it used to be simple

I went out for a bite to eat, and stopped to get a movie on the way home. I needed a feel good movie. I had eyeballed Flipped the last couple times at the store, and knew it would be harmless enough.

Yes, it's only Hollywood saccharin, but it does stir a piece of me that remembers what it was like to love simply. It used to not require this elaborate explanation, as if I have to convince myself that a woman is worthy of my affection. The beauty spoke for itself. It was an awkward and irrational attraction, but without a hint of superficiality.

When I was in the eighth grade, I was dancing with my peers at a function I had organized, when one of my committee members slipped a smile at me from across the room. I was 14 and she was 12; I had never had a conversation with her before or even given her a second thought. But something about that smile, in that light, with no prior rejection to distract or dissuade me -- I knew I had to know her.

A couple weeks later, I was scheduled for a school field trip, but my guy friends bailed on me. Waiting for the bus, I saw her drifting in a summer dress, her hair pinned up so that her entire face shone. We drove three hours to Indy, and I didn't say a word. Later as I was wandering about the zoo gift shop, I bumped into her and shared a brief playful exchange. We spent the next three hours enjoying one another's company, as if nothing else could matter more.

I moved to high school, and when she joined me two years later, we never mentioned that day. We never did anything more than dance around each other's interest with a steady friendship. But I will never forget that first glimpse in the middle school gym. To have seen a smile so pure and lovely, and to know it was for me, was the most wonderful thing I could ever imagine.

And I think that while millions of single Americans await the perfect match through a myriad of meaningless criteria, I just want to see a quiet smile of a similar nature, and know that it's for me.

my ignorant heart, twice over

I've got another confession to make
I'm your fool
Everyone's got their chains to break
Holding you
Were you born to resist, or be abused?

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?
Or are you gone and onto someone new?

I needed somewhere to hang my head
Without your noose
You gave me something that I didn't have
But had no use
I was too weak to give in, too strong to lose

My heart is under arrest again
But I'll break loose
My head is giving me life or death
But I can't choose
I swear I'll never give in; I refuse

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?
Has someone taken your faith?
The pain you feel, it's real
You trust, you must confess
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?

Has someone taken your faith?
It's real, the pain you feel
The life, the love, you'd die to heal
The hope that starts, the broken hearts
You trust, you must confess
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best
The best of you?

I've got another confession, my friend
I'm no fool
I'm getting tired of starting again
Somewhere new
Were you born to resist, or be abused?
I swear I'll never give in; I refuse

-- "Best of You" by Foo Fighters, from In Your Honor

the night before Christmas

Not surprisingly, holidays are a tough time to live alone. Relative to the past month, my emotional health is tip-top; if not for the void created by not sharing time, gifts, and decorations with others, I would be feeling content. I decided against decorating my apartment this year. I think that these are moments meant to be shared.

I'm at work until 6am, but I do get to play Santa tonight for the girls (thankfully, minus the suit!) This is something I plan to enjoy someday -- crawling around in the wee hours of the night to place presents under my own tree. I recall the wonder of waking up on Christmas morning as a child. My parents would be watching the local choral music on TV, and mom would have cinnamon rolls or French toast ready. Dad would play it cool, as if he could wait all day to open gifts, but he was just as anxious as we were.

I still have two childhood Christmas gifts -- the two most destined for regular use. When I was 14 months old, I was given a stuffed monkey (George), who slept next to me without fail for the next ten years. He now sits on my loveseat, unevenly stuffed and ragged as he is. At age ten, I received an NES, which still functions with a dozen violent blows and a perfectly placed cartridge.

We usually followed our Christmas mornings with a trek to Grandma's. She passed away half of my lifetime ago, but most of my fond family memories still involve her. She used to take some of the turkey, batter it, and fry it, because she knew it was the only way I would eat it. We would sit at a long table -- all five of her children, with their spouses and children -- and feast all day long. However she ever made enough food for twenty or so, I'll never know, but there were always leftovers. These are the kinds of things that old grandmas loved. Her gift was having us together.

And then I realize that her position was not so different. Her kids gradually wanted to spend Christmas in their own homes, and my grandpa died before I was born. Holidays must have been awfully lonely for her. Here I always thought that she was the glue that kept the family together (and she was), but I can identify with the personal motivation to be with the ones you love. And it's not always that simple.

Tomorrow, I won't wake to wonder; I'll already be awake. I'll share three gifts with an immediate family that already has everything it needs and more. But somewhere between those cinnamon rolls and opening another DVD, we'll stop to read the Gospel, and remember how scary and alone it must have been for Mary, and how God brought comfort in the form of an angel. And we can break down the historical elements of the story until it is no longer real, but I prefer to think that there was a peace in that chaos of a village: a quiet assurance to the world that God is present and is interested.

time management

I live with an abundance of "me time," so I do not need to cut an element from my life. However, I wonder how I can be the best steward of my time. If I have even an ounce of writing skill, what noble purpose should it serve?

My blogging used to have a certain usefulness, but now it only makes me appear unbalanced. Yes, there's a transparency behind my daily ups and downs, but should my coherent thoughts suffer a loss of credibility for the sake of displaying my vulnerability?

I've had this lifelong dream to publish something true and useful, but this discipline will always take a back seat to my incessant rambling (as long as I offer it a forum). What would happen if I starved it, and replaced this time with writing chapter _________ of my larger work?

It's just a thought. If you stop seeing me here, assume the best for my writing :)

man in black

After I finished witnessing yet another emotional breakdown, I read the resident's heartbreaking story. This song came to mind:

...Well, there's things that never will be right, I know
And things need changin' everywhere you go
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right
You'll never see me wear a suit of white

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day
And tell the world that everything's okay
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back
'Til things are brighter, I'm the man in black

--Johnny Cash, from Man in Black

It's hard for friends to imagine that I once lived without a melancholy bone in my body. Some children are predisposed to having a quiet, contemplative way about them, but I was far from that. Whoever the teacher sat next to me would be my friend. I loved talking, and I trusted others to a fault. I had no reason to believe that everyone's intentions were anything less than pure.

I know that we all lose that sort of optimistic innocence to varying degrees, but my steady transition to what can best be described as "somber" has as much to do with other lives as it does my own. I can be nothing but grateful for the opportunities I have had. But if someone must cry for these burdened young ladies, it may as well be me.

According to RAINN, a charity organization aiming to prevent sexual violence, one in six women will be a victim of rape or attempted rape in their lifetime. I can't help but be alarmed by this. And maybe my temperament lends itself to befriending a greater percentage of prior victims, but it almost seems as if one in six is a conservative estimate. I get that women have no desire to be identified as victims (as none of us want to be deeply connected to the most painful experience of our life), but it's pretty hard to argue that our culture has not suffered some heavy residue from this ongoing tragedy.

Sure, because I work with a female population, it makes it hard for me to ignore. I don't have the luxury of viewing unhealthy sexual behavior in a vacuum. Yes, we are all given the freedom to make our own choices, but there appears to be such a strong correlation between being subject to abuse and later acting out that the church has to begin addressing more than the symptoms.

