58th Confession

So I'm prayerfully considering writing a few blogs about Christian personality types, based off of the 12 tribes of Israel, the 7 redemptive giftings, the 5 calls, and a few other things. Shout if you're interested.

So it's a couple weeks after the surgery, and I'm itching to get back out to it. I'm also itching to go back to Cagayan. To that end, I've also been thinking about adding advertisements to the blog - not that I like them, not that I want them, but that any profits that come in from them get me back there. Another little change that might not be a change, but any income is welcome these days...even if it means selling out a little.

Let's see - what else can I write about? I'm considering a rebuttal against atheism again, a few recipies, another list of new music that is hitting home right about now, as well as the joys of sharing old television shows with my son. Might even share a few of my favorite software tools and Google hacks...but that's beside the point.

Anyways - time to wrap this one up again. Probably a more fulfilling blog next time.

57th Confession

I'm an older brother.

This comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my family, but there's a deeper truth to this. Yes, I have a younger sibling (holla, Lauren), but I've also been saved since a very young age. I grew up saved by grace since about six, and I really don't know any other way to live.

This brings me to a parable that Jesus told. It had two brothers in it, as well - an older and a younger. The younger asks his father for his inheritance (basically writing the father off as dead), goes out and blows it, and then finds himself in a mess. He decides - after he comes to himself - to go back home, beg forgiveness, and sell himself back to his father. And while he was a long way off, his father sees him and has compassion, runs and falls on his neck and kisses him. The son begins his well rehearsed speech about being no longer worthy to be called his son. The father interrupts him and begins a feast, with his younger son as the guest of honor.

And that's where a lot of church sermons start. I have heard this parable taught as a salvation message I don't know how many times. "Come back, thou corrupted backslider, for thy God shall have mercy on thee." Or, "Come to the Kingdom of God, you lost and prodigal." And there's nothing wrong with this kind of message - I believe it's necessary, sometimes, to call out the ones who are on the verge of either coming home or sliding away.

But what I hate is that it's only half of a story. All the sermons that I've heard focus on the younger brother. But I'm not a younger brother...am I? I'm an older brother. I'm an older brother. I'm the one who hasn't slid away. I've stayed and worked, I've been faithful, even when it's been crazy. I'm the one who fights being burnt out, even when it'd be easier to take my younger brother's route.

The promise of the father is wonderfulness itself - all he has is mine. Of course, the father's explanation shows his heart of love and forgiveness. Dead son, come back to life. Omnia vincit amor. There is no condemnation in the father toward his older son or his younger.

But there's that lingering sensation of burning in myself. Isn't there more to life than this kind of existence? Work for the father, with promises of future reward?

Why is it so hard to ask Father for something for myself?

And honestly, at that point, it feels like I become the younger brother, having written off my father's generosity and love, condemning him for his laisesz faire toward me. I don't recall there being any "joy" in my salvation; it just was. It was a choice for me - a choice to follow Him as best as I could, in all the ways that I could, loving Him the best I could, with all my heart, mind, will, emotions...but there was no "joy" about my choice.

I don't understand the phrase "joy of my salvation." I grew up saved. Where is the joy? Rejoicing, I understand. Continuously giving thanks, I get that. But I don't understand the joy coming from making a choice away from death as intimately as those who have.

Maybe I'm over-analyzing this, but on the other hand, maybe there's a different kind of joy for older brothers like me. Maybe I'm searching for something that isn't the same for me that it is for others. It seems to be the same as searching for my people.

Thank you, Father, for loving the older brothers, too.

56th Confession

I don't make a big deal out of things. I try to keep as low key as possible. I never liked drama in high school, and I still don't like it now.

So when I went in for minor surgery, that's how I viewed it - minor.

Now, I ache in my guts. And I can't bend right. And I'm up late because I can't get comfortable. All minor things - but I'll not say much to anyone about it, mainly because that's how I am.

Sometimes, I wish I were a little more dramatic. Maybe I'd get more attention that way. But personally? Drama just isn't my thing.

Sorry for the brevity - next post will be longer when I feel more like writing.

55th Confession

It's never easy to consider the end of a thing. No matter how long one plans, no matter what safeguards one enacts, everything ends. Television series, books, lives, and (as science so comfortingly puts it) the universe are all being led along the path of slow decay, until their bitter ends. And you'd think that we, as humans, would understand that. After all, it's been going on for lifetimes now.

But it doesn't make it any easier. Especially when the pain of loss is personal.

