rebellion extended even to their heroes.

Sing.
Migrate.








Thanks for reading...Z

Tweed

It was the autumn of 1975. I was swinging on the swing-set in my back yard watching all of the people talk to each other. The metal hinges needed oil. They sang a terrible song. There were so many people at my house. My uncle Bobby stood by the old maple tree holding a glass of light brown liquid. He would touch it to his lips every minute or two and pucker like a kiss, then sneer like he was fake smiling for a camera. He was wearing a plaid suit and pretending to listen to my aunt Mary as she spoke to him. She kept talking and talking even though he never made any eye contact. Between sips of the bitter fluid, he would just spin the glass around and watch the fluid race all around the ice cubes, spilling it twice and licking it off of his fingers. People seemed to be speaking so quietly to each other as if they didn't want anyone to hear, especially when they saw me near. They would look at me and the women you cry and hug me as their husbands would pat their backs and walk them away. I have no idea what is going on. I got up this morning and my mom put these church clothes on me and I went downstairs to all of these people. My dad was away on business and my mom looked tired, so I did everything she asked me to. I usually do the opposite. People think I am a bad kid. I like that a little.

My aunt Phyllis keeps a wad of tissue in her hands and keeps blowing her nose. I have always thought she was really gross, but today she is outdoing herself. It'd be great if she would dry her hands. She touches people on the arms and face when she speaks to them and her hands are always wet. Her lipstick is always on her teeth and smeared almost up to her nose. Her hair is a formed heap of muck plastered with some sort of fishing net. She wears big, loud bangles that alert you that she is coming. This I didn't mind so much. She always caught me doing good things this way. Uncle Bobby and aunt Phyllis never speak to each other. Uncle Bobby told me it was because aunt Phyllis was a vegetarian and they eat sponges and soap and makes them crazy inside. She told me uncle Bobby had too much to drink and tried to kiss her. They both love my dad though. They tell me I have his cleft chin. Uncle Bobby calls it face cleavage.

It's not like my mom to keep such a messy back yard. There are leaves everywhere and the trash is still on the side of the garage. People keep taking the serving tray from her and scolding her. For once, I am a little angry with them telling her what to do. We may shout at each other a lot, but you should never do what other people tell you to do. She should decapitate them with that tray. I actually picture this scene for a moment with all the blood and screaming. It reminds me of when I faked a seizure in science class with an Alka Seltzer tablet. I fell to the ground and started shaking and foaming. I even soiled my pants for the effect. Kids were screaming and no one wanted to touch me because I was so gross. I got to go home, but Mrs. Dixon found my tablets in my desk later and I my mother was phoned. My dad laughed for a split second when my mom told him as he returned from work. He covered his mouth, but I saw it. She must have too because she didn't speak at dinner.

I get off the swing and walk over to this ugly woman with the tray...this bossy ogre and trip her. She fell hard with the entire tray of lemon aid. I quickly wipe my nose with my hand and extend it to her and help her up. Boom bam. That's what it would have looked like in a Batman comic. The trip, then the snot. I feel better now. I look to my mom and for a split second, I see her grin. Wait till I tell my dad about this one. Her grin reminded me of his for a moment. Maybe there was a real person in there somewhere. Maybe she is more than just some woman who always takes orders and tries to give them to me.

Meanwhile, uncle Bobby is sleeping in the sandbox. Aunt Phyllis comes over to him and sits down on the grass next to him and wipes the hair from his face. She is the oldest and uncle Bobby is the youngest. He opens his eyes and she reaches over and closes them with her hands, then just continues to rub his hair. This family is really strange. Stranger today than yesterday. I would ask my mom what is going on if I could find her now. I sweep the yard to no avail. I survey the house and find her in the basement alone next to an old trunk my dad brought back from the war. She is looking at old pictures. Some are my dad in his uniform, some are the two of them in front of theaters with the marquee lights illuminating the background. There is one of the two of them riding a horse. She is facing forward and he is facing backward on the same horse. I walk over to her and sit down next to the trunk. I don't say anything and neither does she. She just strokes my dads hair in the photograph like it were really there. Whatever is going on outside is obviously annoying her too, so we just sit in the basement together quietly for a little while.

When dad gets home, he's gonna be sore at the mess.











Sing.
Migrate.









Thanks for reading...Z

Rhythm

It takes real rhythm to make a hula hoop go round and round. And why try anyway? Why is it fun? These are the thoughts that occupy my mind from my thoughts. These are the things that save my life from day to day. Above me, there is a dull hum of an air conditioner window unit. It's a strange place to put such a heavy and obviously dangerous piece of equipment. I bet if the wind blew just right, that thing would careen directly through my face and sink into the pillow beneath my head. My hair is wet. Why is it wet? Because someone put an air conditioner over the bed and it has been dripping for who knows how long until it's bitter mildew taste reached my lips, then my tongue. There is a velvet painting of a deer looking at me in some meadow...just staring down the hack artist who painted it. I bet it isn't worth $5. I bet he was so excited to receive that $1 that Walmart gave him as royalties 15 years ago when this motel opened. The pool isn't empty, but the kids don't dare go in it. The water is green and it looks like plants are actually growing on the surface of it. How did I get here? I vaguely remember something about being in the back of a truck and tossing all around as the thing swerved, and a very panicked look of an immigrant as he dropped me onto, I guess this bed. Which reminds me that my head hurts. It hurts on the surface of both the front and back. I am wearing a whitish tee-shirt. It's torn and has various stains on it. One stain I recognize. I dropped my beer on the side of my plate and it catapulted spaghetti up at me bringing a barrage of curses. The rest are new and very red. Possibly related to my head hurting? I am afraid to look. I won't. It wouldn't matter anyway, the phone doesn't even work. I can already see the line has been cut. I raise my arms out in front of me as I lay on my back and do so also with my legs. I am assessing my physical function. I wonder if I am going to die or have died already. This headache is bad. Not a hangover. After 20 years of drinking, I don't get those anymore. This is more crippling than that. This is the feeling of actually having a split open head. This may be the very situation the guy that coined the term "Splitting headache" was in. I can imagine it now. So I do. I imagine it for 15 minutes to pass the time. To keep my mind from wandering to somewhere I don't want to be. But then I'm there.

