Grace Never Shakes Its Head:

I once heard someone say, "You may be the only Jesus that someone ever meets." This is a very deep statement if we actually think about it in the framework outside of ourselves. We can easily take it in as a challenge to be perfect; or we can take it as a statement of grace. As I was reading Brennan Manning's book, The Ragamuffin Gospel, I was convicted by these amazing words that I feel closely coincide with idea of being the only Jesus someone may ever meet, "whatever our failings may be, we need not lower our eyes in the presence of Jesus." Hear me out, in no way am I claiming to be Christ. However, I am proclaiming the truth that I am His hands and His feet. I loosely throw this out, that I am the active, working, visual reflection of Jesus in a tangible, graspable, every day human form. I am saying that we, us, you and me, as individual people are Christ in the flesh. As unfavorable issues arise, issues that I would most definitely want forgiveness and grace poured for me, I have so often put my head down and shaken it in disgust; all the while claiming, I am His hands and His feet. This only portrays one visual of grace; that He will also put His head down and shake it in disgust and arrogance. How many eyes have looked to me for the reassurance that maybe today, maybe today's the day that they will see Jesus in all of his mercy and grace, and I was shaking my head, saying, "You're not worthy, and His grace was not for you. You're not together enough for this grace."

Grace doesn't drop and shake it's head, portraying a deep and unmistakable view of un-forgiveness and shame, it always invites us to raise our eyes in the presence of a loving and gracious savior who says, "Come to life, which has been given so that you may have it to the full."

Cleaning Wounds:

Cleaning a wound is not easy or free of pain. It actually often feels better in the moment to allow for the cut to sit and fester; hoping it will just take care of itself over time. The human body and the human spirit are two of the most restorable things that you will find in all of creation. In my time traveling the world though, I saw many people whose bodies had healed but they were left with a limp because the bone was never set correctly, or a small mountain of tissue on a wrist inhibited full movement due to the infectious growth that had gone untreated. Our spirits will often heal the best that they can without being set, or cleaned; but will it now try and enjoy the beauty of life inhibited by unhealthy scarring, or effort much harder while trying to run with a limp, continuing to avoid what may once again be a painful leap. We must allow our spirit, not unlike our physical bodies, to go through the pain of being set when broken, or cleaned out when torn; no matter how painful in the moment; to once again be as close to fully healed as possible. We are made to be whole and to continually find that whole-ness. But how? How do we search the depths of ourselves and find ourselves once again, whole, if we choose to believe that we alone hold the ability to reconcile the damage that has been done. These are questions that I have been asking myself as I continue to daily find strength and stability in the framework of Christ. I don't even understand that as I type this; I don't understand how brokenness can become whole again. It is a complete miracle by all accounts. I must say that my faith is founded on complete redemption of a Father who loves me dearly and who will over time, set my broken spirit and clean my dirty wounds, and when my spirit shall once again be trampled and downtrodden, He will set me straight with the comforting words, "Do you really trust that I am The Redeemer who will continue take all of your brokenness and make it new?"

I hold fast to these words from 1 Corinthians 1:18. For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.

My Name Is My Story:

While working with teenagers I was often asked very strange questions that would catch me completely off guard or leave me on the floor laughing hysterically. However, one day I was asked a very serious question by one of the guys. He asked, “Would you ever consider changing names with me?” I didn’t really understand why he asked this question or what he was getting at. However, I was somehow able to quickly respond with, “Of course not! My name has my story in it.” I didn’t really see the magnitude of my statement until I looked a little closer at what I had said.

Our name attaches us to a story. Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa, our neighbor, and every other human who has ever lived and will live in the future. We all have a name. We all have a story. We all are a story.

