Well, hello there.

Hello indeed.

After nearly a year of not putting any blog posts up, and several weeks of wondering if I should maybe possibly get back on here, and several days of adamantly avoiding this thing... I'm back. I tend to avoid writing when I'm trying to avoid something in myself, so maybe that's been the case, at least in part. Honestly, though, I never did really get in the habit of posting very frequently and/or consistently on here, and I've spent a lot more time with my own personal journal(s) in recent months than I ever have before.

I've changed a lot over the last year. A lot's happened, after all... And I have learned and grown more than even I am yet fully aware, I think.

Even the last few months have been radically transforming for me, but not in ways I ever would have expected, nor that I would have necessarily wanted if I'd known they were coming. And yet... I actually asked for some of the hard things. Crazy, I know. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Then again, I don't suppose it was me getting into anything: it was much more God taking me by the hand and leading me into a gloriously unpredictable adventure.

And sometimes you have to wend through the brambles on the way to the blackberries.

Back in, oh, February or so, there was one particular day that I was doing nothing spectacular -- driving back to my apartment, I believe -- when I actually asked God to teach me to be weak.

And then realized what had just come out of my mouth and absolutely panicked.

In other words, I thought OH CRAP (...though my word choice may have been slightly different?) and spent the next several minutes trying to take it back and arguing with Him. He, however, did that crazy thing He does and showered out love and peace (particularly that) and grace over me... and I did that crazy thing called surrender. For that moment, anyhow.

From that point, He has been teaching me how to be weak; and I'm strangely glad for it. I don't think it's in our nature as humans to "delight in weakness," as Paul puts it. Not at all. We do what we can to save face, to project brilliant images of ourselves, to sweep our faults behind the masks we so expertly affix to our faces, and to pretend that no darkness dwells within us.

Personally, I try to embody perfection in every capacity. That's been my tendency since I was a child. And though I know I never can be perfect, I often pretend that I am. I strive to be in every realm that I could possibly reach perfection (and people's different definitions of perfection, for that matter) -- intelligence, fitness, work ethic, even spirituality and love -- and, honestly, fail miserably. Over the last several years, I've come to realize the futility and pointlessness of that desire. It took until this spring, though, for me to confront the reality that striving for perfection is, with no exception, an attempt to run from grace -- an attempt to tell Jesus I don't need Him. Is there anything wrong with striving to do the best I can in any and every area of life? No. Unless my motivation is (or becomes) self-driven rather than love-driven... and, really, Love-driven.

So. There's that part of things. I'm learning to throw away my desire for perfection; or, if not that exactly, to acknowledge that desire while desiring, above all, to love and follow Jesus. To realize how utterly dependent on Grace I am. To know how fully, extravagantly, and ridiculously loved I am by the greatest Love of all -- despite my failures and faults. And yes, coming to the end of myself in this way is a bit strange and exhausting, but HE is worth that. He is a much better sustainer than I ever could be; He extends much more and better love than I ever could or would give myself apart from Him.

And then... not long after I asked God to teach me to be weak, I was spending time praying one evening, and I distinctly heard Him ask me a question. I've never actually heard Him audibly speak, but I have heard Him speak... and He asked me, of all things, if I'd be willing to step back into depression.

Naturally, my first reaction was WHY?!?!?

I've dealt with episodes of depression since high school. I didn't talk about it then, really, because I didn't know (and didn't want to know, honestly) what was going on in me; I felt like I had to explain it or have a reason for it before I could tell anyone that something in me was wrong and broken. At that point, too, it was infrequent and inconsistent. That didn't do much to help with my experience of it, but it did help me explain it away and, in some ways, deal with it on my own. And then I went to college, and the worst and longest episode I've experienced to date hit, alongside a massive wave of spiritual attack. I thought I was crazy. I thought day after day that I should tell someone, that I should ask for help, that I should find a community... and I tried, but I felt like I was powerless to speak, to explain, to reach out. And at that point, I probably was.