I'm in an ice cream truck. I was a very young man...just recently suited up with a driver's license. It was a very hot day that day. I knew it immediately when I woke up. It felt like it feels when you wake up a little too late inside of a tent under the sun. I knew today was the day to make some money. It had rained for a week or so and I was worried about being able to pay for prom. This girl was too pretty to let her down. Kids were lining up at every stop a few blocks apart. Some kids wanted the WWF Superstars cookie bars, some wanted the snow cones with the gumball at the bottom, but most kids wanted the Rocket pop. It was always the favorite on the hot days. None of the kids seemed to own any shoes, and very few were wearing shirts. An assortment of various races and skin tones, some missing teeth, some with temporary tattoos, some that seemed to have armpit hair already. Those kids always ordered the slushes or the candy whistles.

At noon, I had to pee. There was no holding it a moment longer. I parked the ice cream truck beside the old railroad tracks that had been long abandoned. The rails were tossed all along the road and the steel was all rusted out. I popped out of the truck and into the field beyond the tracks for privacy. I remember whistling Hulk Hogan's ring entrance music while fertilizing the weeds in front of me. It seemed like forever I was going. I got all finished up and headed back to my truck and hopped in to the driver's seat. I remember thinking it wasn't such a great idea for an ice cream truck driver to expose himself in public, even if he did think he was hidden. Next time, I would stop at McDonalds. The air conditioning worked well in my truck and I just sat back and closed my eyes for a moment enjoying the silence, until the freezer door slammed shut. I jumped from the seat and spun around to find one of those hairy armpitted ones with his face covered in chocolate like some guilty raccoon in the night. He was holding a push pop, a candy whistle, and a slush from the machine. He looked at me much like the deer is looking at me now in this horrible velvet painting. He dropped the treats and made way for the door beside me. I wasn't going to chase. I let him dash past me as he leaped through the door next to the cash register.

The next few milli-moments are the subject of a lot of torment for the next many years. He flew through the air as he leaped from the truck and was intercepted by something bigger than I had ever seen. The blow took him immediately from my sight as I watched the the endless streak of dull colors pass in front of me. Then it was gone. The kid was gone. I got out and looked for him and he wasn't anywhere. No blood. No sign of a train. The rails were still in shambles as I inspected the ground. He was as gone as never having been there at all. I turned back toward the truck. Was this real? I was never the kid to take drugs or alcohol, so I suspected I wasn't high. I walked in the truck hoping the floor was clean and clear. I may have fallen asleep whistling that Hulk Hogan song and not realized it. I walked in with my eyes closed and stood there. I was too afraid to open them, a feeling very similar to the one I have now with my splitting headache. I mustered the courage and opened them and found a quickly melting pile of treats on the floor of the truck. I pictured for a moment, the kid with the hairy pits stuck to the front of a speeding train like the coyote would when being hit chasing the Road Runner. But this was not a cartoon. Whatever this was, it wasn't a cartoon.

That kid was announced missing the next day. He was never found. I never said a word. A train was never again seen on those tracks. There was no record of anything traveling on them for 15 years.

I am tired of these thoughts so in an attempt to forget them, I reach for my head. I start at my chin and my hands crawl up past my lips to my nose. There is something sticky there, but once I feel my nose intact, I continue on without panic. I reach the bones that make up my orbital socket. One is bent in a smidge, but nothing to be too concerned with, this isn't where I feel the pain. I almost resigned myself to the notion of minor injuries when my knuckles hit it. It was large. It felt otherworldly. It didn't seem to have a sensation of it's own. It was like the feeling of your tongue under the influence of novacane. I ran my fingers around it's circular circumference and back again. My fingers made way across my scalp and through my hardened hair to the back of my head. I didn't need to feel it to know it was there. It's point, both sharp and dull protruding from the back of my head. There was no doubt what it was. It was the culmination of everything I was trying to forget about. It was the doom I had expected 20 years ago. He had returned. That kid had returned. This railroad spike was for me. I deserved it. There is so much that needs to be remembered, but I fear this spike has removed them from my mind. I fear these stains are actually the particles of my brain that knew what happened last night. I suppose I will live then if I have made it this long and can move my appendages. I guess so.









Sing.
Migrate.