As represented in a few names listed before, our stories can and do look very different. Our stories can be ugly and full of hate, or joyful and full of hope. We may be able to empathize or feel that we understand someone else’s story, but in the end it is not our own. We can only observe and feel the repercussion of the ink being splattered or carefully and beautifully scripted on the pages of the constantly expanding or shrinking chapters being written. We can easily look at someone else’s story and feel that we have them figured out; we judge them by their actions or what they say. This may hold some truth and it is obvious that our actions hold a lot of weight in representing who we are. However, how often do we know someone’s name, but not their story? We know what we’ve heard about them through the grapevine, but we don’t really know their story. We know that they were arrested for stealing a loaf of bread, but the part we don’t know is that the young man never had a father to teach him how to work and the bread was for his mother who is unable to get to the store because she can no longer walk. We know that he was arrested for fighting in school, but do we know that in the limited time he had with his father, much of that time was spent being beaten every night? Yes, once again, we can look at the name. We can look at the outside and we can judge. I often do. But we have to see deeper, we have to get to know the stories of those around us. We must be willing to allow them to feel that we will allow them in without judgment; that their mess is not too much; that they are not just a name, but they are a story that is still being written. Their past does not have to be their future, and their future does not have to be their past.

After my initial confusion and answer I realized that what I was really being asked was, “Can I switch from my story to yours?” He wanted to have my story. He wanted to be out of where he was; he wanted to be rid of his pain. I think this is also my response to seeing the stories that others are living. I want their story. I want to steal their pages.

Ink is often messy. People are often messy. I am often messy. We must continue to write our own and also read those stories being written all around us.

Leave It Better Than You Found It:

Unfortunately, there are things that I have heard over the last two and a half years in my job that I wish I never had. Not that I’m not honored to have been a part of someone’s life to the depth that they were vulnerable enough to share part of their story with me, but that there were certain parts of their life that were so terrible and that they had that chapter that was able to be told. What response do you give to a young man who tells you that his mother once told him that she wished she had aborted him, or another guy who brings you visually and emotionally into his reality that as a kid when he was disciplined by his father he had to kneel down on rice scattered on their wood floor (often digging its way past the first and second layer of skin) with his hands clinched behind his head for hours; if he should so happen to get tired and begin to drop his hands than the man who was supposed to be firm but loving, a gracious teacher, and a light of guidance in a world that has enough trouble of its own; would take the metal end of the fly swatter and snap it across his bare back to remind him that his sentence had not yet been served. What response do you offer to a young man who was locked in a closet for days without food or water because he complained about the taste of dinner? And, what response do you offer to a young man whose father held his head in the toilet full of urine and feces, to the place that he almost drowned? He shared with me the desired response to this action, “I wish I had drowned. I just wanted to die.”

           
This finally became a tangible reality in the middle of one guy who would always ask me, “Why do you pick up trash all the time? Why do continue to pick up all that shit when you know you’re not making a difference?” I responded, “Well, I pick it all up, little by little, because I think we can make a difference; and because my mom told me to always leave it better than I found it. So, I guess I’m just trying to leave things better than I found ‘em.” The response that I got from him after what I thought was a deep and philosophical statement on my part was, “Well, my mom always said I was going to be a failure.”
           
A little back story of my past, is that I lost my mom to cancer when I was eighteen years old, and I thought that was as painful as it could get; but, I guess there are things worse than death. She never told me I was going to be a failure. She died, and that was devastating, but she never verbally killed me. She never uttered something so violent to my spirit; something that this guy will now live with for the rest of his life. I once again go back to my question I asked before, what response do you give to something like this? What action can we take that will be some sort of bandage or medicine for a wound to the soul? This became a daily question that I asked myself for months until I began to see a change in this young man through just investing my time and love. Over time I began to see his demeanor change, he seemed brighter and he no longer identified himself as a drug addict and a failure. Instead, he was now someone who told me that he was glad to be sober and alive, and he began asking for wisdom to persevere through the struggles and battles that continued to rage in his mind and heart. As his life began to change before my eyes, I realized that my answer had been there all along. Picking up the shit, was really making a difference, and it was slowly, but surely bringing him closer to who he really was. In every human life that we come across we must be willing to hear the stories that wrench our hearts, and we must then be willing to ask the questions of why, and how do we love greater? 

