Slave.

After surviving a night of terrain-changing, shelter-crushing, ear bud-cracking storms, the Appalachian Trail led me and a group of lonely hikers to Franklin, North Carolina.

It had been raining for three or four days without ceasing, and everything we owned was drenched, so we all decided to split up and share some cheap motel rooms and enjoy the town for a couple of days — also, Overdrive, one of the long-haired hippies I hiked with, was expecting some of the finest marijuana money can buy (if you can find it), and because he was getting it for free he wanted to share it with us all. We couldn’t wait. One of Overdrive’s closest friends is a leader in the “legalize marijuana” group, NORML, so whenever she had the chance, she would mail him “medicine” to help ease the pain in his knees.

Franklin is a blur.

My clearest memory is when I ate more food in about two hours than I could normally eat in a week. The hikers I hiked in with and I walked about a mile from the motel to eat at a Mexican restaurant. I ordered the steak dinner. The plate was about half the size of my torso.

After we all devoured every last crumb, we started walking back — about halfway to the motel we stopped at a McDonald’s; I ordered two combo meals and  finished them before the motel was even in sight. As soon as we got back a man offered us all a ride to Walmart. We accepted because we knew there was a Chinese buffet in the same parking lot. We feasted until they kicked us out. Then, we hitched a ride back to the motel and I shared a pizza from across the street with two other hikers. When you hike up and down mountains all day, you eat constantly. When you smoke pot all day, you eat constantly.

I think I was in Franklin for three days, but it could have been more. I remember sitting in a plastic lawn chain in the middle of a parking lot watching cars drive by for what felt like days. The sun had finally defeated the rain clouds, and it was nice to sit out and enjoy its warmth. I also remember Franklin’s sidewalks scaring the crap out of me. When you hike, you hike alone. You enjoy community in the mornings and in the evenings, but during the day you hike alone. The only things you hear are a few random animals, sometimes the wind and rain, and always the constant rhythm of your feet. At first it’s nice, then it’s unnerving, but eventually it becomes the most calming thing in the world. You go from that to walking on concrete next to a busy street with loud, fast cars and you’re gonna need a change of underwear.

Other than the delicious food, the plastic lawn chair, the deadly traffic, and, of course, the large amount of weed (oh, and I remember watching the Royal Wedding on a tiny television), I don’t remember much of Franklin, but what happened immediately after Franklin still makes me angry with myself.

After hiking north for a while, leaving Franklin behind, I found an old, overweight man sitting on the trail with a homemade pack that he claimed weighed more than me – I believed him – and an empty water bottle. Not just an empty water bottle, but a tiny plastic bottle with a Sprite label still around it.

He begged for water as soon as he saw me. I knew I had more than enough to make it to the next water source, so I filled his bottle.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked him as he gulped down the water. I asked him kindly, but probably not as respectfully as I would ask a man of his age off the trail. On the trail, though, age is not measured by years or time — it’s measured by miles and experience, and this man was a baby and I was disappointed in him for being so ill prepared.

The man explained to me that he used to call Franklin his home, but he had lost his job and shortly afterward his house. So, he grabbed a tarp, put everything he could in it, tied it up, strapped it to his back, and hit the trail. My heart broke for the man and I knew that I needed to help him. I asked him how far he was hiking for the day.

“To the shelter,” he answered. There was a shelter just a few miles up the trail. “Do they have food there?” My heart broke even more. The shelters are nothing more than three walls, a roof, and a wooden floor. And if you’re lucky there might be a privy nearby so you can have a somewhat private poop. There is no food at the shelters, and after I explained to him what the shelters are his shoulders dropped lower than they were before. I knew there was a stream next to the shelter, though, and I told him he would have all the water he could need. I wanted to share my food with him, but I had just enough to make it to my next restocking point. I was so stoned the days before I had completely forgotten to restock on food until I was about to hit the trail, so I ran to a gas station across the street from the motel and bought what they had to offer. Normally, I carry more food than I need, but then I only had candy bars, beef jerky, and a few other gas station type foods. I was worried about myself making it, and I knew I couldn’t take care of him. I refilled his water bottle, asked if there was anything else I could do — after he said no I continued walking.

As I walked I thought of a way I could help him: I was going to hike to the shelter, set my pack down, and walk back to the man to carry his pack for him. The weight of the pack worried me a little, but I knew I could handle it. I was excited about this good deed and I hiked with new strength.

Soon, I saw my buddy Overdrive sitting on the trail with his pack off. I asked him what was up and he pointed to a wooden sigh. The sign explained that the shelter wasn’t actually on the Appalachian trail, but on a side trail about a mile away.

“I’m not walking two extra miles,” he said, “I’m just going to the next one. What are you going to do, Zappa?” The guys called me “Zappa” because of my mustache and soul-patch — they said I looked like the eccentric musician, Frank Zappa.

"ZAPPA"

“Not sure,” I answered, as I dropped my pack and sat next to him. I wanted to stick with Overdrive because he had the pot, but I also wanted to help that poor, struggling man. As we sat there, a few of our buddies began to show up. I asked each one if they had seen the man. They all answered yes and laughed and joked about him. It sounded like he was still sitting in the same spot. Thankfully they all claimed to have shared their water; one said he even gave him some food.

I knew that if I helped the man I wouldn’t have enough sunlight to catch up with Overdrive and the gang, and we were already planning for a long hike the next day, so unless I wanted to kill my already swollen knees, I wouldn’t ever be able to catch them. I decided the man wasn’t worth putting distance between me and the marijuana, and just like that I never saw the man again.