For a while now, my grandmother has been in poor health. Her lungs, her blood, and her mind have all been tainted by various effects of the world of sickness. At 80-something - or is she in her 90's? - she's led a full, rewarding life. She's seen (or received word of) all her grandchildren marrying, even held some great-grandchildren. She's been a strong woman of faith, up until the time that her mind began to betray her.

And now, her living will is taking effect. As her body wears down for the final time, she's requested to die in peace.

And I can't find it in my heart to blame her.

In younger days, I was very conservative about such matters. "Life is life, and one should always fight for it," I thought. I believed that life was supposed to be struggled through until the very last minute. I wanted so very much to believe in life - at any cost.

And now, as I grow older, I find that my ideals are eroded constantly. There are so very few things that are black and white, and so many colors that don't fit into either category. Is it age and maturity tempering the fiery idealism of youth? Has it always been this way?

Why did no one ever tell me that "right" and "wrong" overlap so much?

Moses once asked the Lord to teach us to count our days. I know now, in part, that it's not just about the number of days there are between inception and death. I understand that it's the moments that enrich a life that we're supposed to pay attention and count. Remembering the first kiss shared between you and your spouse. The first time you saw your child. The accomplishments you may have had throughout your life. The agonizing heartbreaks that honed your purpose, focused you into what God made for you in this lifetime.

I suppose that, without times like these, purpose and destiny cannot be created. It's through the revealing of character that a purpose is shown, and character is truly revealed in times of tragedy. David's time at Ziklag, for example, shows the depth of his devotion to his God and his people.  Or that time that the child could not come to him, but David will eventually go to him. There are so many things that make a person's purpose - and not everyone can handle it.

The saddest thing to see is when a person falters against the purpose for which they were created. Samson, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, Charlie Chaplin...History is littered with gifted people, good people, whose lives have been twisted, shaken, and corrupted by their inability to harness their character for something more than the "now." It takes a strong person to plan for the future - including the worst parts of it.

My grandmother is a strong person. And I am proud of her.

54th Confession

First off - let me give a shout out to my blog header designer, Sahina-Waya. You can find a lot of her work here, and I'm certain that were you to purchase some of her work, she'd not be too averse to it.

Last post, a couple questions were asked on the comments board, specifically geared to the defense of the local gathering of believers. I feel that this is a great little topic, so I'm going to dive right into it.

I believe strongly in the local gathering of believers for fellowship, teaching, correction, and worship. However, I've noticed a disturbing trend recently: a lot of "organized" religious gatherings have become focused on self-sustenance. That is, instead of being focused on the world, they've become focused on themselves. Instead of focusing on Jesus, they become focused on tenets. Or worse, they become focused on tenants.

It is a trustworthy statement: any group whose focus becomes the continued survival of the group is already dead. Any time any one is not willing to allow something to die in order to give place to something new, watch out.

But despite all this, is it wrong to take a little time to regroup, away from others? I don't have a problem with it, as long as it's only that: time to regroup refocus, and then get back into it.

For an example, let me reference the sad case of Jacopo da Pontormo, a Renaissance artist that very few people can reference. His last commissions were the frescoes in the chapel at San Lorenzo, in Florence. Getting on in years, and hampered by a fear of people stealing his ideas, Jacopo ordered the chapel sealed off, walled in, and no one allowed to look at his creation. Sadly, he died before finishing his frescoes (eleven years in the making)...and none of them survived. Why? One of his close friends, Giorgio Vasari, wrote in his journals about how scene bled into scene, characters were juxtaposed, and there was an overall lack of proportion. Quoting Vasari, “I think I would go mad and become entangled in this painting," if he continued to look at it. Obsessed with detail, da Pontormo lost the sense of the overall composition.

Isolation spawns creativity, true; however, too much time alone fosters "an obsession with detail combined with an inability to see the larger picture, a kind of extravagant ugliness that no longer communicates." (Borrowed from Robert Greene's fascinating study into the 48 laws of power)

Growth, in any living being, is dependent on two distinct and separate times: a season of self, and a season of environment. During the season of self, the organism focuses inward: a tree during winter, or a child in a home environment. This season is for the inner strengthening - roots grow deeper, wounds are healed, and armor is developed. During the season of environment, the organism focuses outward: a tree in summer, or a child in a public environment. This is the season of outreach, of experimentation, of flourishing. If one cannot thrive in the environment where there is external pressure and stress on what you believe, how is your faith relevant?