I'm still not sure how I got through that stretch. I wanted to cut, but I didn't. I wanted to die, but I kept waking up, and getting up, and going through the motions every day. I wanted to kill myself... and somehow never "had the guts." (But really, He kept my hands on the steering wheel.) But somehow, by some mysterious Grace and Glory, God kept me through it, and He proved Himself utterly faithful and unshakable in the midst of something that broke and nearly shattered me.

It was the reminder of that faithfulness -- His constancy, His very BEING, and the knowledge that He is immovable God and is worth loving and following regardless of my emotional state -- that brought me to finally say YES as He continued to ask me if I would follow Him, even again into depression after basically a two-year hiatus.

Maybe I'm crazy. It remains, though, that He did ask if I'd be willing. And though I don't really have a desire to be depressed -- there's no way that I'd ever resign myself to it -- I do have a deep desire and need to follow Jesus wherever He leads. I do not at all believe depression is from Him; I do, however, believe He allows it sometimes. If I, and others praying for me, ask for it to be removed, and He doesn't do so, then He must have a reason for it. And, trusting that He is who He says He is and will be faithful to keep His promises, He would use even this for good.

Because oh, do I love Him. As much as I can -- and with all the grace He allows me, as much as He enables me to -- I LOVE Him.

Funny thing. It took me a few days to finally say that I would follow Him into that. That I would indeed be willing, though I certainly wouldn't prefer it. When I finally did say that, though, I expected it to hit right away.

But it didn't. So maybe it was just a question, I thought. Maybe it was just a test, a thought process, a wrestling with God. Maybe nothing more would ever come of it.

....Or maybe it would. About a month after that, it hit out of the blue.

Depression is strange. Sometimes it's like a constant fog, though it clears a bit some days; sometimes it's like a brick weighing on your chest and sinking into the pit of your stomach; sometimes it's a series of aches and pains and random muscle spasms; sometimes it's an overwhelming, dark heaviness that infiltrates every emotion, every action, every thought. It isn't always demanding and controlling, but sometimes it is. Those days are the hardest.

The strangest thing in all of this to me, though, is the way that Jesus, and the Holy Spirit in me, are renewing and re-molding my mind. Do I like depression? Oh, that's funny. No, of course not. But I am, in so many ways, grateful for it. Not every moment, not every day... but, increasingly so, I'm grateful for it because, and really ONLY because, I am absolutely convinced that nothing can separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. He reveals that love through His own presence, absolutely (and oh, thank You); and He also reveals that in a rich, beautiful community that surrounds me.

I'm not alone. We're not alone. And the fear of appearing weak and imperfect becomes a reality -- but it then becomes the reality that living in a community with other weak and imperfect people is, though messy, so much better. It's better to have somebody -- or somebodies -- praying for you, staying on the phone with you until two in the morning when you're not sure you'll be safe on your own, or holding you on the couch when you're sobbing for no reason.

It's better to be able to do that for others in return, too.

This is part of what it is to be the Church: to be the hands and feet of Jesus to the world, we must be the hands and feet of Jesus to one another. And we must allow others to be the hands and feet of Jesus to us.

Oh, what love. By Love, we extend love to one another; we receive love from one another; and we spread that love throughout our broken, hurting, depressed world. We know how to do that better when we have ourselves been broken, hurting, and depressed.

It is thus, too, that we share in the sufferings of Christ. And that is one of the greatest privileges I can imagine.

"The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, heirs also, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, if indeed we suffer with Him  so that we may also be glorified with Him. For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that will be revealed in us..." (Romans 8:16-18).

Did Jesus Dream?

My brain seems to have its own source of boundless energy. The more I try to coax it into rest, the more I attempt to cease thinking, the more it rebels with the stubborn will that only choice three-year-olds possess. It can be exhausting at times. Regardless, I'm often grateful for the strange thoughts that stealthily weave themselves into my mental meanderings...

See, I'm convinced that my mind and my thoughts are no longer my own.