I barely slept that night — I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I thought I had officially run away from my evil self. Life off the trail had become so full of self hatred, sexual immorality, drunkenness, and so many other sins that I had to escape. The hike was supposed to be my walk of purity into goodness. It wasn’t just from Georgia to Maine — it was from “wreck” to “figured out and complete.” But, away from everything I was still allowing sin to prevent me from being good. And I knew there was nothing I could do about it.

A few weeks later I was in a church office of a good friend of mine. I was not a Christian then, and he knew it, but he believed something was different about me. Perhaps there was. Perhaps I was finally allowing God to change me. Perhaps I was just finally getting to where I didn’t hate God so much I could have a conversation about Him without getting angry. Whatever it was, I assured my friend I was the same crappy human he knew from the year before. He asked what I thought about God and Christ, and I told him I wasn’t sure.

Then, I told him the story about the old guy on the trail. I told him about how badly I wanted to be good. I told him I had been made fully aware of the fact that I was a “slave to sin” and that there was nothing I could do about it. I needed sin to live. Sin prevents one from being good. So, I could not live a good life. He leaned back, smiled – almost knowingly – and said, “It sounds pretty scary to be a slave to sin.”

After hashing it out for about two months, I dropped to my knees on July 5 of 2011 and for the first time in my life I was freed from my sins by the power of Christ Jesus. And I was made good.

“But I want you to know, brethren, that the things which happened to me have actually turned out for the furtherance of the gospel, so that it has become evident to the whole palace guard, and to all the rest, that my chains are in Christ.”

- Philippians 1:12-13

I pray for the man when I remember him, and I remember him often.

An Exercise.

Before you begin reading, know these things: 1) There is no point to find in the writing below; 2) This is a writing exercise; 3) This isn’t a story, it’s an attempt at a theme to a story I hope to one day work on.

Enjoy!

__________________________________________

The young man sits in the waiting room and waits patiently with his backpack under his right arm, and earphones in his ears playing music with lyrics about a girl, and the lyrics remind the young man waiting patiently of no one.

At first glance the waiting room in which the young man waits looks rather typical. Its walls are a light shade of blue, and they are meant to calm its occupants and make waiting patiently a task waiting patients may accomplish with more ease than if its walls were another color’s hue. The young man sits on a comfortable couch that has seen many years and has been the host of many waiting patients-some who waited patiently and some who did not-and across the room from that couch is a light blue wall with a sliding glass window in the center. The closed window reveals a room with the same colored walls and a desk that holds many papers that are being marked by a pen and shuffled about by a young female secretary with frizzy hair. Inside the waiting room to the right of the sliding glass window is a cheap piece of art with a cheap frame that hangs squarely between the window and a corner of the room, and in that corner sits a brown, weathered chair, and to the right of the chair stands a small table with a lamp and some magazine that tell their readers what humans are supposed to want in life, and to the right of that table and that lamp and those magazines hangs another cheap frame holding another cheap piece of art, but this one sports a quote from the man who once lived named Gandhi, and it speaks of change; and to the right of that quote sported by that art in that frame is another corner, but this one with a large green plant, and to the right of that plant stands another table that holds another lamp and more magazines put together by systematic salesmen with savvy words that spell old ideas in new ways, and to the right of that table sits the young man on the comfortable couch with his backpack under his right arm, and to the right of that couch all the way to the left of the sliding glass window are blue walls and more furniture and more sales pitches and another quote from another man who once lived. The only differences on that side of the room are two doors–one that leads to the world and one that leads further into the building. The young man watches the latter, waiting patiently for it to open as he listens to a man sing about a life that is about a girl, and the young man who watches and listens also imagines, and he entertains his mind with thoughts of a life so simple it can revolve around a single person.

He tries to imagine a life he can live freely–free to have relationships with others; free to make decisions; free to have desires; free to feel emotions; free to sing about a girl; free to live as he wanted; free to design a waiting room that is supposed to look typical; free to have accidents and accidentally make a waiting room look so typical one waiting patiently in it might notice that the designer tried too hard to make the room look like a typical waiting room, so hard in fact, that the room really looks like a desperate attempt to impress waiting patients, and to perhaps even make them believe that the psychiatrist the patient patients are to see is indeed worth waiting patiently on.

Suddenly, the young man’s thoughts are interrupted by the opening of the door he has been watching. A smiling woman steps in holding a file that reads, “Matthew Hall,” on its tab. She says something to the sitting young man that goes unheard. The young man quickly but calmly removes his earphones and stands as he straps his backpack to his back.

“Hi, Dr. Campbell,” the young man says as he walks toward her. While making small talk, the woman leads him to another room, and the young man sits on another couch as the woman takes a seat across from him and opens the file and begins asking question that would be difficult for some to answer. But, to the young man, the questions are easy, and he answers each one with a practiced lie. And as the questions go on, the lies continue. The young man tells her lies to protect secrets known by very few beings, and even fewer humans; and secretly he lies to her to protect her smile, because it is one of the few he sees, and he looks forward to seeing it every week.

An hour of questions and lies goes by and their session comes to an end. After farewells, the young man walks himself out. He walks quickly, for it is time to be home, and at home his master waits.

Practicing Love.