Therein lies the challenge unique to the believer, mirrored in all kinds of ways. Be salt - but not overwhelming, light - but not blinding, leavening - but not over-inflated, self-aware - but not self-absorbed, God-aware - but not God-absorbed.

53rd Confession

When we were younger, my wife called the number 53 "the evil gizzard number". I now have cause to believe that; it's taken me entirely too long to get around to this post.

I mean, four months?  Really? What have I done between them?

Honestly? A lot of soul-searching. A lot of working. A lot of trying to figure things out, and failing miserably.

The first thing I tried to figure out is whether I'm really really saved, or if I'm just playing around. I mean, I believe in Jesus with all my heart, but I have trouble with the way organized religion makes everything so cut and dried. Life is messy - why should church be any different? My best friends are the ones who believe and don't force their beliefs on anyone. Unfortunately, what they believe isn't necessarily what I believe. I have so many troubles with where I believe I'm called, including a lack of evidence of calling...

Could this be what is a crisis of faith? Or just of confidence? Or is it a test, to make sure I don't move on feelings alone?

I've always been what one would call a rational mystic - where there's a logical, natural explanation, leave the demons out of it. If there's something supernatural, let it be supernatural. But for the love of most things holy, don't go seeing demons under every bush and in every situation: they just aren't there, most of the time. But is there a need to be more rational? Or more mystic? Where does the balance lie?

I think these, and a few other things, will be looked at on a more regular basis. As ever, comments, flames, suggestions for posts, and everything else is welcome.

52nd Confession

I'm a sucker for well-written television programs.

There are very few of those around these days, sadly. With the glut of "reality" programming these days, the demand for real writers is greatly diminished. And with the ability of a network to put out 500 crappy unscripted programs to any one quality program, it's easy as anything to see why networks choose the easy route.

And what "reality" do most of these programs come from anyway? Most places I know of don't have a bunch of young folk acting as stupidly as some shows have 'em. For example, most of the girls I dated in my short span of time never would make me dress up in a sumo suit and wrestle with a professional, just to go out with 'em. I've also never seen a community of people who were so proud of their excesses, so arrogant about their poor life choices, or so particular about their vices as one sees during "unscripted" television.

It's also sad how quickly good premises go bad. Heroes, No Ordinary Family, Due South, The Cape...pretty much anything science-fiction or comic book related - they all start out so brilliantly, and then fall so flat as to be unrecognizable. There have been a very few that have kept on with their original premise and gotten better - Eureka, for one, and supposedly the entire Stargate series as well.

Sometimes, I think we should go with the British programming system: all of their serieses start out with about eight episodes, and if they are popular enough, they get more. If not, it was a nice little story arc, time to move on.

Or maybe we could do it through social media. Enough "likes" or "diggs" or tweets or hashtags, and a new show makes it through. Or maybe we could make it more interactive than that: a new show, scripted by the majority of Americans. A premise is laid out, the characters have fairly broad ranges, the situation is fairly clearly defined, and at the end of an episode, a cliffhanger ending. What happens next? That's up to the viewing audience to decide!

51st Confession

I wish I had a better lawn.

I have absolutely no talent for botany. None whatsoever. Plants take one look at me and lose the will to live. There are so many dead spots on my lawn, it looks more like the surface of the moon than it does anything American.

I used to think it would be a blessing to have mature shade trees. Unfortunately, mature shade trees make for lots and lots of leaves. In addition, there are lots of sticks: dead limbs, limbs that need to be removed - all this adds up to wood chips and time and money. Many things I have in this life, but extra time is not one of them.

Would that I had the extra resources to actually turf the lawn this year, as I've so often remarked would resolve all the issues. It'd always look good, the trees could still get water. And yet, I'd never have to mow again, and any spots on the lawn would be cleaned up with spot remover or a snow shovel. A very special, use-specific snow shovel.

Currently, I reseeded and hayed the lawn. I did it right before the heavy rains came. I added fertilizer, I tore up the dirt to lay the seed down...and nothing has sprouted. Nothing at all. Between birds and the dog, nothing.

The next thing to do is to admit defeat, call in a professional, and just redo the whole thing. I'm halfway there, but I just think that if I do the right things, it'll all come out right. Of course, that hasn't worked out for the past two years...

50th Confession

Well, here it is: the first milestone blogmark.  I had so much I wanted to write here: a piece about KBO, a bit about God and faith, a little maybe about the great mystery of synchronicity that I've noticed weaving about my life...

