happy new year, from australia, in 5 hours time

Almost every other day, I travel down this road. The same road as it was growing up; one or two potholes, that darn speed bump I always miss, and passing by the neighborhood park. But today was different.

As I drove past the park, something felt odd. There was an uncanny, almost haunting, emptiness to it. The weather was overcast — the perfect weather to be kicking ball or just messing around the field, in my opinion — but the park was empty. Quiet, except for the subtle howl of the wind. It was beautiful.

It wasn't always like this. There used to be kids dangling from the monkey bars. There used to be families taking strolls during the evening. There used to be boys playing football, and the rare group of girls watching from the swings. There used to be a small group of teenagers on skateboards, and a healthy amount of children on bicycles.

It used to be much noisier than this. The air used to be filled with whooping, laughing, and profanities in all four languages. Not that we were angry for the most part.

To think that once upon a time this place was echoing with joy and laughter.. It reminds me how times have changed, and how the people, who were once whooping, laughing, and cursing, too have changed.

It probably means that I, too, must have changed.

~

nothing is a good thing

There was nothing to do.

So I jumped through a plate-glass window while we were playing follow-the-leader because I thought, “No one will ever follow me through this.” I got twelve stitches across my head.

There was nothing to do.

So we built a bike track in the valley, defined it with stones, and we crashed through the dirt all summer long, long before the rangers would stop and ask us if we’d been attacked.

There was nothing to do.

So I jumped on the roof of the car and held on and we drove real fast until I fell off (and I told mom and dad that I fell of a skateboard). I am still so proud of these scars.

There was nothing to do.

So we built traps by putting newspaper over holes in the backyard, covering them in dirt, and tried to lure people into walking over them. No one ever got hurt.

There was nothing to do.

So I built chlorine bombs in the backyard and nearly killed us all so many times. If you tried to do the same, you’d wind up on a watch list.

There was nothing to do.

So we kissed girls outside the church every Sunday when the pastor wasn’t looking.

There was nothing to do.

I jumped into bed and missed. Five more stitches.

There was nothing to do.

I fell out of a tree and branch caught my arm on the way down. Eighteen stitches.

There was nothing to do.

I slid down a telephone pole and a nail tore open my leg. Eight more stitches.

There was nothing to do.

My foot slipped between the bed and the cupboard where dad kept his razor blades. Twenty-five more stitches.

There was nothing to do.

And I would kill for nothing to do, and the energy and the ignorance, to do it. Regardless of the stitches.

Here at last, we shall be free

~

Just to clarify, I did not write this.

the war inside

These voices speak instead and what's right is wrong

And I'm giving into them, please Lord, how long

Will I be held captive by the lies that I believe

My heart's in constant chaos and it keeps me so deceived

~

absence

Someone once told me that it always rains somewhere pretty this time of year. I hope wherever you are at this time of year, the sky does something pretty for you.

i wrote this for you

still seeking

If you had permission to do what you really want to do, what would you do? 

Don't ask how; that will cut your desire off at the knees. How is never the right question; how is a faithless question. It means "unless I can see my way clearly I won't believe it, won't venture forth." When the angel told Zechariah that his ancient wife would bear him a son named John, Zechariah asked how and was struck dumb for it. 

How is God's department. He is asking you what. What is written in your heart?

— John Eldredge, Wild at Heart

א

I am not a foreigner, because I haven't been praying to return safely home. I haven't wasted my time imagining my house, my desk, my side of the bed. 

I am not a foreigner, because we are all travelling. We are all full of the same questions, the same tiredness, the same fears, the same selfishness, and the same generosity.

I am not a foreigner, because, when I asked, I received. When I knocked, the door opened. When I looked, I found.

— paulo coelho, aleph

done, but not quite dusted

It was a rainy Friday evening.

I had just returned from a movie, parked my car and all, when I noticed that my neighbor couldn't park his car in because there was something wrong with his auto gate. Feeling like a good samaritan, (oh how typical of me) I quickly ran over to open the gate so that he need not get down.

Deed done, so I scrambled off home for shelter. It was only when I was inside the house that I noticed that the gate closed itself (darn wind) and that he had already gotten out of the car armed with an umbrella. With much self-shame, I cursed myself and stumbled upon an epiphany.

Goodwill alone is not enough.

Perhaps this is a reminder from Him to see. things. through.

~

I'm feeling incredibly lousy right now. And I mean look-at-me-im-blogging-at-2-in-the-morning kinda lousy. Seeing you in confusion and at such a low point of your life, coupled with me being unable to offer any useful help or advice whatsoever...makes me feel like an utter disgrace of a friend.

I wish I could do more. I wish I could speak to you from a Christian (i hate that word more and more) viewpoint. I wish you would listen to me as a brother, because I really do care.

At the end of the day, of what use are titles and talents? Aren't relationships more important than these? Perhaps it truly is better to have been a friend to one in need, than to be a talented musician, or a great writer, or the best eye doctor in town. Maybe it's better to be known as the guy who actually 
gave a shit about so-and-so's life.

What a lousy friend I am.

terminus

"Merry is May-time!" said Bilbo, as the rain beat into his face. "But our back is to legends and we are coming home. I suppose this is the first taste of it."

"There is a long road yet," said Gandalf.

"But it is the last road," said Bilbo.

~