We want to speak strongly against homosexuality, casual sex, teenage pregnancy, abortion, and the like, but most of these girls are not being introduced to a sexualized world on their own terms. A small minority of victims have someone they can trust to help them through the recovery, but a greater number are on their own -- trying to cope with a lost innocence that occurred literally overnight.

I don't know the answer. The girls I work with have long since learned to cope in adverse ways, and we have to spend as much time treating their poor responses as the initial victimization. It seems that help needs to be available sooner, especially to those too frightened to acknowledge what has happened.

I'm not sure, and I'm just one man. But I know that this will continue to nag at me until I know how I can help. I need to seek the Lord in this. But as I wait, I don't get to forget that this pain is out there, as much as I want to convince myself that everything is okay.

my faults!

Often, I feel like a mess.

I wake up in the morning, head to the bathroom, and catch a glimpse in the mirror. It's unforgiving: I see an out of shape, middle-aged man with thinned hair, tired eyes, and coffee-stained teeth. And when I wonder how I could ever be considered lovable, I remember that I am also unwaveringly stubborn, uncomfortably intense, emotionally reactive, and spiritually weak.

I ponder life's opportunities. If I ever finished what I started, I could have my teacher's license or be ordained as a minister. I could have been disciplined and received straight A's. I could have married one of the sweet girls at Bethel that quietly expressed interest. I could have lived the credible Christian life.

Though I periodically try, none of it seems to fit. I am much too impulsive to commit to a lifelong career, much too reckless to marry the safe bet, and much too undisciplined to survive in academia. I've never stumbled upon an arena in which I could confidently thrive.

Worse, I demonstrate enough pseudo-confidence that others think I am comfortable with my eccentricities. In reality, I wonder how I find the strength to make it through another day.

******************

I met an elementary teacher this past summer that recommended I re-explore the awesomeness of juvenile literature. I picked up a copy of A Wrinkle in Time and immediately fell in love with its reluctant heroine, Meg Murry. A slave to her own insecurity, Meg struggles with her appearance, her impulsivity, and the perceived confidence of those around her. She is just unique enough to be a loner, just normal enough to be nothing special.

As she begins a heroic journey with her genius brother and a popular male peer, each of them are given a talisman to use against the force that holds Meg's father captive. While the boys are strengthened in their natural gifts, Meg receives an unwanted aid:

"Meg, I give you your faults."

"My faults!" Meg cried.

"Your faults."

"But I'm always trying to get rid of my faults!"

"Yes," Mrs. Whatsit said. "However, I think you'll find they'll come in very handy on Camazotz."

As they encounter a world of blind uniformity and an absence of free will, Meg's stubborn insistence on thinking for herself is used against the enemy. After her brother is also taken captive to the conforming power, she realizes that despite her flaws, her true identity is found in her unmatched love for him, and she is the only one that can save him.

******************

I began skimming through Mike Yaconelli's Messy Spirituality the past couple days. I have read the book twice before, but I find myself fixed to the words during an ongoing battle with insecurity. Chapter 4 is all about being paralyzed by our past, and moving forward by a "conspiracy of grace." I am reminded that my most intimate encounter with Christ is that He would touch me, knowing my faults. He does see them, but Christ identifies my faults as redeemable. It is with this heart of Jesus that I am moved to love others.

Yaconelli shares a moving story written by author Mike Riddell, demonstrating this love. I pray that I would continue to encounter Jesus in this way, and that I would share this love with the broken:

"Vincent"

"Mmmm."

"There's ah...there's something we need to talk about."

"Only if you want to. I'm happy just to sit here and look at you. Sorry, this looks like something serious." Looks a lot like the intro to the Dear John speech, truth be told.

"It's about me and what I do."

"Yeah, I wondered when you were going to pluck up the courage to talk about it. Don't tell me, you work for the CIA, right? Sorry, sorry, I'll shut up."

She is totally absorbed in the remains of her salad, scrutinizing it for something. Anything to avoid his eyes.

"There's no easy way of saying this. I'm a prostitute. I sleep with men for my living. It's a business. I'm very professional."

Time and silence have this thing they do together. They make a chasm that has no bottom to it. And there you are, standing right on the edge of it. Aware that at any moment you may be falling and falling and falling, with no hope of recovery. At the moment they are at either side of it, each consumed by their private terror. She looks up at last from her salad. Vincent is crying. The tears are streaming down his cheeks, and he is biting his lip to stop himself from sobbing.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to deceive you. I'm sorry, Vincent. I'm sorry."

He can't speak. He wants to, but nothing is working. He is looking at her, at her beautiful face, at her eyes, at the slight hardness around her mouth. And weeping and weeping. She reaches a hand across to his. She is beyond tears, empty and bleak and barren. Vincent is mumbling something, but is incoherent through the pain. And then he begins to repeat it again and again.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you..."

This is the worst thing she has ever heard in her life. She wants to scream, to break something, to tip over the table in rage. Instead some continental shelf rips loose within her. She begins gulping and moaning, a terrible agonizing cry from another place. And the tears are flowing. They grip each other's hands, and lean their foreheads together. The tears are flowing into the abyss, and there is no end to them.

understanding grief

At church this past Sunday, somewhere amidst my incessant rambling about what I need to change in my life (and trying to discern the deceptions from the voice of the Spirit), my friend Michael suggested that perhaps I had not finished grieving. I gave him my attention, primarily because it is not my nature to disregard a brother with a genuine concern for my heart.

But I didn't want him to be right. And if he was -- if grieving had not yet run its full course, how much more could be demanded of me? All I want is to be whole and useful for His purposes, and grief seems so debilitating.

Grief reminds me of the frustrating way in which my dad utilized "grounding" when I was a child. Whenever my behavior warranted being grounded (usually because I underachieved in school), my dad would indistinctly suggest that I "don't plan on doing anything for a while." Without an explicit length for my sentence, I was left subject to his highly unpredictable whims. As soon as I would muster the courage to make plans, he would ask, "Aren't you grounded?" I don't know dad; I just don't know!

Similarly, I believe I would be more submissive to the process of grief if I could be assured that it would end. Often, when we have taken the time to convince ourselves that we are past our grief, it manifests itself in the least opportune moment, as if to ask, "Aren't you still grieving?"

So why bother? Grief is always associated with loss, and we cannot make a purely cognitive evaluation of the relationship to determine when we should no longer feel loss. For example, we can come to terms with the conditions that bring about the loss of a relationship (whether by death, separation, or drifting apart), but understanding the reason for the loss and coping with the feelings associated with loss are two different things. Grief is such a deeply emotional response that our attempts to standardize the process fail us, as much as we all try.

In general, I think we are worse at coping with loss in the 21st century. Dwelling in the pain of loss is in direct contradiction with our generation's value of happiness. The common requests, "Can we not talk about that?" or "Can you think about something else?" preserves us from unnecessary pain, thus grief has been identified as a weakness in need of avoidance.