But I'm stuck. Again.

The words fail me. They don't come out. The thoughts and inspirations are there, and I don't believe in writer's block.

It's just that my words feel clumsy. Oafish. As though my thoughts are being interpreted into German, sent through Morse code to a Cocker Spaniel, and barked out to a chipmunk.

English is such a gracious, noble language. The way that a pun twists a word's dipthong until the listener feels the pain of a wedgie. The masterful laments of Prufrock and Josh Ritter. The power of the phrase "You Shall Not Pass," spoken in stentorian tones by an actor of the highest caliber.

But yet, it feels like this masterful tool, this glorious instrument on which I play, has become a tintinnabulation,  a cacophony of guttural lowing from a hungry herd of livestock complaining about their lot in life.

I've been reading more and more literature in the past few weeks. A lot more TS Eliot, listening to Josh Ritter a little more, crying inside a little more...I think it's a sign of another inward spiral.

Maybe the solution is in the problem: I've gotta rock myself a little bit harder. I've got to eat a peach. Let myself live a little. KBO.

I'm trying to live by a few principles: Love God. Obey the rules of the land. Honor my parents. Enjoy life.

In that order.

But some days, I'm just not...

I'm just not me anymore. I'm just a husk of Ryan's soul, biding my time, waiting to come to life again, like the storms down in Mexico. Spiritually, I'm just getting by, because I can't work in the confines of the box. My God is so much bigger than the box that many see Him as, and I don't want to be bound by the rules that others claim He wrote. The rules that leech life, stifle creativity, maintain the status quo - I can't see my God having anything to do with them, let alone writing them.

Is there not a prophet in Israel? Is there not a voice to cry out and change my future? Do they have to come from all over the place in order to revitalize a local body? If the body is going that way, won't there be someone local to be that way?

And after releasing all this, I hear a voice. It's only three words, spoken by my best friend. I can hear the warmth in his voice as he says it, although he's a thousand miles and five states away. But I can feel the power of them, resonating inside me, gripping the wildly vibrating tuning fork that has been my soul and giving it rest.

KBO, folks, because sooner or later, things will turn out right. Walk in tune with the beat that God hears, and soon you might see the dance steps you take, and learn to enjoy it as well.

Good night, folks.  Fifty-one will be better.

49th Confession

A long, long time ago, I promised to answer every comment that was listed on this blog, either in a post, or in the comments.  I didn't do that for the February blogs; I figured it needed to be done eventually, but I didn't have the strength.  Sitting up late when I should be abed, I suppose now is as good a time as any to address this.

In no particular order:

Emma - Not only do you win for the Most Dedicated Responder Award for your work on typing on a mobile, you also win the Most Likely to be Blog Stalked, when you write down your experiences. Let me know when this happens, and where.  While I do not envy anyone who shares our experiences, a burden shared is halved.  Some time, I'll have to blog about darling Livvy ("Mummy...Where's that MAN?")...Maybe I'll leave that one for you, though ;)  By the way? A doorway into the mind works both ways; ask Madame de Pompadour.

ConTom - Every post I write is theraputic in some way. Thank you for reading my soul.

grace/Grace - You were the first responder to this crisis, all these years ago. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for stopping in the bracing cold air, just for that moment. While I always do the best I know how, I never felt it was ever enough.

Interesting sidebar at this juncture: this evening, I dined with a father whose teenage son ascended about six weeks ago. Six weeks is about the time when the bottom drops out of everything: the prayer support seems to stop, you raise your head up out of your grieving pool for the first time to notice that the world has passed you by, and you get the paranoid sense that people are thinking to themselves, "It's been over a month; they should really move on by now." No one wants to say your child's name to you, lest they bring up something uncomfortable and not know how to respond; we wanted to talk of nothing else, lest she be forgotten.

So tonight, sitting across Chipotle meals, we talked about his son. No teenage boy does everything right, especially one in today's liberal society. But tonight, I saw the fruits of a great father finally be revealed: that when his son was no more, other parents talked about his excellent behavior. Good parenting, like wisdom, is revealed by her children - especially in the absence of the parent.

Na - Honesty you may have in abundance on this place. Happiness, like heated leather seats, will cost you extra ;)

Tina - I am deeply honored to be among the best fathers that you know. In this world, we receive an ungodly number of teachers but only a handful of fathers: to know a good father is rare enough, and to be called among the best is a title that I strive to achieve daily, now. Thank you for walking with us on this path, in such a time as this.