The music is blasting and the wind is rushing in through the open windows as I drive as if there is no such thing as a speed limit. The hour is late, the sky is dark, and I am alone on this flat country road.

Suddenly I realize how shallow and stupid my thoughts are: I’m air drumming like nobody’s business to the music that rattles my speakers as I imagine myself rocking out more than anyone ever has before on a huge stage with an even bigger audience. And, of course, there’s this girl. We all have “this girl.” She’s the one so beautiful she’s even the prettiest girl in the world in my made up life. And she can’t keep her eyes off of me as I hit each drum so hard you can see the head stretch, and I hit the cymbals so hard splinters of wood fly up with each crash. Then, I make eye contact with her, and she knows she’s the only one I’m playing for, and I know I’m the only one she could ever love. And there it is. I “wake up” and I’m instantly ashamed for such shallow thinking.

I try to increase the depth of my thoughts.

Eventually, I get to the subject of God. God. Slowly I begin to feel ashamed again.  It’s been so long since I’ve talked to Him. Not only that, but I’ve been avoiding Him. I don’t have anything to hide–sometimes it’s just easier to not think and to live comfortably without ever bringing God into the equation. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And for a short time that sometimes seems true. But honestly, I miss Him.

For a while I try to clear my head and focus on Him. I like to think I’m capable of doing this with my music playing. I like to think I can use the music to better carry my thoughts to God, or some kind of hippie-trippy crap like that, but really the music is just a distraction. I always end up thinking about the lyrics, or some memory tied to the song, or girls, or rocking out on stage, or how I’m some kind of hip, cool Christian because I can use secular music to worship God. After arguing with myself for some time about the music, I win/lose and turn it off. The only sound I hear now is the wind entering my car, but without the excitement of the loud music and the incredibly strenuous air drumming (yeah, I’m a sick air drummer), the wind gets too cold, and so I roll up the windows, and I then experience silence–a silence I’ve long avoided.

I sit there for what feels like five or ten minutes hoping God will just start talking to me. Really, though, it was probably only thirty seconds. Without sound waves to ride, Time moves incredibly slowly, and floats around leisurely on his back.

“Sorry I suck so freaking much,” I finally say, breaking the silence–and as soon as the words are out I’m criticizing them.

1. Mom always used to say when you’re apologizing, you say, “I’m sorry.” You say, “Sorry,” when someone is sick or something, but when you’ve done something wrong it should always be, “I’m sorry.”
2. My elders don’t like the word ‘suck’ and I’m sure their elders despise it. And if my elders’ elders’ elders were alive, the word ‘suck’ would probably kill them. God is the eldest of all elders, so I doubt He really cares for the word. It also just feels rather disrespectful.
3. Reread point two, but replace ‘suck’ with ‘freaking.’

After a while of getting on to myself for my poor choice of words, my thoughts return to God. And then I just start talking.

“I don’t know You that well. I barely know You at all. I don’t love You as much as I should. I think that’s probably because of how little I know You, but still, it kinda sucks that sometimes my love for You feels limited. I’m sorry for saying ‘sucks.’ I want to know You better. I need help reading the Word. I get so distracted and sometimes it just feels like work. I want to love You like You love me. I want to discover how much You love me.”

There’s this letter this girl gave me that sits on my desk. It’s the most beautiful letter I’ve ever read. I read it quite a lot. Never have I ever felt more known than when I first read that letter. I enjoy keeping secrets, and I enjoy hiding my patterns and my ways of doing and thinking. I don’t necessarily like being known. So, if she simply listed everything she knew about me, the letter wouldn’t be as beautiful as it is. She didn’t do that. She listed everything she knows about me (some things are things you don’t even tell people–they are things she’s noticed over the years) and then she tells me how much she likes them. Never in my life have I felt more known and appreciated and loved than when I first read that letter. It was overpowering, and I had to sit down on my floor after I read it, and I had to make myself remember how to function.

I want to feel that emotion every time I experience God–and I should, because God is love. And He is the most powerful force of love we will ever encounter, because there is no greater love.

I can give God a definition with the English language (a very limited one, mind you). Nearly anyone can. I know of God, and I know of His characteristics. But, I don’t know Him like I should. I’m becoming more aware, though, that knowing Him takes practice. And now, my faith is reminding me of playing tennis.

See, I was raised playing tennis, but after I graduated high school I stopped playing. I still know the sport well, though. I know where to hit, I know when to hit, I know how to hit, I know how my form should be, I know how to make my opponent hit the ball where I want the ball to go. And if I were to play tennis with you, I could figure all that out between you serving the ball and the ball crossing the net. As the ball approaches me, my arm goes back and I get ready to send a wicked forearm covered in nasty topspin right down the baseline. But, something happens. Somehow my mind doesn’t explain in enough detail as it tells my body what to do. If I’m lucky, the wild return lands on your side of the court, but odds are it sails out of bounds, goes straight into the net, or I completely miss it. All because I don’t practice. And because I lack patience with myself, I get angry because of the lack of skill, and I don’t pick up a racket for another six months. Then, the next time I play I’m even worse than before.

I’ve been told how to have a relationship with God since the day I was born, but I didn’t start practicing until recently; so, naturally, compared to certain others, I suck at it. And I get discouraged and angry, and sometimes I just want to drop it and turn my back for a while. But then I remember that sweet love that I once tasted, and desire has me turning and running back to His arms, thanks to the perfect and pure Jesus Christ.

“Thank You, God, for always loving me.”