Thanks for reading...Z

Just a Story and Nothing Else

I woke to tiny flickering flames scattered around me. I can't believe I made it. There was all this fire and there was me in the middle of it, covering his head from the disaster. I guess it didn't end up reaching me after all. After all the pleading and wailing about not wanting to die. I guess by sheer coincidence, everyone died but me. This wasn't the fire of movies where people would run around silently and fall into the fetal position. This was real fire and I was surrounded. People were covered in it's flames and screaming for help and I would just hit them with this branch to keep them from setting me a blaze. They didn't seem to have the peace that those guys in the Life magazine seemed to have when covered in flames.  I hid underneath the branches, beneath the snow, buried in the bodies of the dead. Some were not yet dead, but I ignored that and remained quiet. I listened to a night full of screaming and bullets and the sound of dirt being rocked from it's resting place and spitting all around me. The sound of gunpowder doing what it was always meant to do. I closed my eyes and for the first time in my life, I fell completely asleep. There was nothing to keep me awake. There was no worry. All was lost around me and soon I would be too. There was comfort in that. Realizing that, even though it is terrible to die, it is amazing to be able to glance at your life's itinerary and laugh, ripping out the pages.

I opened my eyes. I wasn't sure what I was looking at, but the sound I was sure of. It was birds chirping as if it were any other morning. They seemed to be in unison. They seemed to speak poetry as the sun infiltrated my eyes and what seemed like a dream became reality. There was blood. There were smoldering bundles of things resembling camouflage. There was an inhuman silence that shrieked louder than the screams of my dreams. There was the reality that everyone was gone. Worse than that....I hid through everything. I hit my burning friends with a stick to keep them from me. I guess this is my life. I guess I always keep people from me, especially when they need me. "No matter now," I say as I brush off all memory and bad thoughts. I return to base and tell a story entirely different than the one I remember. Wives feel better. I feel better. Kids feel better. Instead of screaming for his mom, he jumped in front of a bullet to save me. This story sits better. It really doesn't matter what I say does it? I can say whatever I want about it, it won't give them back the guy that had to eagerly wait for the letter announcing his son's birth while in the infirmary, but dying just prior to receiving that letter. It won't do anything.

I am a coward mom. I could not have been quieter in that hole. I heard noises and footsteps so close to me and willed my body to be still. I should have waited until they got past me and stood up and killed at least 5 of them. I didn't. I waited and shook like some woman after an earthquake. I acted like a victim.

I don't know if you will get this. Word is the neighborhoods are under attack and losing, but I refuse to think of those consequences right now. I am alone. I cannot come out of this hole. I just can't. People told me Halifax was gone. I won't believe it. You have to be reading this right now. You just have to. It's all I have left. I am gonna close my eyes now. I'm gonna dream of you on purpose and when I wake up, you will be there right? You will be there?  







Sing.
Migrate.








Thanks for reading...Z

A Story About Family

It was the perfect day. I hadn't had a perfect day in sometime. I guess the odds are always against the perfect day to begin with, so you can't really get mad when it doesn't happen. Only when you get the opposing force of the perfect day...the day of reckoning.

We were sitting on the couch as a family watching ALF and laughing. The kids were laughing at the primitive, furry, man filled space alien on the screen. He looked so funny when he tried to run. We were laughing because we cannot believe we thought this was funny once. Once in a different world. The kids are eating popsickles and mom and I are endulging in a Hot and Ready on the couch like viking barbarians. There is a cool breeze blowing on our faces from the window. It is a perfect 75 degrees outside. In the night sky, the moon lights the paths of the drunkards stumbling home from their corner spouses. They make no noise, but watch the beauty of a family realizing that all they really have is each other dancing inside the windows. The screen flashes with electric pictures and the depth of the beauty of family forces us all to close our eyes and feel the flakes fall on our shoulders...our eye lashes. It feels beautiful. We lift out faces to the sky and stick out our tongues to catch the falling cedars...........Cedars? "What is this?" We look up at the blizzard of saw dust falling onto our faces. It's both beautiful and confusing. It sparks at the occasional nail for a moment and continues splitting a line directed between us. Between my family. It begins to darken. The beauty of the dust showering us is now lost and it begins to get in our eyes and fills our stomachs. It is revolting. I makes us cough hysterically as we try to find each other in the darkness. The dust is razors now. It cuts into the very things we never wanted to happen as kids. It drives distance between us and separates us from who we always wanted to be. Our dreams will be the next to fall prey to the cedar snow. Our dreams will be pressed into wooden statues that will be gauked at by artsies and pretend artsies. They will look at our statues and get sad feelings about their parents or their lack thereof. They will buy those statues as symbols of their undying committment to never make committments. Our destruction will become art.

The sawdust flies in our faces and our kids are screaming, but nothing will keep us apart. Nothing will keep our hands from interlocking fingers again. We will join together or die. This is art to us. We stand in a circle holding hands and dancing around as the sawdust falls like a midnight snow all around us. Above us, we know there is a blade coming, but it cannot touch us. It may rain as much as it would like, but it will not separate our fingers from each other's. It's steel will recoil. It will fail. This doll house will fall, but our family will remain. Whoever wishes to bring it down and separate it's parts will walk away unfullfilled. He will walk away with a hot saw, but a heart turned to liquid.

But for now, we just dance in the falling cedar that has not power to stop us.















Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

The Way It Feels To Wake Up

I know I haven't posted for a while I have been on "Vacation!!!!" I have also been evaluating the way workless days and beautiful sunsets effected my mood. I am still at a stand still. This morning I woke up sad. Was it because I am home from Up North? Was it because I have only 3 more days until the end of vacation? I don't know. I am just riding the ride, not analyzing it. The sun comes up and I wake the same flesh I was the night before, but my constitution seems to be different. I am not gonna write about how sad it is to be depressed...this thought bores even me. I just wanna write about how weird it is to wake a different person. Yesterday my first thought was that I hoped the coffee wasn't too strong and couldn't wait to sit under the sun and read a book. This morning I was hoping I was still dreaming when I woke. This bout isn't gonna be bad....I can feel that already. The first days of the bad spells are usually the worst and leave me like crinkled paper on the floor. Today I just felt blah...like a dolphin at Sea World might feel on Thursday during a school year. He didn't feel like performing, but when he did, there were only 3 people watching. I am not gonna need Hospice for this one, just a great new album or a life re-defining movie and I'll be fine. This one doesn't feel like the end.

But the change from day to day doesn't make me write to you. It's the view of what that change means to me, from my own eyes. It's the view from two different people's eyes. One sees the losing horse, the other sees a really brave attempt by a horse with a broken leg.


Here is a list of blessings that make things brighter and are probably the reason I am not emotionally crippled right now.

1. Most of the world has it way worse.
2. I got a new job! This was the ONE I wanted.
3. Most importantly, my daughter still calls me daddy, and son still asks me if I am proud of him. My wife always believes the best of both.


Is that all anyone could ask for or what?








Sing.
Migrate.








Thanks for reading...Z

Someone Who Made Me His Son

My first vivid memory was in a courtroom, staring at a small hole in the toe of my mother's friend's nylons. I was looking at the hole as my mother told the court a story they didn't believe for some awful reason. The world tells me I technically have no dad. I disagree. I believe I have dads...plural. I have my Father in Heaven who reminded me while I was a pre-teen weeping on a warm dryer that I have never been alone. I have the closest thing I have ever had to a father in this man Jim. He took me into his home. I stayed so many nights there, being loud and being me. I must have annoyed him, he worked at like nasty in the morning and we stayed up until then at least. I didn't realize it at first. I didn't get it at first. He was quiet, which I was not. He doesn't always throw his feelings at you, which I do. So I didn't understand him at first. It was this one day that I finally understood how he looked at me. I was like one of his own. He took the day off of work. This was rare for him...at least in the time I knew him. I had lost my license due to many, many tickets in various cities. He knew I needed to drive to work and somehow knew I would be worth it. He took that day off work and took me to every courtroom and station and paid my fines for me. That day, my license was restored and I could drive without fear again. He doesn't know how much that meant to me. It meant more than any act that any man has done for me. I paid him back in half the time we had worked out. I could not disappoint him.

I was standing at the grave of my brother...who wasn't my blood brother. I walked up and looked down at his pale, painted face and began to cry. A hand grasped my shoulder and squeezed. It was his. I did this again hours later...again the same hand grasped my shoulder. It was HIS kid. He should be the one weeping and I should be trying to console him, but he reached out to me. He helped me feel less alone that day. He doesn't know this either.

I remember when he took us canoeing in Gladwin up north.  All three of us knew he didn't like that situation. Roughing it was never one of his priorities. He wanted to spend time with his kids and he invited me. I was surprised, but I packed before I even said yes. We got on the water and paddled quietly. No one said anything until his boat flipped over and he was engulfed in water. We all jumped out to help. I don't think he needed any of our help, but we all wanted him to have a good time so bad. The three of us left that weekend happy. Canoeing is canoeing. Spending time with a person who travels out of his comfort zone to tell you he loves you is beautiful.


He was a Godsend to me. Thank you.



Sing.
Migrate.





Thanks for reading...Z

Calm

I woke up. It was 3:15 AM. I was surrounded by anger. I was buried in my disappointment. When you sleep you are vulnerable to anything that wants to infiltrate your mind while your defenses are down. I was trapped somewhere between then and now, with people from then inhabiting the now. Even when dreaming, I understand something isn't right, but cannot put my finger on it. I just cannot figure out I am dreaming and it's gonna be over as soon as I realize it and wake myself up. But dreams are cruel. They seem to be working against us, bringing our deepest fears and regrets to the forefront. Maybe it's because we try so hard when lucid to keep them out. During the day, I go to great measures to remain at peace with myself and my surroundings, and admittedly sometimes God. This night I am with my brother, who I know good and well cannot be speaking to me in the here and now...again I do not connect the dots. I just enjoy it while I can because something inside tells me it cannot last. For a few moments, we are back in his old Escort EXP. I am staring at the lobster fork he boosted from Red Lobster and stuck into his dash board. I look down at my own hands as they spin and twirl a lit cigarette, something I haven't done in many years. Joe's in the back hatch because he busted on some ice sometime before. We had a rule that if you fell down or got caught crying, you had to lay in the back hatch because the car was a two seater. We stopped and looked up through the sunroof at the night sky drop snow onto the glass. We said nothing, none of us did. It was as if the dream versions of Joe and Will also knew this wasn't going to last. I woke up moments later grasping air with empty hands. These things don't happen often anymore, but when they do, they awaken something underneath and I am overcome with anger at just how unfair life can be. It does what it does and it doesn't care who you are or how hard you are trying. Then I must pull myself together and make it ok. Beasts belong in cages in a civilized world. So we have to find ways to put them there. I do these things to lure it in.