Fremere - We all walk the paths that we create from our choices; while I regret some choices from long ago, I appreciate your companionship on the road right now.

Happy - Aye. 'Tis. <3

Mercy for Today - Sometimes, I walk by that picture frame, and I stop and talk with her for a minute or two. Also for you, a fable: A gecko and an elephant were walking together along a path through a jungle in the cool of the day.  The gecko, being quite small but enjoying the conversation with his friend, asked to ride on the elephant's shoulder; the elephant, being a quite kindly animal, obliged. Soon, they reached a giant chasm. Across this chasm, an exceedingly clever man had fashioned a bridge from several hundred thousand vines; don't ask about where the vines are from or how he fashioned the bridge - it's immaterial, and quite rude to interrupt the story like that. Do it again, young man, and I'll turn this van right around and not give you any pudding.

Where was I?

Oh, yes: the bridge. Across the bridge the elephant walked, with the gecko clinging for dear life to his friend's shoulder. The winds howled around them, the bridge swayed precariously from side to side, and the river roared below them. Creaking, popping, and snapping sounds were also in the audio mix, mostly from under the elephant's feet. This is a nice fable, so they both made it across in relative safety. After reaching the other side, the gecko whispered into the elephant's ear, "We sure shook that bridge, didn't we?"

Jessa B - Our footfalls echo in the memory/Down the passage which we did not take/Towards the door we never opened/Into the rose-garden. My words echo/Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose/Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves/I do not know. Thank you for listening to my echo; enjoy TED =)

Heather H - When we all get there, I'll be glad to make Josh's acquaintance. Until then, may our memories keep them close to us, even as they enjoy their new home. 

Aiight - that's all for now.  Next post is number 50 - not sure what to do with THAT.  Suggestions?

48th Confession

Well, here we are in March now, and I'll get back to answering everyone who wrote in on the last few posts, probably on the next post. But that's too much heaviness, for right now. We'll just leave that for right now and talk about interpretations.

Hermaneutics is one of those things that either scares people off or makes them look at you funny if you say that you're interested in it.  I mean, it's not exactly rocket science, but if it were easy, everyone would be doing it.

But that's the thing: everybody DOES do it. Everything that you can sense, feel, consider - all of it - are interpretations of the world around you. It's all signals, constantly being decoded by your brain as it tries to make sense of the world around you.

For example: how do you know when a person is upset? Their eyes narrow, their voice changes, their body tenses up....all these things are able to be interpreted in a matter of seconds to interpret a person's mood. How much more is there to interpret in the world?

Which leads into the big question: what is a correct interpretation? Or are all interpretations equally valid?

It's almost like asking, "What is truth?" Abstract nouns have a funny way of being ephemeral at best, and poorly defined at worst. Love, truth, beauty, goodness- all are up for interpretation, and none have been able to be adequately defined or explained by science. There is no magic formula for being beautiful; no matter how much one moisturizes, makes friends, and is a general "good" person - which we shouldn't use, because "good" isn't quantifiable - there  is always, ALWAYS, going to be someone that can't stand them.

I figure, the same holds true for interpretations: for every thirty or so people who hold to a particular interpretation of something, there's gonna be at least fifteen - a very vocal fifteen - who will disagree. Loudly. Sometimes with rocks.

But that's not the issue: the issue is, can something be utterly true? I surely and truly hope that only one equals one, and evermore ought to be so. But we need more than hope to prove absolute truth. So let's look at a couple of things.

Atheists and scientists employ empiricism and logic. But it's theoretically provable that two equals one, which proves that logic merely enables one to be wrong with authority. And we're expanding our range of senses at an alarming rate, so empiricism cannot be the be-all, end-all either. Plus, we're dealing with something that is above senses: you can see a woman be sawed in half, but it doesn't mean she has been, for example.

So what CAN we rely upon? Science can be fooled, humans can be fooled, anything can be faked...So perhaps the answer is, truth cannot be absolutely proved or disproved.

But let me show you a different approach.

Truth must come from outside ourselves; if it comes from within, it is nothing more than delusion. However, truth needs to be verified by several outside sources; if it's too narrow of a field, that limits what you can accept as true. It needs to come from several conflicting people, and if it's scientifically provable, all the better.

But even that cannot help with the big question; is there a God? I've seen Him proven through the existence of moral code, sentience, high-level communication, the genesis of the universe, a trifecta proposition, and seemingly no-loss bets...and I've seen the secular humanist atheists attack each and every of these arguments and rationally (logically?) disprove each of them.