One day I want everything to show me how perfect and wonderful God is. I want everything I experience to increase my love for Him.

I want to stand on a mountaintop and be overcome by the beauty of the art that lays before me, and I want it to drop me to my knees as I praise Jesus for purifying me and making me clean so that I can come before the Artist and worship Him.

I want to meet someone I instantly want to hate, and I want him or her to say or do something so mean and so hateful to me that I’m brought to tears because I realize that God’s beautiful love is just as strong for that man or woman as it is for me, and for you, and for the holiest, most perfect Christian we know.

I want to see the sunrise and be reminded of the Light, Jesus Christ, rising from the dead, and I want to cry out to Him, and worship Him as the light chases away the darkness.

This is probably stupid, and it’s definitely cheesy, but I want to kiss a girl, and then want to sing praises to the Lord, because His mystery and love is even in this act. Please know that I’m not at all saying we should go about kissing tons of people, but what if when the time came to kiss, worship came with it? Never will I understand why pressing lips to lips is enjoyable, but I think only a creator who has made over 25,000 different species of fish is capable of making it enjoyable, and I thank Him dearly for it.

I want to hear laughter, and then laugh so hard my cheeks hurt, because I’m suddenly full of the joy of the Lord. And laughter! Only a God with a personality would even bother to create laughter and all the different kinds of laughs.

I want pain to remind me of the days I will soon spend in my Father’s courts, and when I feel that pain I want to worship Christ, and thank Him for letting me in those courts.

I want my past mistakes, my present mistakes, and my future mistakes to glorify the forgiving nature of God and the gift of Jesus Christ.

I want to hear music, and I want the bass, and the guitars, and the drums, and the piano, and the violin, and the vocals to fill my body with such emotion that I cry out to the Lord in thanksgiving for creating such a thing as beautiful as music.

I want to read the bible, God’s love letter to me, and I want to be so overpowered by His love that I have to sit on my floor as I worship Him, because I can feel His love blasting through my heart and soul.

I want to love God with everything I see and everything I do and everything I hear and everything I am.

“God, show me how to love You like You love me. Show yourself to me in everything. Thank You for knowing me, and loving me. Show yourself to me so I can love everything about You.”

“Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood the foundations of the earth?
It is He who sits above the circle of the earth,
And its inhabitants are like grasshoppers,
Who stretches out the heavens like a curtain,
And spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.”
- Isaiah 40:21-22 (NKJV)

“O Lord, You have searched me and known me.
You know my sitting down and my rising up;
You understand my thought afar off.
You comprehend my path and my lying down,
And are acquainted with all my ways.
For there is not a word on my tongue,
But behold, O Lord, You know it altogether.
You have hedged me behind and before,
And laid Your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
It is high, I cannot attain it.”
- Psalm 139:1-6 (NKJV)

The Wind.

The wind, I pray
Will bring change today.

The wind chill is harsh
Enough to clear the marsh.
It comes in to remove the dead
And will hopefully take away my dread.

The wind, I pray
Will bring change today.

All my ways have become destructive
When all I ever wanted was to be productive.
The ones I love now all want away
And the only thing I can do is pray.

The wind, I pray
Will bring change today.

I do things without thinking;
My self-esteem is always sinking.
All seems well, for He loves the meek
But I find Him oh so difficult to seek.
My ignorance makes me like a prideful mouse.
No sand, no rock; I don’t even own a house.
In my heart, all that ever stays is strife;
As for my skin, I pray it never again feels the knife.

The wind, I pray
Will bring change today.

Healthy is what  I wish to be;
That’s impossible as long as my addiction is me.

The wind, I pray
Will bring change today.

As the wise might say, I am now least like God;
As the man might say, I am now deserving of the rod.
Set me on fire, Lord, leave me in awe;
Strip me of myself, God, so I may again feel raw.

The wind, I pray
Will bring change today.

Stripped and vulnerable, only then can I see You;
Learning to love You may only happen in this way, too.
Jesus Christ, please forgive me–
This monster I can no longer be.

The wind, as I prayed
Brought God’s grace today.

One of Those Typical Christmas Posts.

I’m sort of new at Christianity; this is my first Christmas as a Christian.

Last night I thought about writing a post about realizations. For two reasons: 1) I thought it’d be hip and edgy (because I’m an idiot and care about such things) to write something that has nothing to do with Christmas and 2) I was frustrated about the lack of realizations in my life, and usually writing helps me release frustration. I never have “break-through” realizations–especially not in my spiritual life. It’s usually a long, slow climb, but the view at the top is so beautiful it makes every difficult step worth it. But still, I often get frustrated when other Christians suddenly realize something and it changes their lives.

This Christmas I was worried I wouldn’t understand or grasp or respect the true meaning of this day like I knew everyone else would. And for the first six hours of the day, I did not. Nor did I even try climbing. The day started and-even though I’m twenty years old and supposed to be mature-it was all about my gifts: the many books I received that I can add to my collection and lose myself to their stories; the new journals that are still pure of my thoughts and ugly pen marks, and will one day know me better than any man or woman ever could; and the money that was in my stocking and whether or not I can handle a steeper phone bill every month, because I so badly-though it’s difficult for me to admit-want to join the “cool club” and own an iPhone.