I run. This is new to me because I have always hated it. Then one day, for no particular reason I loved it. I found myself in the battle again. I believe I have always belonged in the battle. I fight well. I am exhausted at the end and too tired to feel the fire. I had a really cool moment yesterday during a run. I was running down this small road and the lady was running toward me from the opposite direction. She put up her hand for me to slap it, and I did. No words spoken, just silent agreement that this was peace and we are human and things can be very beautiful in a sometimes rotten world.

I lift weights. If you want a quick release of whatever is eating you. Go lift something that is heavier than your body wants to lift. Then lift it again and again until everything underneath is gone.

I listen to music with no lyrics, or no decipherable ones. Sometimes I mix those songs with sounds of distant trains or wind chimes. I get alone in the dark with headphones and allow myself to breath deeply in and out. You can actually feel your heart slow and your respirations deepen and get quieter. In 30 minutes, I am sometimes a different person.

I play with my kids. There is nothing more calming than to play with or spend time with someone who is truly innocent. They have no bad intentions or silent motives. There is no pain attached to seeing them. No sorrow in their voices. They are a reminder of freedom. Freedom is calming.


Most days now, I am doing well. Most days I think about him and smile. Most days I am at peace. Some days I am not. Some days I can't breath. I am more positive now. I have no desire to live in the darkness of regret. I sometimes pitch a tent there, but my home is with the living. I am happy and content these days. I think this is reflected in the decrease in posts on this blog. I really am trying to improve my frequency of writing. I believe it is just as important to share your happiness as it is your sadness. Otherwise, if you haven't met me, you would think I am this gloomy guy, when I am not. I love life and I laugh and truly believe most things are able to be laughed through. It as helped me to be around people all the time. I don't have the time to sit and stew in loneliness. I believe we do have a choice to live here or there. I choose here.


Sing.
Migrate.

Class or Trash

What is class? What makes a person classy or a person trash? I get the picture. I get what people are talking about. But I have often heard people who fulfill the same categories of trash call another person trash. Is the difference between the two, your response to your guest having to use the bathroom which is not downstairs where you are? Does the classy person say "Upstairs, second door to your right?" Does the trash say "The laundry tub is  self cleaning, just run the water for a minute after." I don't think the difference lies in either. I think the difference is found in the reaction of the host. Today at a restaurant, this woman dropped her kid's jacket from her table without noticing. There was a lot of traffic, so I immediately was concerned the jacket would be kicked along and get lost. I watched this woman look down and watch it happen, just an arm reach away and think for a moment. She went back to eating and disregarded the jacket. I picked it up and gave it back to the mother of it's owner. I was annoyed that something as simple as notifying a person of a fallen jacket was too much work for the not so classy woman sitting right next to her.

Also today, I was driving, which brings me anxiety, and a guy pulled into traffic without watching and ran me off the road and almost onto a ditch. I got back on the road and sped up a little to give the guy a somewhat dirty, contrived look and got a glance at this teenager with his girlfriend. Of course. Of course it was some punk teenager. He sped up and got next to me and rolled down his window. I was ready to exchange words. I was angry. He said this....What nerve of him to say this: "I'm so sorry. I wasn't paying attention." I waved back and said it was OK, and thanks for that. He had class. He admitted his mistake in humility, while me, being classless was staring him down. Perfect. Perfect lesson from God to stop being such an idiot. The difference between class and trash is how we treat people....period.









Sing.
Migrate.







Thanks for reading...Z

Stupid Things I Do

I am a man of many weaknesses. Many have been dreadfully exposed on this blog. However, a couple of the more embarrassing ones haven't been revealed. I had hoped that my wife would cover them in her short lived "Storied Adam Told Me: True or False" blog, but she gave up due to the overwhelming number of witnesses to my adventures and various feats. So here are a couple.

• I get got by almost every door to door cable salesperson ever to darken my doorstep. The deals are too good to turn down. They are ALWAYS too good to turn down. However, they always end up biting me in the rear and costing us hundreds of dollars. You would think I would have learned that people simply cannot give you a legitimate deal giving you double your services for half the price, but I continue in this foolish quest for totally free cable and internet. I also am a sucker for up and coming rappers that peddle their terribly bad goods on the streets. It isn't that I want their album, because I don't, it's just hard to look them in their sad eyes and say no. Then I listen to their songs about "F" this and that and and kill everyone especially the kids and I instantly regret it. Then there are girls scout cookies. I never buy them from the kids. They don't get to my heart. The gangster rapper does, but not the sweet little missing tooth kid trying to win a new bike. 