So is there a God? I cannot prove Him for certain; if I could, I wouldn't need Him. If I could understand Him, I'd be like Him; I can only catch glimpses of his thumbprints here and there. I see enough circumstantial evidence to make my faith a part of me, even on my worst days. And, as CS Lewis once put it, "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."

47th Confession

This coming Saturday, four years ago, my daughter looked on the beautiful face of her God, and it took her breath away.

There are wounded places in a person's life which poets say that only time heals. With due respect to poets, that's either a whole lot of time or a whole lot of crap. Either way, it's not something that happens overnight, nor has it really happened in the past few years.

There is a room in my house that I don't go into anymore. There are things I don't think about my child, or other people's children, anymore. There are times of the year that I feel just a little colder. There's a lot fewer things that seem important, and a whole lot of conservative ideas that I've thrown out entirely.There are songs whose lyrics I now identify with a whole lot more closely, and nod a whole lot more.

I suppose that, one of the things that I've heard the most often is, "I can't imagine what it must have been like/must be like to lose a child." Most often, I answer, "I pray you never find out."

There's nothing but numbness and loss for the first week, maybe week and a half. You really don't FEEL anything, be it pain, loss, hurt...There's just this emptiness, kind of like an echo fading. It's fading, and you know you'll never hear that sound again, so you keep listening to it, finding ways to etch it into your memory. Little things, at first: cradling her, because you'll never get to again. Stroking her hair one last time. Holding her and praying - just one more time, silently - that she'll come back.

Then come the "life" things: the somber dismantling of her crib. The getting rid of some of her clothes. The wholesale dumping of the medical supplies. But all the while, still smelling her little baby smell, all through the places where she spent her time: the couch, her room, the hallway, her car seat, the van...

And then, just when you have this whole "getting back to life thing" almost figured out, you look around and realize that other people have either forgotten about it or moved on. And that's the worst shock of all to come to grips with: that life has moved, and you haven't.

All through it, for the first month, there are just these waves of grief and guilt that paralyze you when you're engulfed. Between waves, you can function fairly well, I remember. I remember even getting a bit prickly when feeling okay, thinking, "I'm not a doddering old man, I can really function for a bit." But for every time I felt fine, there were times I wanted to just break down.

And here is the crux of this confession: I probably should have broken down in those times. I probably should have taken some time to truly weep for my loss. I probably should have used a little more down time to process what happened.

But I didn't.

I had a boy to raise who needed his Daddy. I had a house to support. I had a set of vehicles to maintain. I had to keep moving.

And in that moving, there were nights I could feel the emotional granite that was in my core grinding against itself in cracked places; were I to put it another way, it was emotional arthritis.

Maybe another time, we'll explore that. But for now, I think it's time to put this back to sleep, to set this jewel to rest again, and look forward to something a bit more palatable. You've eaten the bitter green salad; now it's time for the meat course, I think.

46th Confession

If you were to find about thirty of my friends and ask them, "How judgmental is Ryan McBurney?"...

Well, first you'd have to find thirty people, and THAT is a Herculean task in and of itself....

But, were you to do it, I'm fairly certain that they'd probably say that, on a whole, I'm fairly easy-going, with a strong sense of what I like and dislike, but mostly open-minded about people.  Accepting to a fault, except if they happen to be in a boy band. Or completely, irrationally obsessive.

I try not to judge people, as a general rule. But the downside of that is, I judge myself harshly.

I never meant to turn out like this. I never set out on a self-destructive, obsessive path about learning everything I could from my mistakes. It's not even that I do; it's that I brood on them, like a hen on her eggs.

I think about what I could have done differently. I think about how I can make amends for my errors. I think about how not to make the same mistake again.

And this kind of thinking paralyzes me, sometimes. It hobbles me and shackles me to my mistakes, and no matter how many times I forgive myself, it all seems to rush back as soon as I mess up again.

Today would have been my daughter's fourth birthday. During her brief year of life, I was finishing off college, I was trying to hold down a stressful job, I was juggling a wife and two kids and a mother in law and a dog and a house and repairs and a lawn and a van and....

I know I did the best that I could. I think I did the best that I could. I'd like to think I did the best that I could. I tried to do the best that I could.

My inner demon tells me I should have done more.

I could have read more to my daughter. I could have let a couple things slide, just to spend a little more time with her. I should have prayed for her more, I should have had stronger faith, I should have...