There’s this family at our house this morning spending the Christmas day with us. I don’t know much about them, but I’ve gathered a little info from my parents: the family had/has a difficult life. It’s a woman and her ex-husband (at least, I think they were once married) and two kids. One of the kids is six or seven and he is…”owned”… by both, the man and the woman. The other kid is a small baby girl and she is just her mother’s.

When they first arrived, I spent my time observing them and probably judging them, because that is my nature. Observant, but only so I can judge.

I like the lady, because-even though she doesn’t yet know how to receive healing, for she is not a Christian-she has admitted her brokenness. And she is rather comfortable with herself. And I respect that. I respect that a lot.

The man, though, doesn’t stand a chance. As soon as he walked in our house, my mind was excited about tearing him apart. It’s obvious he suspects we think he was the “bad one” in their relationship. I don’t think he was technically invited to our house, but because he wanted to be with his son on Christmas, my incredibly loving parents accepted him with open doors and open arms. And, of course, good food.

He came way too overdressed. Not necessarily because he’s wealthy, but because he knows he needs to make a good impression. He talks too much, his stories are too focused on his own accomplishments, and his voice is too high. And he’s too uncomfortable to sit down and so he’s always standing and shifting his weight from one leg to another. It’s hilarious.

I don’t pay too much attention to the kids just because I don’t really care for small children.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the baby trip on her own foot and fall to the floor. She barely even reacted, but for reasons unknown, I suddenly found myself at her side helping her up.

As she grabs my arm I instantly feel a love for her that tries to start inside my chest, but I try my hardest to kill it before it grows.

I don’t like babies. I’m good at acting like I sort of do, because it’s normal for everyone to love them, but they just make me feel awkward. True, nearly everything makes me feel awkward, but babies, being so young in age, shouldn’t have the right to make me feel uncomfortable. I’m bigger than them.

I hate that everyone acts like idiots around them, and I hate that they all change their voices as if the baby will understand our language if we try to sound like them, and I hate how loud babies are and how they usually stink, and I hate that everybody just goes nuts as soon as one comes into the room. I’m just not a fan of babies.

I set her back on her feet, and as soon as she had her balance, I let her go and she began to walk away. “She really sucks at walking,” I thought as she stumbled on. Then this happened and I don’t know why: she turned a little bit so I could see her face and she could see mine and she gave me a little smile.

If there’s a pen in my hand and paper before me, I will be brutally honest and I’ll tell you whether or not I think your baby is pretty.

This baby…she’s alright. I’ve seen better, obviously, and I’ve seen worse. If this baby was in a group of other babies, she definitely wouldn’t catch my eye–unless, of course, it was a group of ugly babies.  But when she smiled at me-even though it wasn’t the prettiest smile on the prettiest face-I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

Before I knew it I had scooped her up and I was holding her tight against my chest. I love that baby girl. She is precious and she is nice to hold.

She and I walked around the house for a bit, and then I sat down on the floor with her. I sat down with her, turned her towards me, and she reached up and touched my face. And I smiled. And I hate for my face to be touched, but I couldn’t help smiling.

Molly, the family dog, came over to see what new creature I had found, and I felt so much joy when the baby’s face lit up with excitement when she saw Molly. I introduced the two, and taught the baby how to pet Molly. And Molly was wonderful and patient as she looked at me with frustrated eyes while  she received perhaps not the softest strokes from the precious baby.

Then, something strange hit me, and though I wasn’t used to the feeling, I’m quite sure it was a break-through, because I suddenly had a beautiful view and I had done no climbing.

I don’t believe I have some new ideas for you, because if you’re a Christian, you’re a better, wiser Christian than myself, and if you’re not a Christian, you’re probably an American, therefore you have most likely heard the story of Jesus Christ. If not, here’s something rather neat: the savior of the world started His life on earth as a baby. A baby. The man who walked on water probably once sucked at walking. The man who loves me more than I will ever be capable of understanding probably lit up with excitement when He saw a dog for the first time (everyone loves dogs–fact). The man who died for me and for everyone else in this world was probably once held tightly to one’s chest as the holder realized just how precious babies are. My “break-though” view is this: Jesus Christ is surprisingly real. For me, at least.

Also, after I discovered that new love for the baby (I still don’t even know her name) and after I discovered even more love for my savior, I discovered love for the baby’s entire family, even the man who I still might not “like. ” I love him, I love them.

Now, I am sorry, but I must go back downstairs and try my best to express this love without being awkward. Perhaps I’ll just smile. That’s what the baby did, and it definitely got through to me and even made me someone better than I was when I woke up.

Merry Christmas to you.

“And she will bring forth a Son, and you shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins.”

- Matthew 1:21

With Nothing To Fear, I Fear.

The state of my car brings me worry.

I’m scared of not being able to go to school in the near future.

My thoughts occasionally worry me, and at times I fear they will establish the foothold they once held.

These days I’m scared of losing track of time and one day I will look up and be lost in a life I never wanted.

Sometimes I’m scared she will fall in love with an idea or a plan or a dream that’s so much bigger than me, and I will feel inadequate and incapable and insufficient.

Maybe I still have too many secrets and when I find someone I can completely trust, those secrets will become known by him or her, and she or he will despise me.

I’m scared I won’t ever be wise with my money and I’ll always struggle to make it to the next paycheck.

I’m scared of kidney stones.

I’m scared I will feel tired for the rest of my life as I have these past few days.

I’m scared of one day being the father of daughters, because I will have no idea what to do.

I’m scared addictions will always be clawing at my heart.

I’m scared of crying in front of others.