I'm a music guy -- a pop culture historian, if you will. I can't help but notice the shift in today's music content. For decades, the most influential (and highest charting) songs were written about heartache. If you don't believe me, do the research. It is only in the past ten years that the best of pop music has prominently asked us to feel good through it all: to dance, party, make love, be merry, and forget about our problems. God bless Taylor Swift's untalented heart (perhaps country music in general?) for communicating the pain of real grief, but when we listen to a top 40 station, our minds are primarily relegated to the feel-good anthems of Katy Perry, Jason Mraz, and Miley Cyrus. Are these the lives that we aim to emulate? Our teenagers already do -- without question.

So why is this important? I believe that how we respond to pain and loss indicate a measure of our character and our emotional health. Yes, it is easy for me to enjoy the pursuit of happiness when all is well. I think Solomon recommends this much; with all the pain that we are due to suffer, let us accept and appreciate the moments of pure joy. But to suffer so much unsatisfied grief in this world, and to continually push it away, leads us further from His truth.

I know this, because it is soooooooo tempting. When I felt the pain of loss, my first instincts were to swallow it with alcohol and pornography. I am given a distinct choice: to hurt or to self-destruct. In pursuing happiness, most of us choose self-destruction one decision at a time; when we finally arrive at an unfamiliar place, we have no idea how we got so far, but we suddenly feel damaged and unrestorable. And according to old adage, the only way to "cure" a hangover is to keep drinking.

I have to begin to distinguish the loss from the cause. Yes, I can reason through "truths" of why things unraveled in a relationship with a beautiful woman of God -- maybe I was too scarred, or she wasn't ready; it is likely a million other possibilities in between. But understanding facts does not satisfy my grief. Rather, I have to be willing to grieve the elements that contribute to the existence of loss. My heart is appropriately stirred by the reminder of late-night phone calls, words of affirmation, and personal gifts. It is suitable to be moved when one individual consumed my thoughts for a couple months, and I consumed hers. If these things were good (and they were), I should miss them. It should feel as if a beautiful piece of my life is missing.

This said, I look forward to moving past my grief. I look forward to having my loss filled in an appropriate manner, by something else of worth. This is all subject to the grace of God.

This reminds me of the wonderful couple that taught my Sunday School class when I was in college. While I would not compare my loss with anything so deep, they lost a son (my age) in a car accident, while we were in high school. I can't imagine the amount of pain that this would create -- the level of loss that would be felt. Psychologists say that there is no greater loss than that of a child. I remember the way in which they served as shepherds to those of us away at Bethel; I gained so much from the love that they gave. But inevitably, that love was as much about them as it was about us; admittedly, this was how they remembered their son, and their grief was satisfied through serving his peers in need. In a way, their grief revealed something about their heart and their faith.

Nearly nine years ago, I was given a present by the first girl that I loved. It was nothing costly; she gathered some pipe cleaners and a small flower pot, and she made me a bouquet. On each of the stems were little slips of paper, each of them with an affirming word: "You are amazing just the way you are," "You spur on my faith," "You make me smile," and the like. After she broke off the relationship, I immediately threw the bouquet in the trash, unaware that my loving mom would remove it behind me. I returned home after a summer away and saw it sitting on the shelf. I got a little choked up, and my mom said something to the effect of, "I just thought you'd want to remember that these things are true."

I am sure that such a moment will bring me to the end of my grief. Until then, bear with me.

an ugly reflection

I was working the counter at my part-time job today, when a man in his late forties or fifties approached with a stern expression. He ordered a triple latte, and then began asking questions about my barista procedures, as apparently the other coffeehouses in South Bend had all crossed him in some manner or another. I assured him that we had free (workable) WiFi, and that I wouldn't attempt to extract one long shot instead of the three he had ordered. I exhibited as much professionalism as I could muster, and made a beautiful latte, such as he has likely never experienced in our fair city.

I made a trip to the floor to wipe off tables and decided to check on him.

"Is everything fine with your latte?"

"Yeah," he replied in a monotone (and nearly disappointed) manner.

Score. I knew that he had expected me to fail him, so I relished in a moment of pride at his loss for ridicule.

Minutes later, I was in the middle of making nine shots for a triad of peppermint mochas, when he began looming over my bar.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Allegedly, the WiFi had failed him. I promised I would look into the problem after I helped the ladies in line. He sat back down. I finished and went back to reset the routers. Thirty seconds later, he returned with his computer packed. He explained to me that we must have the cheapest service available, and it was ridiculous that not one coffeehouse could figure out how to maintain their WiFi. He mentioned that it was our loss, since he would've bought another drink (you know, like the one he couldn't bring himself to enjoy). Satisfied with his angry scene, he left. I made my way to the house to ask one of our regular students about our signal. "Been working all day," she confessed.

********************

Later, as I pondered how miserable it must be to always expect the worst, I received a gentle swat from the Holy Spirit. What? Do I really do that? I mean, that guy was almost looking forward to being let down, as if we were discrediting his existence by treating him well! How could that behavior possibly speak into my life?

While I'm not a glowing optimist, I do tend to see the potential in things, particularly in other people. I have a bright outlook concerning my eventual career and my financial dealings. I expect to have a good experience when I dine out or stay in with friends. Even when my co-workers begin to grumble, I'm able to recognize that I get paid adequately for what amounts to structured babysitting.

But sadly, I carry a heavy pessimism in two areas of my life: 1) That someone I love could somehow love me, and 2) that a remnant of the church is willing to live a holy and purposeful life.

Is it worse that these happen to be my most important pursuits, aside from God himself? It makes little difference that I can encourage my brothers and sisters in every other aspect of life if my greatest passions are riddled with negativity.

No state of being is detached from history. I'm certain my customer did not wake up this morning skeptical of the coffee industry. He was reacting to some negative experiences. Maybe it was three, or ten, or hundreds. Maybe he had been disappointed in far worse ways. Regardless of what led to his poisonous demeanor, he now expects the worst, and will draw quick (and sometimes false) conclusions to satisfy those expectations.

I brace myself for what feels like the inevitable. Since I perceive that every woman I've ever loved has rejected me, it's hard to enjoy a woman's company. I wait for the other shoe to drop. What initially began because of a couple scared, young girls that couldn't commit, has become an unshakable "truth" in my worldview, to the extent that I now help it along.

Forget the fact that I'm worth her admiration. Cast aside my intent to love and protect. As pure and noble as my heart is at the onset, I've convinced myself that it will never be enough to be wanted or desired. And if I push her away with my negativity, she only fulfills my prophecy for my life.

Yes, I view His church through the same lens. I love the Body in its purest form, but how many must I watch walk away when things get tough? Every expression of tough love or rebuke is perceived as an absence of care. If they have never been convinced through my recklessness that I truly love them, how can I expect them to remain steadfast under my leadership? Again, I wait for them to bail; when they do, I cannot feign surprise.