I forgive myself, and look to avoid my mistakes in the future. I pick myself back up and keep going. Next time, it'll be better.

Next post will probably be about grief once more - the day Abby went home and everything that followed. After that, I promise to have some more light-hearted happy blogs. :D

45th Confession

TS Eliot, my favorite poet, once said that "April is the cruelest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain." He talks about the mysterious teasing of life from death that happens in April - the slow, creaking growth that comes after the dormancy of winter, painful and so very slow.

February is the cruelest month. My regrets, compounded by another year of experience and growth, come creaking to life on the first of the month. They lumber around like trolls, smashing and destroying for the sake of destruction, until about the end of the month. Then, troll-like, they go underground, hiding from the rising sun, until once again in August I hit a patch of regularly scheduled self-reflection.


Four years ago, February was a cold month. As I drove my wife to our midwife, I passed a car turned on its roof in the median on 270. I don't remember much about that day...fragments form a patchwork in my mind when I try.

Joy being unresponsive in the bathroom....a red sedan, on its roof, as I desperately try to head north, without flipping my own...the cold, professional nurse..Joy not responding again...being shoved into the waiting room...watching something about true crime, not knowing what's going on...hearing medical terminology that I understand, knowing that it applies to my wife and child...being told to get someone, cold nurse turned somber...

I hear that they're both alive, and it takes my breath away. I hear the mortality rate of what happened, and I lose my breath again. I'm wandering the halls of the hospital late at night, unable to call anyone. I'm hearing that my wife might still die. I saw her, and she scared me. The Who's Tommy is not the thing to watch in the ICU.

Finally seeing a coherent wife. Getting to see my daughter for the first time. Having faith for her future. Praying against fear. Stubbornly refusing to believe what the Groucho Marx-esque Pakistani doctor says. Believing, and seeing the fruit of that belief blossom.

One year, nine days.

Getting The Call. Driving to the wrong hospital. Getting to the right one. Believing for a miracle. Releasing her.

Calling my folks to let them know she's passed. Hearing my sobs mingle with my wife's in a cold operating room, as though they came from some other people.

February is the cruelest month.

44th Confession

It's happened again. The terrible, incredibly painful tragedy of death once again rears its head too close to home.

When there's nothing to say, say nothing aloud, but let your actions speak volumes.

Hug your children more. Model wise choices, as far as you are able. Above all else, let them know that you love them.

It's February. Next time, a February recollection.

43rd Confession

February is my least favorite month of the year.

I've heard it taught that time was the first thing God blessed and set apart as holy, even before there was a definition of the word "holy." The same teacher said that anything that can be blessed can also be cursed; therefore, bless your time at every opportunity.

It seems to me that February is already the absolute low point of anyone's year. Lewis Black once raged that it was the grayest month; he also claims that Valentine's day came about because someone slit their wrists just to see color. While I enjoy a good rage comedian from time to time, I think Mr. Black unintentionally stumbled upon a point.

I know some people whose greatest artistic binges come when the leaves begin to turn in the autumn; for me, this February stuff is the complete antithesis. I feel more lethargic and torpid during this month than during any other.

Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's the ice. Maybe it's the fact that spring isn't just around the corner quite yet.

Maybe it's Abby.

I don't know. But I do want to explore it this month, if y'all will stick around for it?

42nd Confession

Wow, it's been a long time since I've done this. Apologies to anyone who was hanging on my every update; January was a crazy busy month for me, and I think the new year is going to be quite interesting indeed.

Well, now that my mother in law is heading out on a Mexican cruise, I think there will be more time for me to sit and write, as well as a little more motivation, especially as February is one of my lest favorite months of the year. I have a feeling that this, above all other reasons, is unconsciously why I started this blog: to finally get some of my bottled-up feelings out on some kind of media, like a confessional booth.  Which makes anyone who reads this a priest. Or a therapist. Which is kinda funny, really, if you stop and think about it.

So, some quick life updates: Joy is still doing Art school.  We purchased a Wii.  I'm very good at swordfighting on it. Edan is still adorable, but recently he's been taking to praying for a newborn child for the family. I'm not sure what brought THAT on, but I'm working on dealing with it.

We recently lost power to our house.  There's nothing like an ice-storm blackout to show you how dependent you are on electricity.  Especially when your whole house is powered by it.

Finally, I'm going to say that I'm sorry I haven't written for a while. Personally, I haven't heard too many complaints, so it hasn't been in the forefront of my "things to get done" list. So if you want more, let me know.