We must be willing to ask ourselves, are we leaving those around us better than we found them?

Not Really A Writer; Just A Story Teller:

Over the last two and a half years of work with teenage guys in a drug and alcohol rehab house, I have laughed, cried, gained a few patches of gray hair, sworn more than I think I ever have before, and heard a heck of a lot of stories. I have heard some very sad, terrible, and absolutely heart-breaking stories; but, I have also heard and been a part of some of the most amazing, glorious, joy-filled, fork-in-the-journey stories.

I love stories. Even though I've never been good at telling them, I really enjoy them. If you've ever spent any time with me, you know that when I start a story, it will probably end with, "Well, I guess you just had to be there." Maybe that is because I love looking back on the stories from my past; sometimes, but not always involving the people I'm talking with about the stories. The stories that have challenged me deeply. The stories that have left me asking more questions than enjoying the relief of an answer. The stories that when we look back, have made us who we are.

The stories of others seem to invite us into something that we weren't a part of, but that we desperately wish we had been. With this coming to life in me over the last few months, I began to write down conversations and interactions between the guys that I work with and myself. I was noticing a lot of opportunities that I felt that I was able to teach into, learn from, and also gather great stories. I've tried to start putting together a small book of hope.

I'll start off with what I put as I guess, my foreward? My prologue? I hope to continue posting these "chapters" as I sporadically finish writing them.

Welp, here goes nothin'.

Where We End Up

Foreward

- - - 

I think that one of the greatest, and possibly one of the most tragic things in life is that every young man wants to be his father. Maybe not the occupation; but the man, that's who we want to be. I grew up in a home that was governed by a man with an established foundation of respect; respect not only for himself, but for everyone else as well. In turn, I learned respect, and if it wasn't given, intentionally or unintentionally, a swift rebuke or the sting of a paddle on my butt was going to teach me the hard way. I used to hate this. I hated it for multiple reasons, mostly because I didn't fully understand the way that it worked. It wasn't like stealing or lying, two things that we all innately know are wrong; this was different, almost unexplainable. A life lesson that could only be taught to me by a good man who respected others no matter the respect or kindness shown to him. I have to look to my father as the guiding light of my life. The man who taught me to fish, to be honest no matter what, to always work my hardest no matter the payment, and that it is not about waiting for someone's respect in order to return it, but to give it whether it is deserved or warranted. 

      
I have found it very interesting that no matter how hard we try to understand life, and no matter how much effort we put into learning, there are certain facets that will come out of nowhere, unexpected, and honestly, very undesired. I say undesired in the way that this type of learning is not chosen by many. It is not a path that is often embarked upon with a light heart or a joyous dance. This path does not leave many unscathed and most end up crawling, mangled, or left for dead. There is not often a battle cry at the beginning of this journey, it is normally christened by a whispering of questions: what the hell have I done, and where the hell am I going? This journey is not for the weak in mind or heart, for they may believe they have found their way, but they are often walking in the opposite direction of the spears and the arrows, wielding no real weapons in the fight for their life; inviting and coaxing others to join in their march of retreat. The weak often boast and embellish themselves loudly while running away from the actual battle. This is perceived by most as a smokescreen to cover their retreat. So, the question must be begged, why does one retreat? Where does the cowardice begin? And, can it be reversed? Can the fear and shame from misguidance be transformed into something great? And, how? I will take the stance that there is hope for a change, but, there is no formula or step-to-step program that can guarantee an end to the cycle of despair in the heart of a young man. It is only through the investment and guidance of one who is just as scared of the journey and just as hesitant to embark, but who does not permit his own life, or any of those around him to be shaken by that fear. The journey of a man's heart into the unknown must be accompanied by other men unwilling to retreat, unwilling to abandon the resounding call for true life; and, they must be willing to carry those who have the desire, yet do not have the strength. 

The stories to follow are only made possible by grace, and other men who have crawled alongside, carried me, and urged me to stay the course.

- - -

I hope to soon finish up and post my first chapter on here in the next few weeks.