I know that I cannot change my heart alone. I pray that God would have enough grace to offer me a contrasting experience. I pray that she would stay; I plead that he would listen. I need this grace because I don't want to become the bitter, lonely, old man that was wronged by his beloved and his brothers in Christ. I need Him to establish a new identity: one that defies my weak faith. Would my Father be so gracious? Could I hope without doubt that He could be?

giving thanks: baseball, chicken, and moody teens

Periodically, I like to take note of the items that merit praise to God. Should this be more common? Certainly. Consider this an exercise in recognizing my Creator through mountain or valley...

* I have a job. Not only this, but I have been given an awesome team of co-workers that do their job well. I may need to be checked for signs of dementia, but I enjoy working with teenage girls. Being switched to other units the past two nights has been eye-opening. Yes, my unit has plenty of drama, but these girls give me reason to hope. Despite the odds against them, they are working through it -- by it, I mean the kind of abuse that those of us with stable childhoods cannot imagine exists.

Our director is on medical leave. The woman who has stepped in as the interim (my old director) told my supervisor that she only accepted our unit because we already run ourselves without her help. And she's right. I've been to three staff meetings since joining this team; we get to business and go home. I'm very blessed.

* Sporting my beard (and my rugged, grey knit cap), I look homeless. For whatever reason, the coffee consumer doesn't only tolerate this, they consider it an indication of credibility. Working last Saturday, I received two pinnacle compliments about my latte skills. For a compliment to qualify as pinnacle, the customer has to order a "big boy" drink and reside in a large metro.

* BK chicken sandwiches are 2 for the price of 1. Enough said.

* I have a "good" distraction. This morning, I remembered that my fantasy baseball forecaster should be arriving in the mail shortly. This will begin a long season of preparation, in defense of my first championship. Am I a nerd? Yes. A month ago, I considered opting out, since my life was full of new and fantastic things; I didn't consider another distraction feasible. Now...well, I think I have to welcome one meaningless hobby. Some people fish, hunt, exercise, or do sudoku. I analyze statistics. And it keeps my brain busy.

(And it's healthier than gambling, overeating, or premarital sex...I think.)

* I am healthy and insured. My family is also healthy. Considering my aforementioned excitement towards a 39-fat-gram sandwich, this is nothing short of a miracle.

* He loves me still....an everyday reason to praise.

a small step towards settling

I viewed another house today. I liked it. It was the first house in which I could envision waking up every morning. The main floor is humble: a cozy living room / dining room space with entrances to the kitchen on both end -- two bedrooms and a smaller bathroom as well. The basement is the real prize. A larger living space is finished, and the room is connected to another that could be utilized as an office or third bedroom. I can just picture a handful of kids inhabiting this space (or in the meantime, a brotherhood of bachelors).

Now, all I can do is make a wise offer and pray that they'll come down a bit on the listing price. Through this entire process, I have not felt panicked, so I must trust that God will direct the outcome. If this isn't the house, no harm done. If it is, I know that I will be excited when it becomes a reality...Anthony Marks, homeowner!

I continued with my recent Romans obsession. I began chapter 12 (the one I've studied and preached the most). I determined that I didn't care for verse 2 anymore:

And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind...

When I used to teach from this passage, I thought this message was simple -- the "garbage in, garbage out" principle, right? And then the next five years of my life happened, and I realized that "trying" was insufficient for renewal.

It isn't enough to place every area of protection in our lives. Yes, there was probably a time in my youth when it was this simple -- when my purity could be attributed to my sheltered experiences. But this does not shield those that have already had their innocence lost. The residue remains in our thoughts, even if we flee from future temptation. But the word "renew" implies a work of restoration, and only He can make things new.

This renewal is said to be prerequisite for "proving" what God's perfect will is. We are not free to bypass this process. But to place ourselves on the altar of sacrifice -- for Him to perform surgery on our minds -- is no light task. It always begins with our heart. Each of us must determine: is knowing His will worth the mess, or would we rather remain composed, yet distant?

an unfortunate election: a late night ramble

I am one of roughly thirty men and women currently on the clock at our residential facility. Everyone else is fulfilling their daily assignments; my relative capacity to stay calm (and be male) has me sitting three feet from a sleeping teenager, considered a potential danger. He'll be fine tonight, but my employers would have no reason to suspect that eight hours left to myself is prime opportunity for mind-racing. For I, Anthony Marks, give the casual impression of having it all together. Maybe you believed the same about me.

It's too quiet not to be lonely. I have to admit, one of the unexpected benefits of working overnight is not having to concern myself with going to bed in an otherwise empty apartment. When the rest of my day was filled with noise, it didn't bother me. On days like today, at this stage of my life, the silence is deafening.

Ten years ago, I was spending my summers with 300 4th-6th grade kids -- a constant source of company and approval. They are all approaching adulthood now; none of them are actively in my life. As careless as it is to rest our hearts in the hands of the innocent, we still try to convince ourselves that they will always be kids...until you wake up and they're not. Five years ago, I was being paid to take high school students to youth conferences, theme parks, and Florida. Working three jobs, my life was rarely interrupted by solitude. When I spent the next three years in Missouri, I cherished few things more than some nice silence.

Something has changed, whether by instinct or panic. I only experience longing in these moments -- longing for His presence and longing for someone with whom to share my quietness. I feel as if I have little left to offer besides my service to her; my charm, wit, and playful humor are dwindling by the day. I myself only need her encouragement and the comfort of her presence -- a muse to fuel my cooling passions and once lofty dreams. It would be refreshing to set aside the pressure of entertaining one another on superficial terms. It would be nice to be exactly who I am.

...An irony, since I want nothing more than to be free of me right now.

pleading

I need to stop reading articles...

I'm making myself ill. Surely, I should be desensitized by now, so why does the thought of marital infidelity make me want to vomit? I can't handle it. I can watch the most violent slasher film ever, and yet I have to turn off movies that even allude to cheating. It's not like I'm unaware of the reality of infidelity in our world, but I cannot accept it. I feel like I have to fix something. I feel so helpless.

It devastates me when I know it has happened to someone else, so I can't imagine the betrayal of actually being subject to it. I understand the path that men and women travel to justify the behavior (even when they convinced themselves that it could never be them), but it still doesn't register.

I need a testimony...like now. I need someone to share how much they love their spouse without the need for external stimulation. I need this because I have to believe that God has empowered us to remain pure -- sexually and emotionally. I need this word, because I also desire my future wife to approach our relationship with the same level of hope -- that regardless of how the rest of the world responds to their problems, our bodies will only belong to one another. If I lose faith that this is possible, I'll be done waiting for a wife. I have no doubt what I have purposed for her, but Lord show me that I'm not alone in this. She needs to believe that men are capable of good choices through His Spirit.

I feel grieved, as if I should repent on behalf of mankind. I don't want to appear arrogant, but I need sexual immorality to stop -- in all of its forms. Honestly, I'm a guy...I look forward to sex as much as any man, but it can't be good without everything God provides in marital intimacy, can it? And yet, most who are sexually active have never experienced sex in its only wonderful context. I have to believe that it's the most beautiful covenant that can be shared between two people.

