Treasures on Earth

This is one that I hope becomes something that I believe when I write it.

It is strange to want a spirit that is righteous but still function in a manner otherwise.

Similarly, it is strange to recognize one's vices and still return to them. I do not condemn these behaviors, for I am found in both of these statements. Somewhere along the way the challenge switched from cognition to belief. I've said it before; I guess that's where faith lies.

Do you suppose that what is offered by him is better than what is offered by the world? Certainly, as such is a pillar of what we believe...

But I am starting to realize that writing it down does no better for me; I still am not completely convinced.

I'm guess I'm hoping that somewhere along the way some wires got crossed or I got hung up on some bitterness, and then I will go back with ferocity in believing that the word of God is what man lives by. Or perhaps God is showing me what it is like to live in want, so that contentment might make itself apparent in me.

It is so weak of me to ask God for riches, counting on His ability to fit pack animals through the heads of needles.



It was one of those April Nashville days when it feels like summer in the sun and winter in the shade.

I remember clenching the wheel with both of my hands, as though I were a sailor fighting for control of his vessel during a tempest. In a sense, I was.

We skipped church, and instead we went to CVS and bought Wheat Thins and a pint of Welch's, and then we took communion in my Camry on the side of Nolansville Pike.

I also remember preparing food for the children on Jimmy Carter who live in the America Extended Stay. They are like ghosts, plodding up and down the hallways of hotels and the baking Atlanta roads, searching for something. They might even be looking for the same things as I am. I was packing little milk cartons when the woman in charge looked at my high school cross country coach from three years ago and asked him if I was his son. He said no, but he'd sure take me.

There are so many speckles of memories like this, like creases on my palm. I realize now that much of who I am comes from events such as these: they define me.

I think that sometimes I should write them all down. Other times I think that I really shouldn't, because the ones that are truly character defining will stick without me writing them down.



I didn't get off of work until very late today, which is always very sad on a Friday. It hit me as I rounded Sugarloaf onto the comforting I-85 that I really hate money. That isn't to say I don't wish I had more of it. But I really loathe it.

I've got all this stuff, too, and I don't really like it either, but I want more of it also. I suppose that's a bit greedy, but admitting that I hate it has to be moving in the right direction. So step off.

Relationships are valuables. And that's it.

I've got this creeping suspicion that God uses our realization of the worthlessness of all of this stuff and money to bring us nearer to him. I cannot be sure, because turning to God because our worldly things are worthless seems as an elementary motivator to faith as can be, on multiple levels. I am sure the romantic in me would hope that love and grace or some other noble virtue would make up the primary motivators toward righteousness.

But at the exact same time, and I can see myself in this sometimes, someone may fall into God because this world is just lame.

I feel sometimes that this faith is like a Maslow pyramid balanced upside-down, wobbling like a spinning top. It is quite a sight when lived in truth: precarious, illogical, and full of passion.


About Showing Up

Sometimes, I do what I want to do. The rest of the time, I do what I have to.


Plans and Directions

I wonder what God thinks about my strivings.

I should add that I mean those strivings that are neutral in regards to their morality. I would assume it that God frowns upon our sin and delights in uprightness.

I mean that I wonder what he thinks about when we cheer for a certain team or make plans to go here or there.

It frightens me greatly, because all at once I realize his utmost authority and can't help but question how much he cares about the things that I care about. I can understand, with a childlike reluctance, that the things that I hope for are probably not quite as high on the agenda as the spiritual obligations of the Father.

But to be honest, I don't know how much he cares. Maybe he thinks these plans are funny. Maybe God likes Barcelona and hates Real Madrid and the Yankees. Maybe God is neutral to my intentions of heading to the beach for my last weeks of summer.

I honestly do not know, and that scares me. Because I have a vague thought creeping in the back of my mind that perhaps I shouldn't care about these things as much as I do.

But I know that I do care, because sometimes, when its very late and I am worn down, I will earnestly ask God to care about these things also.



They say a murderer went free today in my country. I am not sure why everyone cares. I wouldn't even know she was declared innocent except for the torrent of angry, hateful tweets and posts.

I do not know if she was guilty. Maybe she was.

And if she was, what she did was a grotesque, morbid deed of unbridled evil. Her release would represent a poor excuse of a miserable justice system.

But I don't desire that this woman go to hell or die, and I, too, will take a verdict of innocent when it is undeserved.