The Help

The great injustice that is our history. The deep current of pain that characterizes our past.  The way we categorize and judge and write off as worthless because of color. Because of country. Because of background. Watching it makes me want to scream, to break something, to make it right. But then I have to stop and think. If I were raised in that time, with that mindset, would I be any different? I pray to God that I would be. That I would stand against the wrongs in plain sight. I would side with what’s right. But I don’t know. I can’t say if I would be the same. I can’t say if I would rise above that shame.

re-member

The opposite of remember isn’t forget. It’s dismember.  What a beautiful thought. Communion. The gathering of the body. The re-memberment of the body. The bringing of the body back together. When we cease to remember Christ, we break the body apart. It’s a communal event. Bringing the body back together. And that’s a beautiful thing.

More faith

The faith it takes to get into a car and drive is immense. You’re trusting it will turn on. You’re trusting the designer who designed it. The factory that made it. The operators and workers in that factory. The mechanic who worked on it. The inspectors who inspected it. The gas station where you filled the tank up. The gas that the tank is filled with. The tire manufacturers. The road-makers. The other drivers. Your own ability to drive it safely. The seat belt makers. That’s a lot of trust. Of faith. And we don’t even give it a second thought. Or even a first thought. We just have enough faith that it doesn’t matter. That’s a deep seeded faith. One that affects our actions and therefore effects our lives. That is orthodoxy and orthopraxy.

We know that thousands of people die in cars, yet we still drive them without hesitation.

Why is it so hard for me to have faith in a God who I can’t see physically but can learn about, yet I intrinsically trust all of the unseen people I mentioned above. I don’t get it. It’s like selective faith. Where its automatic in almost every area of our lives, yet spiritually it’s incredibly challenging at times. Our lives would cease to function if we didn’t have faith in cars, lights, chairs, food, water, the ground, and everything else. Yes, we can see those things, but we are really trusting the creator and maker of those things by using or consuming them. Why is it so different in my mind that I can live in a created world but struggle to trust the creator and maker.

Her.

As the darkness dances across the dreary sky, she is a light that flickers, the hope that overtakes the darkness, the innocence that is so unfamiliar to those who walk the earth. Her young eyes see life. Possibility. They see a power to change humanity. Her optimism is a cool breeze on a blazing hot day. Her joy is the embodiment of the sun’s rays. But as she grows, she begins to know things she didn’t before. Her pure mind full of wishes and hopes is darkened by a blanket of “reality.” She clings to her youth, her young mind slipping through her fingers like water, being left disillusioned. But for one last try, she twirls around like the wind, falling into a gentle heap, into a puddle of wishes, spread thinner and thinner across the dry ground, being soaked up, being licked up by the sun, until there is nothing left, until the wishing well is dry.

The Island

Written from a beach in Da'lian, overlooking the blue bay and islands dotting the horizon.

If it’s far enough away, we can’t tell what it holds. Therefore we swim hard, and we swim harder, because we don’t know what’s there. It’s the promise of something new, of something undiscovered. It’s the possibility of something better, but we can’t see it, so we can’t be disillusioned, we can’t be disappointed, we can’t be disrupted from our dream. If we can’t see it, we can’t identify it, therefore we can’t run from it, instead we run towards it, so as to discover what it truly is.  So we swim. We swim to that island off in the distance. To the one where we can only see the outline. Not the ones that are closer, the ones that are populated with mansions and overused tourist traps, but the one that looks rocky. The one that looks undefined. Indescribable because you cannot see what it holds.  Whereas that which is close is not a mystery, there’s nothing to be discovered…at least we think so.  Although it may have hidden treasures that no one will ever know of because they don’t want to go somewhere that’s known.

But the one far away, the one you can hardly see, that’s the one where we strive so hard to be, to reach, so we can discover and claim it as our own.

I’m not sure why, but that’s the draw, the attraction, the mystery of the unknown.

Pressure

In a world offering worth based off production, where value is directly proportional to performance and reached potential, where our perception of perfection is skewed, the pressure is enough to drain the life from even the strongest of men.

In a society where they are pressing me into a mold, trying to take hold and define my identity, where they judge me by what I do or don’t have, it’s a roller coaster, and not a smooth one.

Its pressure presses into the brain, causing me to come close to insane, never finding rest because there’s always something more I could do, something more productive and presiding.  So this mentality robs of rest as every time a breath comes, it feels like a test, seeing if I waste my time or keep going.

It’s not a waste to rest. It’s not wrong to watch a movie. To write some poetry. To go explore the city. Yet my identity is not fully formed, therefore I am susceptible to this society’s verdict. What I long for is that frame. That solid frame of identity that ensures that I know I am me, and my value does not come from what I say or how full I make my resume, or even how many people I’ve saved to date. No, it comes from elsewhere. From the maker who looks with compassion and declares I have value because he made me. Punchenello, you are special to me.
And in that moment, all of the dots and stars from the Wimmex begin to loosen. Some even fall off. Those who previously judged me and told me who I was no longer have that power or capability. No, I can walk confidently because I know I am worthy, not because of what I have to show, but who I know.

And that’s a relief.

Their grasp cannot contain, their pressure cannot crush this frame, their words do not profane the identity of who I am.  And that, my friends, is where I want to stand.