Or am I living in a pipe dream?

comfort food

When I lived in KC, I frequently drove fifteen minutes outside my centralized apartment for dive breakfast. I'd dine by myself, enjoy breakfast, and remember that real people are in the world, with real life jobs and struggles. Sounds funny that I could forget something so obvious as to need a reminder, but ministry can become rather isolated if you allow it to be, leaving you to become self-involved in the quieter moments.

Anyway, last Sunday I decided that I could either sulk in my apartment, or get out and interact with the real world. It's good to remember that the fine people that wait on me have their own struggles. They may be trying to earn their way through school, or working over to support the kids that they'd rather be with. In light of this, I am only a blip on their radar, but I can make the personal choice to brighten their day or tip a little more than what is rational. And I can walk out with little more than a satisfied stomach, but carry the joy of serving someone who has spent the day slaving over tables of ten college students or the after church crowd.

I can do this, because I have been given a light to share. Like the song I sang in children's church, it is an equally viable option to place it under a bowl, or to let Satan "poof" it out. But we were meant to shine. I think breakfast is a great way to shine; I aim to make this a routine.

RE: in support of new feminism?

Men: I think the term "new masculism" sounds a little counterproductive, but if women are willing to meet us halfway and do their part to restore their innate beauty and hearts, it stands reason that we should do the same. This isn't some social return to being "tough" or "Wild at Heart." It isn't enough for us to cut our hair and take off the girl's jeans and eyeliner. We must own the responsibilities that God has given us to lead and protect, to discover and restore the God-given qualities that make us uniquely and wonderfully masculine. We must place aside the fears and insecurities that disable us from serving that which we have been entrusted. We must seek our Heavenly Father for the eyes and guidance to step ahead of the women that trust us. Man up.

Perhaps this is where He has brought me into the picture.

By the way, if you read the article, I love the term "integral complementarity."

in support of new feminism?

When I came to the conclusion three years ago that I was against birth control, most of my old-school church friends asked if I had converted to Catholicism. I found it comical that I was being lumped into a single group in support of my view, since evangelicals had only in the last fifty years found justification for their position. But I speak for my own heritage when I admit that evangelicals are anything but good historians.

However, I said it at the time, and I still find this to be true: my position against birth control is the beginning of a larger understanding God desired to present concerning His heart. I received the easiest parallel first; because I was already seeking the leading of the Holy Spirit, God spoke to me in allegorical terms about His design for fruitfulness and man's struggle for control. Understanding control on a spiritual level opened my heart towards the physical misdeed.

I knew God had disqualified me from beginning a relationship with 99% of the women in my life, if only on this one condition. Still, I couldn't shake it. I had to remind myself that a value held by a majority isn't necessarily right, just more commonly accepted -- not unlike the Gospel I preach. Likewise, I didn't need to be Catholic to believe that they were right about a position, anymore than I had to join the NAACP to recognize the bitter root of racism, or the ACLU to support separation of church and state. We are given our own minds to pursue truth and hold it with conviction; it does not require the adoption of a recognized society to form appropriate conclusions, particularly those concerning God.

This conviction transformed my understanding of what it meant to be pro-life. I began exploring other ways in which we had accepted corruption. A painful evaluation of male/female relationships ensued. This corruption has taken on a standard form: man justifies his claims and dismisses his responsibilities, woman grieves her position and rejects it, which sets in motion a continual back and forth for control of rights and the meeting of personal needs.

However, in the rejection of one another's selfishness, man and woman have never taken time to acknowledge what else they have rejected. Woman in the birth control age have every right to reject that they should be under-appreciated baby-making machines. By all means, reject this behavior in men! But to deny the innate beauty and design that makes woman uniquely feminine, is an affront to God and not man.

Similarly, many good men have felt the sting of rejection as a result of the gender game. This usually results in two more corruptions: receiving the approval of the "liberated" women by denying a responsibility to lead and protect (physically, emotionally, and spiritually), or forcefully laying claim on the "rights" of men through the same tactics that already drove the women away.

In relationships, the "liberated" women are drawn towards weak men that will not subject them to their will, and traditional women are drawn towards domineering men that under-appreciate (or worse, abuse) the partner that serves them selflessly. Over generations, the offspring of these relationships continue to overcompensate and snowball the corruption.

Over the past three years, God has laid all of this on my heart. However, there is one question I cannot seem to breach: what can we do about it?

I felt helpless. Even my own well-intended efforts have been thwarted by my insecurity and woman's prior experience. Were I less hypocritical, I would still only be one man.

Thankfully, God has shown me one more piece of the puzzle. I had spent so much energy focusing on the corruption that I had lost sight of what He desires to restore. Yes, identifying the lie is necessary for restoration, but is insufficient without acknowledgment of the truth. And here is the truth:

God has designed man and woman perfectly -- with His hands, in His image. The more I seek the eyes of God, the more I recognize the beauty of His design. The beauty of woman is not in a contemporary disguise; it cannot be fully known through external measures. Rather, the beauty is discovered in the qualities that make woman uniquely feminine. This femininity is vibrant, protective, willing, and pure. It's sensitivity and regard for life cannot be fabricated. And we are all worse off for the dismissal of this beauty.

I can admire and desire this, but what is my part as a man? How can I affirm this beauty within my own perfectly unique design? This a wikipedia summary on new feminism, based on the work of Katrina Zeno, a Catholic new feminist:

For New Femininsts, being a man means being a father. In order to become a physical father, a man must give away his semen, in order to create new life.

In Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy, spiritual fatherhood means spiritual priesthood -- the offering of a man's body and blood for the sanctification of the world. It was because Jesus gave his body and blood away both as a sacrifice for his Church and as a gift to the Church in the form of the Eucharist that new spiritual life could be conceived. "A man is 'head' of his wife not to stroke his own ego, but in order to give up his body for her" and thus create new life. As keepers of the Eucharist, men are entrusted with the body and blood of Christ. All men, whether single or married, are entrusted with woman -- the body of the Church. "She is their Eucharist."

All spiritual fathers, according to New Feminists, also have a responsibility to protect the mutual self-giving of man and woman. This sense of protection of their wives and families is also built into a man's physical capacities -- in the greater physical strength of men, generally speaking, as well as their psychological need to feel competent and capable.

While I may differ on my theological understanding of the Eucharist, I fully support the interpretation of the "profound mystery" between Christ and His church, and man and his wife (Eph. 5:33). I humbly and joyfully accept this role, and pray that while single or married, I will thoughtfully care for and protect the women in which I have been entrusted.

Check out this wikipedia article for an elaborate easy-to-read summary on the movement, along with references for the academic work. I think this is really good stuff.

a year of emotional honesty

This Thanksgiving marks the unofficial anniversary of my return to Hoosier civilization. I arrived in the middle of October '09, but the initial transition of finding a job, an apartment, a social network, and getting settled mentally and physically, ended around the holiday.