I sometimes fear conversation.

I’m scared of the accessibility of alcohol once I turn twenty-one.

I’m scared one day I will get too stressed out and I will rely on others too much and it will come crashing down and I will move away so that I can finally be alone and I will slowly become the same wretch I left behind on July 5 of this year.

I’m scared that “alone” is the way I am meant to be.

I’m scared that I’ve stressed so much as a kid that I will inevitably die of a heart attack as an adult.

I’m scared that past self-mutilation of the mind, of the heart, and of the body will always prevent me from discovering intimacy with a woman.

I’m scared of my patterns being discovered and my next move being foreseen.

I’m scared my “spaghetti junction” way of thinking will one day drive me insane.

I’m scared of insanity.

I’m scared of questioning and I’m scared one day I will no longer question.

I’m scared of not having enough adventure in my life.

I’m still rather scared of camping alone in winter’s weather.

I’m scared I will always struggle to see people as other people and not items that are meant to be played and manipulated.

I’m scared of growing old and forgetting to take time to look at the stars.

I’m scared of things others sometimes do not see.

Some nights I’m still scared of sleeping.

I’m scared of being known, but I’m scared others think I’d like to look like a mystery.

I’m scared that I sometimes do not fear the fact that my life will fall apart the moment I quit seeking the Lord.

Earlier this year I went hiking for a while on the Appalachian Trail. I originally planned on doing it all, but I lost my hiking partner, made enough bad decisions for seven people, and eventually wandered off the trail and back to my hometown (thank God–literally).

The Appalachian trail is about 2170 miles long; I hiked roughly 180. On a map it’s hard to even see my progress. But nonetheless, a lot happened on that relatively short hike.

After losing my partner, most of my hiking was done alone. At first this scared me more than I had ever been scared before; but eventually I was happy to be alone, for I needed the solitude.

People often ask me what the worst part about it all was, and to be honest I think each “bad” event was used for good. From staying up all night because of a bear to losing my footing and nearly sliding completely off a mountain–in every situation, both good and bad, there was something to be learned.

For three days I hiked in pouring rain. I went to bed soaked and I woke up soaked. Sometimes it seemed as though the raindrops had formed into one massive body of water that continued to fall on my shivering body–if I had tried hard enough, I probably could have swam to the sky. Sometimes the rain came at me sideways and I would begin to think the wind would soon pick me up and fling me into the great beyond. The rain was heavy and the clouds were sitting on top of the mountains, and this made it impossible to see more than thirty feet in front of me at all times.

On the third day, other hikers began warning me of the night. Storms were coming and it was supposed to get dangerous. Some of the hikers talked of tornadoes, others talked of flooding, while others talked of getting struck by lightning. And I still had a mountain to climb.

The mountain was difficult to climb, the rocks were slippery, and the trail felt like a river, but at the top-for the first time in three days-I saw the sun and the sun saw me. For the first time in three days, there was no rain. Filled with a surge of fresh motivation, I began hiking down the mountain to a small shelter just a few miles north.

After I arrived at the shelter, I dropped my pack and took off my drenched clothes to put on the driest clothes I had. Then I made a delicious, hot dinner: Ramen noodles, cheese grits, tortillas, and Spam all mixed into a pot of boiling water. And if that doesn’t sound perfect, get this: just twenty feet away from the shelter there’s a spring. Nearby drinking water; a wonderful, hot meal; semi-dry clothes; shelter; and look at that: four more hikers coming down the mountain–company! It rarely gets better than that.

As the others cooked their meals I nibbled on a Snickers dipped in peanut butter as we talked about the storm that was coming in the night. Each one of them expected tornadoes. After we had all finished eating, the five of us walked around the shelter and made bets on the trees we thought were going to fall on us in the night.

But we were not scared. We were not worried. The past three days had been wonderful. Well, okay, perhaps the beginning of the first one sucked, but the trail has a way of breaking people. It has a way of breaking people and forcing them to accept the things that cannot be changed. And once those things are accepted, you might as well enjoy them, because you’re stuck with them. It rained, therefore I did not sweat or get hot. Also, it made some excellent stories; and even today I don’t mind walking in the rain one bit. In fact, I’d say I enjoy it, because it reminds me of the wonderful days I spent on the trail.

The night was approaching and it was bringing new, incredibly ominous looking clouds. The wind began picking up and the lightning got closer and closer. We weren’t scared; we weren’t worried. There was nothing that could be done. Would we see the morning? Perhaps. Perhaps not. What mattered was that moment, and in that moment we had each other, and in that moment we were brothers. We were brother because we could relate with one another. We were brothers because we had been going through the same crap every single day. We were brothers because we were all we had. We were brothers because we each knew what loneliness felt like and we were glad to finally slay it. And as brothers are, we were happy to have one another.

So, we five brothers sat with one another and awaited the storm. And the storm came. And what happened was so awe inspiring I will never forget.

The same mountain that pushed us and broke us and made us stronger held back the storm. The same mountain that pushed us and broke us and made us stronger held back the howling winds, the pouring rain, the ferocious lightning, and the deafening thunder. We sat in awe, because we believed and we were convinced that the same mountain that pushed us and broke us and made us stronger protected us from hell on the other side.

What we thought might kill us became the most beautiful show I will probably ever see, and oddly enough, the wind eventually became the most soothing noise to fall asleep to.