Chapter 1

Leave It Better Than You Found It
...coming soon

Mini-Me:

If you are by chance are a regular follower of my blog, I apologize that it's been a long time since I last posted anything. While working on a "mini-me" project for school, and getting some encouragement to hop on it, I thought I'd at least throw something up here.

If this is your first time reading my blog, please disregard the absolutely repulsive grammar of my past posts... I want to leave them because I think it shows growth and learning; and in full agreement with Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, those are a few of my favorite things.

To set this up, I'll give a little background; in my Exceptional Child class I had to find some way, any way that I wanted, to express who the "mini-me" is. I chose, with no experience, a rap of some sort.

Who is me?
 
I am me, the one who hates the idea of being held down, I'll always be one who wants to be free.

Really free.

One who can see. And, I mean, really see.

Seeing in belief, of what's really underneath.

Searching deeper forever, but not just for whatever.

I'm searching for more, way more than the usual. And I'm wanting good things to be said at my funeral.

I want it to be said, he was a good man and good father; not just to my sons, but also my daughters.

It's a dangerous thing they say, to bring a child in a world that's crazy this way.

But, in the words of Whitney, I believe the children are our future. We better, and I mean better, teach them well in order for them to lead the way.

Teaching them to not just enjoy the blue skies, but push through and pull others out of the gray.

I digress, I just threw a whole lot at you. Let's go back to a time, at least for a few.

I was born to a good woman and one heck of a man, they taught me, and taught me, and taught me... and taught me, that I was part of a plan.

Not a plan for religion but a plan of love, not one that is man-made, but straight from above.

But I hate that verbiage because God's not in the clouds; he put on some flesh and dirty shrouds.

He came to be selfless and to be love in strife; He lived who He was, the Way, Truth, and Life.

He now asks me to be, the same as Him. Forgiving and loving, no matter the sin.

Hate's thrown at me, even spit and yo mama's. But I've learned to keep my mouth shut to limit the drama.

I often can't see anyone except me, but when I get away from myself I'm totally free.

I want to spend my life living, serving and caring. Constantly striving for new strength, perseverance, and long-bearing.

So give me this day, my daily bread, and give me the hope to live till I'm dead.

I'd hate to succeed at what turns out to be nothing; I don't care what it looks like I just want to do something.

My heart longs for things deep and unimagined, I often believe what I could do unhindered, can't even be fathomed.

I'm not so different even though I'm a man of ideals, but I do believe there's a difference between what a man knows and feels.

To live is to die and to die is gain, I am barely grasping the truth of this pain.
 

A pain that is beauty, found only in giving, every part of my life until others are living.

Planning to teach in a mud hut or classroom; either way, I'm hoping, to end a cycle of doom.

I want children to know that they've got a purpose and hope, there's a lot more to their life than just theft and slangin' dope.

Don't pay mind to the struggle, the thugs, or the trouble, I just want to make beauty out of what most people call rubble.

I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is

Sitting in a coffee shop, relaxing with a book and a delicious latte I couldn't help but notice as I looked out the window that it was raining sideways. For those of you who have spent any time with me know that Forrest Gump is one of my favorite movies. And one of my favorite parts is when Forrest is describing all of the different types of rain in Vietnam. "One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath." It makes me laugh every time!

Ok, back to real life... It's the middle of summer and it's been over one hundred degrees forty days or something insane like that in the past two months. But for some reason as I watched this rain I had that feeling of an early fall day; the crisp and sometimes first bitter cold of the year kind of day. In that moment I was overwhelmed with how the love of Jesus is like that moment you step in from that cold. Your bones begin to warm back up and your teeth begin to stop chattering. The "I'm frozededed" feeling wears off and you can look out, almost in spite and say, "oh bitter enemy, you have lost your sting. I am warm. I am safe..."

Jesus, you have saved me from the little bitty stingin' rain... and the big ol' fat rain. The rain that flew in sideways. And the rain that sometimes even seemed to come straight up from underneath.

When the rain comes again, and it will, we are safe with you...