Not surprisingly, this year has been hard. It has been difficult to sacrifice many of the benefits of my previous two years in St. Charles: the experiential knowledge of my restoration (and of the Spirit's work), the pleasure of a stress-free job that came naturally to me, the genuine admiration and respect of my co-workers (and the young ladies' willingness to accept my tough love), and the company of a body of believers willing to follow God to difficult places. I could have easily rested (or hid) in this environment, with little concern for my personal needs or anointing; my "selflessness" has historically been safer and more complacent than the sharing of myself, and it is typically better received.

While "death to self" is a relevant and necessary message for the church in every age, I used it as a mechanism for my own distance. If I did not regard my relationship needs as legitimate, then I would not feel. If I did not feel, then I could not hurt. Most people are so desperate to be heard that it was easy to function in this manner with few questions.

But God has been restoring this area of my life for such a time as this. The sensitivity and intensity flowing from my passionate heart are still crude and reckless. My romantic impulses are soured with experiences that lean towards self-preservation. Feeling has brought more trouble upon me than I had faced in eight years. If the Spirit was not transforming me nearer to the likeness of Christ, it would be logical to return to my shell.

It will be difficult not to consider this past year according to what I have lost, which has been plentiful. But I must praise Him, thankful of the blessings I have gained. I have lost a body in which I was granted influence, but have gained one that affirms my heart. I have lost the blind admiration of impressionable young ladies, but have gained the confidence and desire to love and lead a woman again. I lack the comfort of my coffee community, but have been re-introduced to a discarded group of teens, who find comfort in my willingness to show up every night.

I have laughed and cried, been honored and rejected, fallen in love and been disappointed, passionately preached and lamented, gained disciples and lost them...am I not better for pouring myself out before God and my brothers? The results are as mixed as the risk is great, but I am encouraged and thankful that God continues to affirm and renew my heart.

a tough pill

I stuggle with this one...

What shall we say then? There is no injustice with God, is there? May it never be!

For He says to Moses, "I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion." So then it does not depend on the man that wills or the man who runs, but on God who has mercy. For the scripture says to Pharaoh, "For this very purpose I raised you up, to demonstrate my power in you, and that my name might be proclaimed throughout the whole earth." So then He has mercy on whom He desires, and He hardens whom He desires.

You will say to me then, "Why does He still find fault? For who resists His will?" On the contrary, who are you, O man, who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, "Why did you make me like this," will it? Or does not the potter have a right over the clay, to make from the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for common use? (Romans 9:14-21)

Ugh. God decided before they had done anything good or bad that Esau would serve his younger brother. Men are stricken blind without regard to their own sin or their fathers. Job was the most blameless man of his age; for this, he suffered beyond my imagination.

As much as my theology can attest that I am nothing but a product of grace, I live as if I know something about justice. No, I don't rest upon my deeds for my salvation, but the proudest part of me feels like God owes me for my service.

I get frustrated. My temper flares when I see kids ignored by their parents, or when I hear men speak ill of their wives. The majority of the world clutters itself with various forms of sexual perversion. Therefore, logically speaking, it only makes sense that I would find my loneliness to be unjust in light of my purity and intent for Godly marriage.

And yet, this is not God's greatest concern. Is he grieved when I am grieved? Very likely. Christ was often moved by the pain of those He loved. But of greater interest to God is His glory being known. As much as I would love to think that I know the mind of God, we are all too limited in our understanding to know how He may be glorified.

Mary and Martha had to watch their brother die; the man in John 9 had to suffer through an entire life of disability and scorn. Job lost everything. Through all of our perceived injustice, we are given only one comfort: He and He alone is God.

Evil men will continue to have their way on earth, and men of righteousness will not always receive what we find just. We cannot determine what hardships God will use for the sake of His glory. We can only know Him intimately enough to trust that He knows everything that we do not, that His ways are good, and that He loves us beyond our comprehension.

This will take some time.

understanding my choices

Millions of people are living millions of lives, aimed toward fulfilling millions of purposes. In the infinite array of occupations, pursuits, locations, and lovers, I could rack my brain in an attempt to determine how I ended up here. Whereas many of my high school peers made poor life-changing choices, and many of my college friends made common, yet healthy choices, I am still a nomad -- a man without a home.

Sure, home is more than a location. I know plenty of geographically nomadic individuals that have found their sense of home, within a stable environment of family or community. However, if "home is where the heart is," my struggle has been identified. I long for nothing here that desires to entertain my heart, thus my heart is fixated alone on a Kingdom that often seems out of reach.

Periodically, this is what happens: I discover noble places to lend my heart, particularly when I discover the righteousness of God within it, but even the temporal things that I perceive to be blessings move in and out of my life like a steady ebb and flow. There is little stability in this; there is certainly not a home. And I can choose to position myself to the outskirts of these tides, for such a length that I enjoy the comfort of His shore, only to be thrust back into the ocean by an overpowering tidal wave -- very rarely a gentle brush upon the sand.

I dive, I surf, I sink, and promptly drown. I convince my rescuers that it didn't hurt so badly, and that they should also dive, all the while cuddled safely to the shore until the next violent crash sweeps me unwillingly. But why should they even tempt me? Do I so long to experience the heroic and epic end of Odysseus, that I would sacrifice my heart again and again? Seemingly in my story, Penelope has already claimed another suitor due to impatience; in its best version she has grown more comfortable with her current circumstance. Either way, I return to my empty crown, but certainly not a home.

If my heart is no less calloused than this by the sea, it does not require much reason to evaluate its lack of appeal. My only real use is upon the shore, and then, I am with Him in only mind and heart. When will He take me?

***************************

A kindred spirit of mine, Rich Mullins stated this shortly before his death:

If God should use me, that would be great but if He doesn't there is a very interesting thing you can do. In the gospel of Mark or in any of the four gospels, you go through the gospels and you say, what people are absolutely essential to this story?

So Mary is essential to the story because Mary had to give birth to Jesus. And you could say, well someone else could have. But lets say that if she wouldn't have done it then the story wouldn't have happened. So, you have God who chose to become flesh, you have Mary who gave Him flesh, you have Jesus who was God in the flesh or who was the child of Mary and God, you have Pontius Pilate who had, in an artificial sense, the power to kill Christ, you have Judas Iscariot who betrayed Christ and handed him over to the bad guys, you have whoever it was that nailed Him up to the cross.

Out of those people that God used to accomplish His will in the gospel, only a couple of them were very nice people. Most of them were bad people. We all want to be useful to God. Well, its no big deal. God can use anybody. God used Nebuchadnezzar. God used Judas Iscariot.

Its not a big deal to be used by God and the shocking thing in the book of Mark, and the reason why it is so shocking is because Mark is the briefest of all the gospels but he has these terrific little details and one of the little details is that it says, "and Jesus called to Him those that He wanted." And you realize that out of the twelve people that He wanted, only one was essential to His goal in coming to earth. The other eleven people were useless to Christ but they were wanted by Christ. And I kind of go, I would much rather have God want me than have God use me.

In light of this, my circumstances seem much less complicated. If scripture is true, and Christ does call to Him those that He wants, I am naturally offering the comfort of home for the only one who has ever wanted me: the one who chose me, predestined me to be adopted, redeemed me, lavished upon me the mystery of His will, included me, and branded me with His Spirit (Eph. 1:3-14)...why would I ever look elsewhere for companionship?