Today I worry about things that are pointless, I worry about things that I cannot change, I worry about things that I can change but am too lazy to do so, I worry about the stupidest, most frustrating things. And today, I have something much stronger, much larger, much more comforting than a mountain protecting me–today, and always, I have my God.

And today, I will begin handing over my worries.

Slapped Into Abiding.

So, I recently got slapped in the face. I almost typed, “Not literally, thankfully,” but after thinking about it, I kinda wish it was literally. Kinda.

See, a literal slap in the face would have stung for about four seconds. Depending on the slapper, I probably would have become incredibly angry and then I would have attacked. We would fight for a bit [I'd probably lose due to the lack of mass in my arms (but, the attacker did begin with a slap, so he's definitely a sissy--maybe I would have won)] and then we would go home and forgive one another–if not later that day, then definitely the next.

But, the slap was not literal.

First it was a figurative slap from a close friend and then it was a much harder slap-perhaps a tackle-from someone with a much larger hand.

Why do I wish for a literal slap? This figurative slap is humiliating. It causes me to step back, take a look at my mistakes and weaknesses, and seek fixing and healing.

Why I am a thankful for a figurative slap? It was the only way for me to begin healing. And I’ve been needing this slap for a while.

This is written in my journal (the date is too embarrassing for me to state; if it was posted, you would realize I’ve needed a spanking for quite some time–and I feel as though as I’m already being honest enough): “Today I am not broken enough to seek fixing. I’m like a leaky faucet or like squeaky breaks. Annoying, but easy enough to deal with–however, I am headed toward an accident.”

Thankfully, I finally broke.

A close friend did some slappin’ in the face. Why? Because I was no longer bearing fruit. So, distance was put between us and naturally I blamed the friend.

The next night, I was at a college Bible study called The Den, and as if on cue, we read John 15:5-6:

“I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in Me, he is cast out as a branch and is withered; and they gather them and throw them into the fire, and they are burned.”

And boom, I was karate chopped by God.

I was not abiding in Christ; I was not bearing fruit; I felt as though I had been cast out; I felt as though I was withering. Thankfully, no one had gotten their nasty hands on me to throw me in some fire.

It’s embarrassing how long it had been since I had spent time in the Word. That slap ended the dry spell. As soon as I got home, I went straight to my room and opened my Bible. I realized that though I knew the fruits of the Spirit by name-thanks to an incredibly annoying song we were forced to sing in “Junior Junction” at church when I was a kid-I didn’t really know anything about them. In order to have proper fruit, I must not only abide in Jesus Christ, but I think I must also know the fruits.

And so, I have begun my learning of the fruits of the Spirit and my next few posts will be about those fruits. It’d be wonderful if you’d join me in this process, because I don’t want to do it alone (and I’m addicted to checking my WordPress stats).

Desires, Fears, Expression and Attention.

Before these thoughts even begin, I’d like for this to be known: the day is sunny, the sky is cloudless, the temperature is perfect, the wind is perhaps too strong for it continues to blow my papers away, the grass is green, the water is blue, “spectacular” is the word that describes this view.

You have been informed of this because I fear you may find the following words depressing. Please, do not. They are not meant to depress, they are not meant to cause worry or pain–no, I am a selfish writer. I write for me. These words are for expression because I cannot speak. And you: You may be a selfish reader and ponder if you’d like.

I’m living at home again, and it’s difficult at times. I feel tied down and that’s something that frightens me.

There are two things I greatly desire, but I desire them secretly (until now, of course): I desire higher education and I desire to be a homeless man.

I often try to appear as if I strongly dislike education. This is done because it would be more difficult to explain what I truly dislike: systems. I don’t want to go through the systems one must go through in order to obtain an education. This needs to be understood: I do not fight order because some think it’s hip to rebel; I fight it because I do not want to become a product of a system–I do not want to be similar. The negative thing about this is sometimes I lose track of me and only focus on what’s different. This happens and suddenly I have a blog, an unnexplainable limp, and I’m saying words with a strange accent. Then, I become irritated with myself and I try to convince myself I’d like to be forever left alone so I can hop from rock to rock by the lake with only my journal and pen in hand. But, here’s the kicker: because of my immaturity, I still need attention from others.

The temperature has dropped and the wind has picked up and so I’m freezing my butt of right now. I’m wearing shorts and flip-flops by a lake at the end of October all because a naturalist I greatly respect has been wearing shorts and no shoes for over twenty years.

Yes, I also want to be a homeless man. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to sit on the streets of Atlanta and pester people for money–I want to walk the world; I want to be a wanderer. Alaska is an obsession of mine, and I would love to leave everything behind and be tested by everything it has to offer. If attempts of survival in Alaska’s wilderness were not so widely publicized, I probably would. But, I think my biggest fear is becoming a copycat.

I don’t think I could have been friends with the men or man who coined the term “self-realization” but to an extent I think some form of this is needed. We need definition, and you and I need to do the defining. Do not adapt to other definitions–or more precisely “others’ definitions.” Don’t adapt, define. Do not grow up and become. Grow up, learn, define and create, and then become.

Our crooked hats, our tight jeans, our music, our artsy photographs, our bad attitudes, our neat lingo, and our facial hair no longer defines us. It groups us. So, if it’s fitting in that you want, continue, but that’s not enough for me. I will not pick up a guitar and whine about a lost lover. I will not do this for multiple reasons–some are that I cannot play the guitar nor can I sing, but the main reason is because it’s been done thousands upon thousands of times.

