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.