Why, indeed! I am fine in desperate longing for His presence until I identify someone of His that would choose me as well. Like human nature, and not unlike the call of Christ himself, I chase love where it presents itself willing to be chased -- those who follow, even knowing the cross I bear. I find blessing in this time...until they have would have it no longer. And I seriously don't know what to do with this any longer.

Therefore, I understand why I choose Christ. He has beckoned me since my creation to be called His son. But to bear the same heart as His and choose others? I am by comparison such a petty blessing to cast aside, so I can only imagine how his heart must ache for those that deny Him.

"everything's fine"

How much energy do we exert to convince ourselves that everything is fine? It is a dangerous assessment, indeed. Two of the most heralded values in the Western world are composure and happiness. So let's be honest: nothing is more unattractive than discontent. We know it and we live it. To lose composure or to be unhappy accepts that life (and our emotional responses) can be dangerously outside of our control.

Over the past twelve months, three of my most dear loved ones have admitted to me their struggles with how they feel. In these cases, either:

* Their feelings betrayed what they presumed to be true.
* Their feelings didn't match their intended desire.
or
* Their feelings were altogether unfamiliar.

In each occasion, I made the fatal suggestion to explore the cause. I'm not smart or arrogant enough to accurately explain why someone feels a certain way, but even the suggestion that there may be cause to explore has condemned me. None of these three are speaking to me, which obviously hurts a great deal.

Yes, I'm tired of losing loved ones; this is only human. It would be much easier for me to say nothing at all. They would still admire my spiritual life, and I would likely be married with 2.5 kids. Everything could be better for me, and all I would have to do is play the game, responding in turn that everything's fine.

For the most part, I should be able to fake it. As long as I limit my thoughts and conversations to benign, controllable, and successful areas of my life, I can push aside the nagging desires. Employment? Everything's fine! Finances? Just peachy! The American dream? Nearly a homeowner! It's warm outside, my breakfast was marvelous, and the Bears won this week.

And if any of this was remotely significant to me, it could work perfectly. It's not that I'm ungrateful; I thank God for my blessed circumstances. But in light of the heart He has given me, everything is far from fine. I hurt with longing for a bride willing to be served, and His church appears notoriously oblivious to its intended purpose. Both of these burdens (and their accompanying rejection) have left me a significant mess. But even if they cause me pain and grief, these burdens matter.

I'm not sure what else to say, because I know no other expression of love. I could shut down this blog, only date uncomplicated women, and go to church every Sunday; most of you will think that I'm better off for it. But if there's a chance that my being unattractive or despised leads to the redemption of even one of His children, perhaps my loneliness is a necessary sacrifice to avoid disturbing the fine lives of the satisfied.

hope and expectation

This passage has consumed me for a week; God brought this to me in the midst of my disappointment. As much as I love God speaking to me, I can't yet express that I like this passage, in light of it revealing my lack of faith.

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed in us. For the anxious longing of the creation waits eagerly for the revealing of the sons of God.

For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in the hope that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body. For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees?

But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it. In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. (Romans 8:18-27)

It is relatively easy to eagerly await a pleasantly familiar outcome. I can "hope" that God will meet me in worship, or that I will enjoy a sunny day. Looking forward to my favorite meal is only natural, and I always get amped up when I buy tickets for a concert, a baseball game, or our annual Cedar Point trip.

But do any of these require hope? It is one thing to look forward to the events in which I can place an experiential certainty, but it is quite another to await and anticipate the outcome that is less familiar. I have often taken refuge in my desire for His kingdom, but I must ask myself: do I truly long for the revealing of His glory in my eternal state, or is my greater incentive for physical death in the absence of my current pain and suffering?

These are not the same thing. While both involve waiting, to long only for the resolution of suffering brings me no closer to freedom, understanding, and the revealing of His glory. It gears itself towards survival, and becomes frustrated when the outcome is delayed or does not match my expectations.

In contrast, true hope finds treasure (if not pleasure) in the process. I love Paul's metaphor regarding childbirth. Like one in pregnancy, the process of waiting is not without struggle. I am certain there are days when a woman thinks to herself, "Let's be done with this already!" But I've never known a woman desiring a child that didn't also treasure the opportunity to carry the child to term. Mothers understand what is necessary for the development of the baby, and they would not disrupt the process just to produce a quicker result.

Particularly for the first time parent, the anticipation is intense and deeply personal. While she may lack the experience that tells her everything will be fine, the hope for birth is a great enough reward to persevere through the unknown trials.

When it comes to trusting my Father, I often struggle to see His intended glory through the pain. I want to be through it as quick as possible, especially if my expectations and experiences offer me little reason to hope. But this is what hope is: to eagerly await what I have not seen.

But can I be okay with this, should the process hurt, necessary as it may be for my own growth? If God is interested in whatever means are necessary to bring me closer to the likeness of Christ and the restoration of my heart, why do I get so frustrated when my expectations are unmet, yet His purposes have been served? I find that I dare not hope for the deepest desires of my heart, because I end up disappointed when it doesn't happen my way! How do I hope for a life companion, and to be a husband and father, when these pursuits have only brought me pain?

The verse after the passage makes for a cute little reminder on a coffee mug or a family room picture frame. But the person quoting 8:28 is rarely the one in waiting. It is most commonly used to grant solace when we have no logical explanation for why another must endure hardship. But the peace for the hurting lies in the preceding verses -- the ones that remind us that the Spirit awaits with us. And unlike us, He knows what must be accomplished before redemption occurs.

Can I trust that? Can I place hope in Him for the fulfillment of my desires and the restoration of my spirit, when experience tells me differently? I must if I desire to grow through the process. If I wait out the end of my painful circumstances, and have learned nothing through it, I will be subject to this same insecurity over and over again, and I will never allow myself to pursue my beloved in hope and freedom.

moving forward

A few weeks ago, I asked the question, "Is this growing up?" In light of my recent failures and disappointments, I am forced to look at this question through fogged eyes, but I am still responsible for how I respond to the sting of sin. I could easily mope about and contemplate all that is painful and just in my life, but at some point, it is time to ask for forgiveness and move forward.

One thing we learn from scripture is that the greatest men still faced consequences for their poor decisions. And since I will likely never be so strong as to have the faith of Abraham or the heart of David, it is more reasonable that I must also endure hardship in the process of becoming more like Christ, particularly when something fleshly presents itself.

I am thankful for these "big picture" reminders from my discipler. I am grateful for the grace and understanding of my mom, a woman who has humbly and steadfastly endured in love. And I cannot express how blessed I am to have my phone buzzing daily, with messages from my friends and church body, reminding me that I am covered in prayer during a difficult season. And while this support is amazing, it rests between God and I to grow in intimacy, and allow me to take responsibility for my behavior and accept His grace within a circumstance that is already determined.