• I say really off the wall and dumb things when I'm put in a roaster. When in a tense situation, I say the first thing that pops in my head and it is ALWAYS a really dumb thing to say and embarrasses the crap out of my wife. Here are a couple examples: 1. I volunteered, voluntarily I might add, to help assistant coach C-diddy's baseball team. I coached a game. Good job me. The next game I wasn't feeling it because I got a new phone and wanted to see all that it could be and go pick up Laura's as well from Verizon. So I pull up to the field hoping Caeden's coach would not be there yet, because he is never on time. But alas, he pulls up into the spot next to me as I am about to pull away and hops out of his vehicle with a "Where you going? I thought you were gonna help?" face, and the screws came loose and things came out of my mouth. I told this man, who lives in 2012, not 1996, that I was going to the store to pay a bill. I pulled out and felt my wife's blazing gaze ripping through my cheek. She was mortified. She could, and still can't believe that came out of my mouth and to this day (really only 3 weeks later) she cringes at the thought that I said this. He must have thought I still had a pager bill to pay at the pager store. Truth is, I was going to pay a bill, but it was the kind of bill you pay when you go to any store and make a transaction which tenders money and an article of merchandise. Not exactly a late monthly bill that I needed a money order for as I had portrayed it. 2. Just today, we were looking into some options for financing to purchase a new home and the mortgage agent asks me how much money we have saved in the bank for a down payment. I panicked. I don't handle the money and she was giving me a look as though we had better have plenty of it, so I got spooked and said "censored amount of dollars" but then added dumbly "But we have ways of getting more." What?!? Which ways? Laura again looks like she is going to throw up. What did that even mean to this women. Did she think we were mafia bosses? Did she think we sometimes prostituted for extra down payment cash? Did she think we stole people's copper plumbing? I have no idea why I said that or where I was thinking the ways of getting money were going to come from, but I said it. I put that out into open space and watched it saturate. 

These things are common practice to me. God bless my wife. Pray for me.









Sing.
Migrate.






Thanks for reading...Z

The Secret To Making Friends

What is the formula for friends? My mom used to tell me and my brother when we were little that you have to go right up and stick out your hand firmly and introduce yourself and just ask, "Would you like to be my friend?" I have to admit, this did work the two times I tried it, so I cannot dispute it's effectiveness.

We live in a very sensitive culture. People can no longer take a joke it seems. Say the wrong thing (which I am famous for) and you have an enemy forever.

Here is what they say, or at least what I have heard:
1. Don't talk religion.
2. Don't talk politics.
3. Don't just talk about yourself.

#1 Not true. You can talk about religion as long as you are not arrogant and dismiss the other person's beliefs. It is very off-putting to make another person feel stupid for not agreeing with you about a very personal and sensitive topic. As I have said before... most beliefs are based on emotion. There is usually an emotional reason that you believe what you believe about religion or God. Be kind and humble and there won't be a problem.

#2 Pretty true. Sometimes just because you like or don't like someone for public office, someone may dismiss you. I don't know why people get so riled up about 95% liars, but they do. People will sometimes be more willing to dismiss the 95% agreement for the 5% disagreement. It sucks, but people will still like you if you love them. Talk about your similarities and you will win them over.

#3 True. People want to talk usually. Open yourself up to really listen and you generally have your friend in your hands. You don't have to leave yourself out of the equation, as people love to step into another's life, but leave a lot of room for their lives and you are golden. You will have a friend because you cared enough to listen.

It really boils down to the golden rule. Live that and most people will love you

Sing.
Migrate.

Positive

I am on month 5, day 15 of my quest to conquer my own negativity. I saw that I was only posting sad things. I was only posting my blood and anger on here. This is not me. I do not bleed all the time. I bleed sometimes. People get to see me bandaged and feeling well and I have no problem shouting it out. But here I post what lies beneath dormant, but fighting it's way to the surface. I had faced so many demons and so much heartbreak. I had to let it out. I don't regret that. I don't regret letting you see me crumble. I needed to not be alone and I wasn't. But after a while the dark side gets too dark and you just cannot take another moment without the sun. So I decided last December 31, that I will let the sun shine in and through me, to show the Christ that still reigns within me. For a minute there, I didn't know if I was gonna make it through. The crisis in faith was the first and worst time I was tested. I had lost so much, but never lost this part of me. I lost my brother and found myself looking at God through blurred eyes with nothing but anger. I saw the worst of me rising to the surface again and I wanted out. I had had enough of the jolly Jesus lifestyle. I wanted nothing to do with people telling me that God was in control and was gonna take care of me. I wanted nothing to do with them either. I wanted to turn back time, but and as long as I was restrained by science, I would turn my back to my God. I would let him in no more. I knew deep inside that He was not to blame. I knew that the world was full of sin and lies and they got a hold of my brother. I knew that somewhere beyond what I can see, there was a God weeping violently. But I turned that off. Sometimes you don't want to here the truth. You want to allow your anger to take you away into the same deception that brought you here. Sometimes you just want someone to blame when you hate yourself so much and blame yourself for the rape of the innocent. The forceful takeover of someone beautiful into the dark with no warning. I chose God. The One that saved me. The One that wouldn't let me die. The One that gave me all beautiful things I never deserved. The One I had given my life back to.

I'd had enough. I was so angry, but I had enough of it. It was hurting me more than the loss of my brother. I could not be apart anymore from the One who made me and gave me every jewel on my crown. He simply is and always was perfect. So I made a pact with myself, with my wife, and with God. I would say only positive things, because thinking positive glorifies God and destroys the devil. Over 5 months in and I have made a couple mistakes, but I have also corrected them. I don't want to argue with people anymore. I just want to love them. I don't want to tell you about the rain, because the sunshine makes us want to step outside. I don't want to bleed anymore in front of you, because gives us fear of death, and I am certainly not dead. I am alive! I am alive with my God who continues to make me a different and better person! I am trying to be what He has intended. I am broken in pieces, but I think this is His design for me. I maybe wasn't meant to live a life without pain. If I continue with this pain, I will continue to post it to glorify Him, but I will not allow myself to post my anger here again. I will tell you that through all that I have had to endure, He has given me ten times more to find joy in. I had no father. I sit with my children on my lap and they want to be just like me. I want to be just like them. I could never leave them. This is because of the beauty and grace of God. He replaces what you have lost with things much better.