41st Confession

So someone asked me for some links that I like.  Fine -- here ya go.

Angelo Inc.  -- The best web comic out there.  Ever.  Go read it.  Right now.  NOW, I said!

Dracula's Full Lament -- The praise and worship song, done by a secular Muppet.  Better than some things out there today.

Sham Rock - "Tell Me Ma" -- a great Irish techno song.  Just kinda stumbled across it accidentally and fell for it.

Kongregate -- Whenever I need a good break, I head over and play a few rounds of whatever I feel like.  All kinds of timewasters on this place.

Google -- More powerful than anybody realizes.  My homepage.

Facebook -- My social networking drug of choice.  I used to have a MySpace page, but then I turned thirty, and decided to take it down.

Hulu -- One of several online video services.  My personal favorite for recent domestic television.

AMV Cake -- For those of you who don't know, AMV stands for Anime Music Video.  This is a good example of it.

Common People AMV -- One of my favorite versions of this song, being done in a slightly more grown up style.  It's a grown-up song, though, so it's all ok.

That's eight, and that's enough for right now.  Comment me your favorites, and we'll do lunch or something.

40th Confession

So tonight, I'm gonna take a quick look at Contemporary Christian Music.  Only a quick look, because much more than that and I get sick to my stomach.

Most CCM has fallen into the sameness trap: it all sounds the same.  It tries to be "fresh" and "pure" and "holy", when all it comes across as is sweet and ineffectual. 

QUICK DISCLAIMER -- THIS DOES NOT APPLY TO ALL CCM.  NOT ALL CCM GROUPS ARE SYRUPY SWEET SUBSTITUTES FOR "SECULAR" MUSIC.  THERE ARE A FEW - VERY FEW - DECENT GROUPS OUT THERE.

When I look around for decent music, I look for a group that knows its sound and works it to the best of their abilities.  U2 has anthem rock down pat and they play around with it in creative ways.  Delirious has a similar sound, but they put it to use not to rock stadiums, but to challenge believers.  Queen's songs changed the way that it meant to rock the world; Third Day has done something similar to the CCM world, without the extra makeup or the leotards.  Although, I think Mac Powell would look lovely in the harlquinn...never mind.  No I don't.

When I look at both the CCM and the "secular" world of music, all I hear and see is static.  The local alternative station plays some decent stuff, but all of it sounds like the 80's or earlier.  With a couple notable exceptions (Mumford & Sons and Cake), all the new, fresh, alternative sounds all are played out and tired, too. 

Which means it's time for a new sound to come out of somewhere.  I just hope that we recognize it when it happens.

39th Confession

Here's hoping your new year is brilliant and fantastic, as well as completely wonderful!

As some of you know, I used to work at a call center.  It wasn't the best job in the world, but then again, I'm not entirely qualified to say that, because what didn't work for me might work for someone else.  I also have had my share of fun with people on the phone, both before I worked at the call center, and afterwards.  Let's revisit some of that today, shall we?

First, most telemarketers/advertisers/people who cold call and annoy you have a script that they have to read.  This is abasing, detracting from basic human dignity by attempting to analyze and measure something that ought not have been measured probably in the first place.  Second, the person reading the script is usually being forced to work long hours for peanuts, not generally adding to their general good cheer.  Third, most of them have just gotten off of a call where they've either been verbally abused, degraded, or cussed out - and they're dreading talking to you because they think you'll do the same thing.

So what should you do?  My suggestion is one of three things, depending on how much time and love you have.  Well, on how much love you have: if you have the love, you'll make the time.  For people who don't have the time or the love, just thank them for calling and hang up.  Say no more than that - it's the kindest way to deny them what they're shoving on you, and they're used to it by this time anyway.  For people who have a little time, listen to their script, kindly thank them and tell them of your disinterest in a polite, courteous way.  Of course, they're going to try again a couple of times - it's in their script.  Listen, thank, and dismiss politely again, repeating as often as you wish.

The third option is to actually interact with them as though they were actual genuine human beings.  Gently coax them out of their scripts by complimenting their accent.  Answer their question with something totally outrageous.  If you get them off their script, you give them a chance to breathe and be a human being in a dehumanizing position.  At worst, you've just wasted their company's time (which means nothing to you, but a bigger paycheck for the agent); at best, it gives them something to talk about at the soda machine.  "Hey, you'll never believe this call I had with this guy who calls his fish long distance.  No, really!"