Today, I was approved for my mortgage, and now must find a home that serves a purpose that God would have in store. Over the next couple of days, my spiritual brothers will be in need of my counsel, as inadequate as I feel right now. My girls at work will still be dealing with their abuse, and the lost will still look to me to demonstrate light. And I need to be emotionally honest enough to communicate how weak I feel, but also be willing to respond to His next step for my life. Like Abraham and David, my usefulness in the Father's eyes is for His pleasure and glory, and it is not my place to disqualify myself, even while I feel raw with rebuke. I must trust that God will redeem my poor decisions to bring me to His feet, and in turn, I would be fashioned as an instrument for righteousness again.

if i always do what i've always done, I'll always get what i've always gotten

I finally called my discipler to discuss my issues today. Had I made this phone call a week ago, I may have saved myself some heartache, though I may not have. Somewhere between this conversation, 14 hours of sleep, and many unpleasant trips to the bathroom, I was able to formulate some conclusions about the past week.

There is a nasty pattern of behavior in my life...

15 years ago this month, I wrote a love letter to a girl I had liked for two years, with some encouragement from my friends. After receiving no response over the following weekend, I walked into our school cafeteria and was mocked by her friends. Hurt by this, I never initiated conversation with her again.

During a Thanksgiving trip in college, I spent the majority of the weekend with one girl, who made conversation easy and considered my chivalry and respect to be noble. Saturday night, after spending an hour together atop the Empire State Building, we took a walk together, and she expressed that I was pretty much the perfect man. Once I shared that I had strong feelings for her, she felt differently, because she was fixated on a guy that she couldn't even bring herself to talk to. I remained a disappointed and embittered "friend" for the remainder of the school year.

Roughly three years later, I met a girl at a friend's party, and she immediately matched my enthusiasm for romance. I spent the next three months making her the center of my world. She promised me that I had no reason to fear, and that she wouldn't lose interest. After returning from a visit to see her family, I noticed that her demeanor had changed. She told me she needed space. A couple weeks later, I told her that I wasn't interested in just being friends; I couldn't just force my heart to feel differently about her. For the next two years, I watched her jump in and out of relationships with manipulative men, never understanding what I had done wrong.

This is an abridged summary of probably ten women that accepted my emotional investment in them, without reciprocating commitment. To be fair to them all, I allowed myself to continue to emotionally invest myself, even after my expectations were fractured.

Today, I should not be surprised at how quickly I bail at the tiniest indication of doubt. It is still in my true and romantic heart to invest myself fully to a woman of God. But I cannot help but be driven to an uncomfortable level of fear when the indication is given that her enthusiasm does not match mine. Immediately, I draw into my shell of defense that says, "Here we go again."

What is so damaging about my behavior is how poorly it represents the man I am created to be. Every work that has made me more Christ-like is neglected in my pain. As much as I function as an understanding instrument of grace and truth in every other facet of my life, I immediately revert to bitterness, self-righteousness, and justification when faced with my area of pain.

I know that I desire Christ enough to want to rid this from my life, otherwise I will continue to respond to doubt in the same fashion. But this will require a conscious effort everyday, not to mention the grace of the woman who loves me -- that she would know that this is not who I truly am. I can only pray that I would extend the same measure of grace to her.

getting by on reputation

During my college years, I developed a reputation as being a "nice guy." I think that when we begin to own a particular affirmation in our lives, we are at risk of living complacently. The reputation alone of who people say that we are begins to ring true in our heads. Sure, we often know this to be the case with negative comments. Therapists and ministers have been trying to tell us for years that we brand ourselves with identities based on our negative experiences.

But what about the positive ones?

I read Acts 4, and I can't help but wonder what it must have been like for Peter and John, who while walking in the Spirit began to be identified as those who "had been with Jesus." (v. 13) Thankfully for the early church, the disciples understood how limited they were beyond the work of the Spirit, and Peter and John maintained a willingness to allow God to brand them, not man.

But what if it had gone differently? What if Peter and John had begun to place their qualification and merit in their reputation? After a few years, they could have told the believers anything! Sheep so desperate for acclaimed leadership will follow simply on account of reputation and standing.

As scary as this thought may be, what if I do the same? My old campers often still view me in a certain idealized light, and the woman I went to school with still think that I'm the "nice guy." For example, my best female friend (who I see about six times a year), will continually inform me of what I deserve in a woman, and how thoughtful and considerate I am. But isn't that me ten years ago? It is really easy for me to play that part when I spend twelve hours with someone in a year, but what about those that know me daily? Would any of them affirm this as truth?

And yet I have deceived myself into believing that I am some kind of catch, as if I can be self-righteously justified in passing off every uninterested woman as shallow or misguided. The reality may be, if I am brave enough to face it, that my reputation is a house of cards without a foundation.

a day after clarity

I woke at 1am, finally succumbing to the physical sickness I presumed to have avoided just days earlier. Quivering and pale, I caught a glimpse of my image at my most fragile, and remembered the last time I vomited. Three years ago I experienced a similar physical / spiritual purging on the day I decided to clean up my impure sexual thoughts.

While I'm pleased that my pain is my burden alone, I wonder if solitude is also what my pride requires. Wrenching over a toilet seat has occurred in my most private and exposed moments, as if I am given no choice but to acknowledge my own condition.

I pray that grace allows my ears to hear in this place. I plead that God would renew my heart towards His purposes. I ask to be left stripped, but purged of wickedness. I need His touch.

eyes over Minneapolis

I peer out my window to a vast array of lights and traffic, realizing that my view pales in comparison with God's. This is only one major city, sitting in one state, of one large nation, on one planet moving perfectly through an inconceivable galaxy. And I can't help but wonder (and often doubt) what I have to do with this view -- why in the great expanse would God even bother to sustain his grace over my life.

I see a fly in my kitchen disrupting the natural order of my day, and it is hard for me to grasp that God would see my sin any different in light of His perfect will. That he would not also swat me according to my due punishment is bewildering. The only possibility is that I hold some worth or value under the surface -- that he would see me as family and as an asset. It's very difficult for me to see this "worth" when I know the order that I disrupt.

I'm not trying to be hard on myself; I think if I could legitimately understand the love of a Father, I may just trust myself as a son. But by earning His acclaim through my effort, which is due to fail in the most vital moments, I only know what it means to be the hired hand...as if my reward will only be justified by my labor.

when the heart turns ugly

When God grants me every reason for praise, and I acknowledge the overwhelming blessings in my life, it is heartbreaking to consider the disaster that I am capable of when I am fixed on my own preservation. I will inevitably hurt myself and others. Where God sows commitment, I search for doubt. Where God demands grace and understanding, my kneejerk reaction is bitterness. For God to affirm my "humble" heart with a gift, and for me to respond with a display of arrogance and selfishness, is a tragedy.

I need to serve. I need to get on my hands and knees before the broken, because it is the only way to die to my own impulses. And as sure as friends will grade on a curve to tell me that I'm fine as I am, I will be able to expose one more self-inflicted wound. And I have no way to know where to turn from here, so I can only hope and pray that God does. I have to trust that this work of consecration is not finished; that he will not stop blessing me, even though I squander.