I know that sounds more than a little strange at first. At second glance, you may even wonder if you should recommend a psychiatrist. I'm not crazy, though... at least, not like that! I merely believe that the Bible truly is God's word, and that God's word is true. If I believe that, then I must believe this:

"For who has known the mind of the Lord that he may instruct him? But we have the mind of Christ."

That's a heavy statement, and yet it's gloriously beautiful. I have the mind of Christ? I certainly don't understand that. I do believe it, though, and I'm convinced that this "mind of Christ," given by the Spirit (see the rest of I Cor. 2), works in and through me on a daily basis, even when I'm unaware of it.

At work tonight, I was doing menial tasks in the kitchen when one particular phrase in a radio song jumped out at me: "...Even heroes deserve to dream." I don't know why I heard that sentence; I hadn't even been listening to the music. I did hear it, though, and a question immediately surfaced in my mind: did Jesus dream?

I've been pondering that question ever since that moment, but it has, like so many of my thoughts, metamorphosed into many ideas. I have far more questions now than I did earlier, and thus far fewer answers... I do have imaginations and wonderings and awe, though.

That one question, "Did Jesus dream," has brought me (so far, anyhow) to this realization: I don't give Jesus nearly enough credit for having been human. I believe that he was. In fact, I believe that he was simultaneously fully God and fully man. I have learned about various doctrines and beliefs of the incarnation since I was a child; I have known of Christ's humanity. I have never comphrehended it.

I still don't comprehend it. How can I when, as of yet, all the mental images I have of Jesus are of him sitting in grassy meadows or on calm, glassy seas wearing his spotless white robe and blue sash? It's a ridiculous portrait, really. He was a carpenter's son. Carpenter's sons simply don't have spotless clothes (have your ever met a carpenter?), and I'm quite sure they didn't accessorize with nicely color-complementing accessories.

Jesus was an infant once. He was born in the same way that all human children are born: he inflicted severe pain on his mother, and he probably had the same red-wrinkled face and helpless wail that all newborns do. He was raised as every child is; he had to learn as every child does (yet, somehow, without sin...).

It is this boy-Jesus that so intrigues me. When he was very young (say, five years old, or even eight or nine), did he comprehend that he was the son of the one true God? Did he fully comprehend his nature, his power, his utter being? Did he first and always dream of reuniting the world with himself, his Father, and the Spirit, or did he dream of growing up to become a carpenter, like his father Joseph? From the first real insight we're given into his boyhood (when he's left at the temple in Jerusalem for three days), it seems that his focus was merely to be with his Father -- in the place where his Father resided. The closest he could then get to heaven on this earth, I suppose, was the temple. Even with that ultimate desire, though, did he understand and desire to fulfill his "mission," or did God allow his life dreams to change throughout the course of his life?

And what of those other sorts of dreams? When Jesus laid his head down at night, did he dream of daily, mundane interactions, or was his head filled with images of the other-worldly, the ethereal (that is, the truly real), the beautiful? Did he see the Father and Spirit in his dreams, spending hours of blissful community with them, or did he longingly dream of returning to them? Did he dream of the kingdom as it was created to be, as it will be in the quickly coming future?

Did he dream of us?

I don't know, of course. I don't think that these questions meant to be answered. All I know is that they've set me thinking:

Who is this Jesus that I love, worship, and follow? I know much about him, but I am constantly reminded that I know him very little. I do have insight into his mind, though -- I am claimed by him, and his Spirit lives in me. I can only hope and pray that the more I grow to know him through this and through his word, the more I will know what it is to have the mind of Christ...

And maybe I'll learn to dream the way He did.

Father's Day

Ah, Father's Day: the holiday that no one is quite sure how to celebrate.

Why is it that it's so hard for us to find ways to show appreciation for our dads? Maybe I'm overgeneralizing... I know that I'm always stumped, though. Gift-giving is near to impossible. My dad himself hardly ever has a wish-list (or even a single wish), so it's hard for me to find a tangible representation of the deep love and respect I have for him.

Maybe he'll like a new...tie?

How original.