Last week I saw a woman walking down the hallway at work. I kept looking at her because she looked so familiar. It took a moment, but I remembered her from 2 weeks prior. She was dying. She was in restraints. She could only speak nonsense and scream that she was sorry every time she tore out her tubes and we had to replace them. I remember going in her room to brush her teeth and thinking hopeless things about her. She was gonna die at a young age. She had been through hell and was standing in the flames. Due to laws, I cannot explain any more on here, but she was one of the worst looking cases I have seen in a sea of terrible disease. Now she stood in front of me walking and talking and flaunting her healing to the whole hospital. She was alive! She was more than alive...she was glowing like the sun! I was reminded that there is nothing to big for God and that He does still perform miracles. He does reach His hands into hell and pull the anguished out.

Sometimes you have to write down that He is faithful to remember when you are not feeling it. A few years ago, I was struck by an SUV while riding my bike. I should have been killed, yet I had no significant injuries. I wrote about how this had changed everything about me and given me faith stronger than I had ever experienced. Then literally months later I am punching a statue of Mary holding the baby Jesus in the night. I could not pray. I could not sing. I would not sing to Him. The same God that just saved my life. How quickly we forget that He is God and we are not. That He loves us, even and especially when terrible things happen to us. He weeps with us. We forget that we get through these things because of Him.

Because of Him!










Sing.
Migrate.





Thanks for reading...Z

Silence

The theater I used to work in had a slogan that was shown before every movie. It said "Silence is Golden." It was just a reminder that people did not swish to be disturbed during their 2 hours of escape from life. People have such a hard time escaping reality when it keeps biting at them through the mouths of two teenagers skipping school to see Twilight. Point is, sometimes we need to escape from something. We don't need to run, that's a different thing altogether. I mean to escape the rigors of Tuesday at 2:00 PM when someone you count on calls off and leaves you their business to deal with. Life when you have been driving all day for work and have to fight the commuter traffic on the way home for another hour. Like when everything keeps spinning and you easily forget which direction you are pointed in. This is the time that we rest our eyes against the darkness of our eyelids and take a deep breath, breathing in from the belly, not the chest. Take some time and be silent. Let your mind speak to God in the safety of that very special quiet place. Stand out in the snow alone and let if drop onto your coat and watch it sink in. Let the rain drool your product onto your forehead, forgetting about what your appearance will be when you step back through those doors. Stop and remember that life is much, much more than today. God is huge and these days are nothing. Remember that life is to be lived with a mission and not just mundane existing.


Sing.
Migrate.

To Forget Something Terribly Important...An Incomplete Guide To Tolerance

I have been observing the current political, cultural, and social trend lately. I usually try to skip politics as I do not like mainstream politics and like politicians even less. Due to my overwhelming interest and agreement with Ron Paul (shameless plug, I know) I have been keeping a tab on what people are saying and doing. This has left me even more disliking politics and political people. Here's what I have learned:
Posting your views on social networks, even if it is just saying you like a political candidate, will infuriate other political people into posting hate on your wall. If I said I liked ice cream, those that don't wouldn't care at all. So it clearly means something emotionally to many people and your very statement of a like may actually stir up pain in another.

If you believe in something or don't believe in something the media has deemed politically incorrect, you become the horrible names they have made up for you. Even if you're no where near those terrible connotations.

Many who claim to be open minded are only open minded if you agree with them. If you don't, you become those horrible names the media has made up for you.

Some people will not listen to you anyways and it is futile to argue certain things with them. Many people simply do not know why they believe what they believe, but know that the challenge of that belief brings many painful and angry feelings.

I have learned so much more, but the point is that people continue to forget that other people are still people...different people, with different circumstances. You cannot simply slap labels and names on a human being just because you disagree or the media defines their beliefs as being worthy of a horrible name or connotation. People feel things and some things hurt so bad that the person believes off of emotion alone. We need to be sensitive to that. Remember that to understand someone, we have to listen to them. If you do not listen or desire to understand a person, ignorance will reign. Even if others anger you, try to understand your own feelings and beliefs. Maybe you end up seeing their point...maybe not. But at least you know where you stand. Then try to listen and understand the other person, remembering that a belief does not make someone and idiot or a terrible person.

Grace is key with all people. Tolerance is being humble enough to examine your own perspective and seek to understand theirs as well, then choosing to love (Not condone their actions necessarily) them anyway. We don't all have to agree to coexist in a loving environment, but we do all have to love each other and tolerate each other.



Sing.
Migrate.

Beautiful Things

"What a day to be alive, what a day to realize your not dead." Greg Laswell

I am gonna try and do my due diligence and write more often. Life is different. I have said this before because it's seems that things are constantly changing and my mind is changing with them. When things get different, I often find myself reeling and don't make the time to write things down. I do realize that these are the most important times for personal records, but I just don't and never did want to write just for an audience. I love those that read what I write and so happy you enjoy sharing in my life...but I want to write for me, and my kids.