Express yourself–yes, I am for that, but I dare you to do it in a new way. Obviously this feat has not yet been accomplished by me due to the simple fact that this is a blog. But, I will not stop and become content here, because I am a wanderer and I will continue exploring other forms of expression.

Oh, and let this be known: my barefooted naturalist hero would be proud of me–I found warmth from the sun and protection of the wind from the rocks. It took a while to find a good spot. I moved to the rocks because I usually see snakes sunning on them. This reminded of a rock’s capability of holding heat. The rocks are warm, but the wind is much stronger because they are right next to the water. Eventually, though, I found a nice sitting spot that is protected from the wind and still in the sun. It’s perfect.

Maybe there are too many people in this world for each and every one of us to find new ways of expression. A thought that could depress and anger us, but really it should only make us push harder.

Maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe it isn’t about expressing in an unknown way; maybe it’s about expressing in the truest way. I believe I am correct when I say that writing saved my life multiple times while growing up. It was a release. It was a pure, unadulterated release. Now, maybe it’s this very blog post that needs to be questioned, because I’m no longer sure if I’m doing it for expression or attention. Now I’m erasing sentences I like. If this had the chance to appear flashy and desperate for attention, it no longer does. It is now plain. Because nothing is worse than seeing neediness in myself.

So, Why Blog?

Perhaps this should have been included in my first post. Oh, well. If you’ve already read my about me page, then you know that I pre-apologized for ignorant posts.

I had lunch today with my pal, Andy Smith, another newbie to the world of blogging. We talked about blog ideas-like young teenage girls talking about their new school crushes-for an entire hour as we ate incredibly unsatisfying roast beef French dip sandwiches with large smiles etched upon our faces–this is how excited we are about this new hobby.

“I think to be a blogger and to promote your own blog, you have to have an annoying amount of self-confidence,” said a friend of mine the other day as I told him I was planning on starting a blog.

Maybe he’s right, but I assure you this is not the reason why I have chosen to blog. I enjoy writing. I do it as often as I can, but it’s always hidden away in my journal. This is satisfying enough for some, but no longer for me. Criticism is what I need (hopefully constructive criticism, but I expect both types). An online journal this will become.

Andy and I are fairly stupid when it comes to blogging and absolutely lost when it comes to the internet-or, as Andy calls it, “the wild, untameable beast”-and I think our stupidity mixed with this vast playground the internet offers is one reason why we’re so excited about entering this new society. We gladly accept the incredibly difficult and strenuous challenge of maybe one day gaining slight recognition in this massive online world.

Okay, maybe I do have an annoying amount of self-confidence, because I’d like to think I have something to offer. For example, Andy and I talked today about starting a series of blogs about local  restaurants and our dining experiences. Alone, this would be incredibly difficult for me, as I have a hard time spelling “restaurant” correctly on my first try and I don’t care much about food. Now, based on what I know about Andy, I doubt he can easily spell “restaurant”-no offense, Andy-but he is passionate and quite knowledgeable about edible goodies. So, Andy will write about our meals. I enjoy people watching and observing my surroundings; I shall write about the employees and whether or not it’s simply worth eating your food there. This is just one of many ideas–I don’t plan on spending all of my blogging time writing about restraunts.

“I used to think everyone who blogged was gay and lonely,” Andy explained at lunch, “but, then I met Trey Bailey.”

I cannot speak for Andy, but  I am neither one of those. Blogging-I think-is for those who enjoy writing, who isn’t afraid of a challenge, who perhaps has an annoying amount of self-confidence, who believes he or she has information to offer, and most importantly-I hope-wants to have some fun. Therefore, I blog.

Blogging…Here Goes.

I betcha ten bucks I’ve made fun of bloggers and the act of blogging many times. And yet here I am.

What should you expect from this blog? I’ve already answered the question, you just have to read it.

Ideas, plans and dreams–They probably won’t be written about too often as I’m much too busy working so I can save money for school in which I will hopefully major in English and Outdoor Leadership And Education at Toccoa Falls College. So, you probably won’t read much about those.

I won’t write, sing, or tell you about love–For I think the feelings I currently feel for a certain someone are way too personal to share, and more than that, they are way too complex-and yet so incredibly simple, they are way too frightening-and yet they make  me feel so strong, they are way too unpredictable-and yet so very reliable, they are way too amazing-and yet so, so amazing-for someone as incapable as myself to explain. So, you probably won’t read much about that.

I shall not wear my heart on your screen. That’s annoying.

This blog is definitely not to stir passion in ye ol’ heart, so go somewhere else for that.

An apology is already being handed to you, for I will most likely accidentally wear my heart on your screen–Only once or twice, though.

Honesty is a very new addiction of mine, so you can expect that. I will be honest. At times, I hope to make you cringe and think, “Too honest.” Here’s something, though: I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever use “TBH.” And if I ever do, let me know. Because that means my account has been hacked.

So, no plans of the future, no love, a possibility of no visual emotions, and no acronyms.

I will, though, maybe, tell you of my day. Perhaps not, though. Whatever I do tell you about, it’ll be the truth. And that’s a fact; it’ll be the cold, hard, painful truth. Unless, of course, I feel like writing fiction, and if I do, I highly doubt you’ll receive a warning beforehand.

Oh, another reason why I probably won’t write about love: I’m kinda colorblind. So, yeah.

Remember: Write for the Fat Lady.