Considering that my dad rarely never wears ties, even that old standby isn't an option. Fishing and hiking gear are usually the best bet, but even knowing that, I have no idea what to get unless he tells me exactly what he wants. And if I forget to ask... well, shoot. Maybe a gift card?

I'm not exactly admitting that I forgot to ask him this year (*evasive half-smile*)... Let's just say that I found myself perusing the card aisle at Target last night, hoping to find a semi-meaningful card in which to write something at least somewhat more meaningful so that I'd have something to give him today. This is my "old standby" gift: words. They may not cost much, if anything, but they're typically more meaningful than a tie or a new fishing reel would be.

This year, though, even the card aisle failed me. It seems that Father's Day has become nothing more than a day to recognize obese fishermen, beer-loving grill masters, and perpetual flatulence. (Oh, I almost forgot--- a nicely scrolled inscription of generalized mushy sentiments was occasionally thrown in there, too.)

Is this really what fatherhood has been reduced to in our society? Is the term "dad" limited to those men who, having made their contribution(s) to the gene pool, now perpetually take up their rightful place in the La-Z-Boy? Frankly, if this is part of the American dream, I want out.

You might have guessed this already, but I left Target empty-handed last night. I couldn't justify spending $4.59 on the "best" card I could find: "Thanks for the constant source of inspiration you have always been." While that statement may ring true, it doesn't really say anything; it certainly doesn't come close to expressing how incredibly blessed I am or how drastically changed my life would be if my father weren't the true dad that he is and always has been.

My dad may be a baseball coach, fisherman, handyman, and grill master (note here my subtle avoidance of the word "flatulence"), but his role as man and father is by no means defined and/or limited by his work and hobbies. He may have a favorite chair, and he certainly enjoys time alone up in the mountains, but he willingly and readily devotes time to me, my siblings, and my incredible mother.

Most importantly, my father loves Jesus. I am absolutely certain that I would not have the relationship I have with God-- my other Father-- if it weren't for the reflection of Him that I see in my dad on a daily basis. From the time I was little, he would start deep, biblical conversations that would, to many, seem beyond a child's comprehension. Perhaps they were at times. Perhaps, though, my dad has always known that certain aspects of God are best seen through children's eyes... (And how I wish I could still see more of this life with those eyes...) Those conversations still continue. Even the conversations and convictions would be meaningless, though, if they weren't lived out.

Recently, our church had a series on the definition of-- and recognition of-- a real man per God's descriptions and examples in the Bible. At the end of those few weeks, most of the men in this church were given contract of sorts: "The Thin Red Line." It reads like this:

As a man resolved to be the man that God created and intended me to be...

I WILL... Fix my eyes on Jesus.

I WILL... Love and honor and be faithful to my wife.

I WILL... Lead out in the training and instruction of my children.

I WILL... Teach my son.

I WILL... Protect my daughter.

I WILL... Forgive myself and others for the past.

With God's presence, power, and grace...

I WILL... Never, ever, ever give up, quite, resign, or surrender my God-given call to take responsibility for my own life and the lives of the people that God has entrusted to my care.

My dad not only signed the contract: he also kept it and framed it, and he put it where virtually everyone who sets foot in our home can see it. He is utterly in love with his Creator, he is actively reminding himself of the responsibility he has, and (as my entire family and most of his peers can attest to) he's doing everything he can to carry it out.

He may not be perfect, but he is one of the most incredible, godly men and fathers that I've ever had the privilege of meeting. The fact that he's my dad is honestly overwhelming at times... I am so blessed.

Thank you for who you are and all that you do, Daddy. I know I'll never be able to fully express that in words, but that doesn't mean that I won't keep trying to tell you. Thank for loving and honoring mom, and for being every bit the father to Chris, Angela, and Patrick as you are to me. Thank you for not only protecting me from other people and things, but also for teaching me how to recognize the most harmful parts of myself. Thank you for loving our family so well, and thank you for whole-heartedly pursuing Jesus, the only one who makes any of that possible.

Happy Father's Day. I love you.