Over the past few weeks I have been back and forth with dreams and memories of Will. As I said before, things are changing. Before when I would remember him, I would think of death and goodbye. Lately, I have been thinking about the joys of being alive and the beautiful things that exist in this world. These are the signature of God at the bottom of the painting for me. In the work of art, there are various forms of viscous chaos mixed with beauty that the eye cannot even understand. I think of Will and I miss him, but I think of life. I think of the things I could do to be brighter and shine more brilliantly. I have found ministry in nursing. I read the the passage in the Bible that says:

^{Matt 25:34} “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. ³⁵ For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, ³⁶ I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
³⁷ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? ³⁸ When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? ³⁹ When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
⁴⁰ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ 

I do believe this is the description of nursing. There is no more a destitute floor than the one I work on. Everyone could go at any moment and many of them do. They are people raised in a ghetto in a hospital in the ghetto. Some have become one with the bed that eats away their flesh from underneath them. Most are completely dependent on me and the support staff on the floor to keep them alive. As humans, we keep people alive when we raise kids and when we take care of our grandparents, but it is a different thing to think that if I do not give this medication, this patient may die. I am finding a spiritual home in my work, and I aspire to be the very best I can under God. I believe when we work hard and pray hard, He works all good things out for us.

The issue that I have been having is that, right now, I am trained to save a life. If your heart were to stop in front of me, I have the knowledge and skill to significantly increase your chances of survival. But just 2 1/2 years ago on the other side of my telephone was a dying person that I could not save. He was calling for my help, but I was absent. It does upset me, but as I said before, I am not thinking negatively anymore. This makes me want to not miss it again. I want to know what to do and be diligent in prayer to make a difference between life and death. Because life is beautiful. In some very strange ways, life is perfect. It is balanced. There is always beauty to be seen in every disaster. I have been trying to take photos in the ghetto where I work of both beautiful and sad things I have found there...because if beauty can be found there, it can be found anywhere. Here are a couple.

 The first taken outside of a very sick person's window she stares out of 24 hours a day for the last 45 days.

The second is a crime scene just outside the gates of the hospital as the news people interrogate the family of the victim.

The third is a house fire just off of the freeway I take to my job. The family stood on the sidewalk and watched all of their memories float away in that smoke,

The fourth is the courtyard in the middle of my hospital. It sits quietly among, quite possible the ugliest and trashiest building that is still being used in the country.
 






Sing.
Migrate.





Thanks for reading...Z

Science of Sleep

Sleep can be wonderful or terrible given the night. In the evenings I hate it, because it reminds me I will be blinking my eyes and beginning again the next day. Either I will be working, or I will be one more night closer to working. But the mornings...they are different. 5 AM reaches me faster than the sunlight and I can think of nothing I would rather do than to lay down in the back of my car and skip the day altogether.

During sleep you are vulnerable. You are a victim to whatever crazy or irrational thought decides to invade your mind. You can have a dream that Oprah is giving you a shot with a 2 foot long needle or one where you are running too slow and punching your enemy like you were punching through chocolate pudding. Things can make you happy and brighten the day ahead, or they can haunt you and make the sun wretched to you.

Sleep is precious. Sleep doesn't take long enough when you are tired and is way too long when you are excited. There really is no point to this post except to talk without point about sleep. I personally have a battle with it. I have slept in many different places. I used to be an insomniac. I would sleep in the bathtub, under the kitchen table, beside the heater under the bed, to the sound of a metronome. Now I sleep like a child...until 3 or 4 AM, then I wake up and can't sleep anymore. I think of my sleeping scenarios that calm me to sleep, but at this time, they seldom work. Something isn't right still. I have not adjusted yet to 33 years of bad sleeping habits.

On a side note, my wife defines my new go-to-bed-at-nine habit as the one true sign of my maturity. Agree or disagree?







Sing.
Migrate.




Thanks for reading...Z

To Those That Do Not Believe.

Trust would not be trust if there were no risk. We trust because we have been burned. Otherwise trust would be something we never did. If being burned kept us from trusting others, our hope would die. Our spirits live on, because of the human spirit. I am not talking about the human spirit that we possess, but the Spirit of something different, that God puts in  our hearts. Only those who have it will understand. The rest will say I am an idiot in their minds and never think of me again. Before you go, consider the possibility that you are wrong. I have done the same.. right now as I am writing. I have doubts often...I will never claim otherwise. I often wonder about the possibility of a God in such a place and have come to the conclusion of a God that reigns still. Without thought I look to Him.


I am not an apologist. I am not going to argue your science or what you believe to be true. I am only going to ask you this question............"How?" How are we here? Where did the cells come from? Why do we feel different from all other creation? My humble opinion is that we came from God, in His likeness. We were made to model Him. Believing in evolution is even more a stretch than believing that a 2012 Mustang formed itself from a single piece of molten steel without the touch or thought of human influence. It takes faith not to believe. In my opinion...even more faith is needed to not believe than believe.

I am not a scholar. I have studied the Bible for many years, but am intellectually unqualified to form an argument, but I will give you what I know from experience. God is good. God is indescribable. I am not God and don't always represent Him well. I don't always have an explanation for what He does, but I do know what it means to live in His presence. 









Sing.
Migrate.







Thanks for reading...Z