I’ll post more about this in detail, but I realize that this season of study, service and introspection is going to be more difficult (and hopefully, more rewarding) than expected. I’m excited to see how God shows up.

There may be a new blog coming soon. Stay tuned!

Photo courtesy of Jeremy Brooks (Flickr).

I have discovered you cannot properly grieve in a city; it won’t give you a damn second to be alone. I’d like to have a moment of silence in an alleyway, behind the dumpster, over the beggar-man, to the cacophony of car horns and ice cream carousel jingles. No dice. The city clamors, roars, and cries for attention.

Once I sat in Oakland traffic and watched low-slung motorbikes and Cadillacs rush by in hip-hop time, their mourner-passengers leaning out windows and moonroofs, flailing their arms and cursing out the world. Because when the city pays you no attention, you must raise your voice and roar.

Maybe I’ll hold the wake behind the stadium, or under the piers, or by the train tracks. It’d never work though. The guests would get lost in the crowds, bumping shoulders with cruise ship passengers. What could they hear over the roar of the fans, or the earthshaking rumble of the 252? Tourists would train their cameras, passersbys would gawk, it’d be a spectacle.

So that’s why when funeral processions snake through Chinatown, they are accompanied by a band. Because when the city drowns you out, you must raise the horn and wail.

Grace, grace, it all comes from Grace. Today I heard that I deserve nothing; everything given to me is a gift. I think it was the millionth time I'd heard it, but the first time I actually thought about living it.

I think the Gospel is crazy because it talks about a Jesus who suffered rejection. A Jesus that forgave his enemies not because he was a nice guy asking to get run over, but because his Father was ultimately the one who dealt justice. I really like that Jesus knows about (our) suffering not in an omniscient, detached way, but in a literal, experiential manner. I really like that in the end, I can trust that the end outcome is swift justice, steady mercies and overwhelming grace.

So grace, grace; I determined that I need this truth hammered into the far inner crevices of my soul--where truth must stick to my rib so I may know that I deserved nothing, but received everything through Jesus. I need in this time to stop living in selfish fantasies and move toward sweet release. I want to move past bitterness into gratitude, control into surrender. Though she is no longer here, my memories reveal graces small and large. Though they are reclaimed by the Giver, today I glimpsed freedom to travel toward the new country.

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Henri Nouwen is kicking my butt.

I am now distraught with sweet, sweet grief in accepting what I do not understand. “Child of weakness watch and pray, find in Me thine all in all.”

The mission next year is to live in faith, seek spiritual renewal, and develop personal boundaries. In that order, until things change again.

Sarah had always made light of the fact that I’m like a robot. After all, I work in code all day at my job. And I’m stable, familiar, and predictable. And I could always be counted on to “do the right thing.” And often I have, how shall we say, limited emotional capabilities.

When Sarah and I recently decided to break up after two and a half years together, we both felt strongly that it was for the best. Things had progressed to the point where we didn’t feel it was right to move on. She didn’t feel understood, I didn’t feel accepted. We didn’t have the self-awareness to pinpoint a growing uncertainty within. We had been through good times and bad, we were different. But at one point, we had piled up more distance and unresolved conflict than we could afford to handle.

I’ve spent the better part of the month trying to get inside my own head and put the words to what’s really going on in me. It’s been difficult to know where to start. The first day I was hurt and angry. The second, I was overwhelmed with sadness. The third, I was numb, and so on, in various little permutations. There are days filled with the humdrum of work, the supportive words of a good friend (perhaps you!) and tremendous freedom. And there are days where I’m honestly pretty miserable, mourning the loss of shared dreams and a companionship dear to my heart.

I’ve read it somewhere that men are often unfairly portrayed as emotionless; they simply don’t know how to express what they feel. True; sometimes I feel that having a precise vocabulary and incredible emotional self-awareness will be the tools I need to heal. But if I let this go on too long, I’ll never write. Of course, I say this with some embarrassment that what’s coming out is completely overdramatic. But I won’t apologize for that… yet.

And in some strange, kinda sick way, it’s kind of nice to feel the pain and know that I’m not a robot. I’m skin and bones, joyously fragile, with little to boast about but the Father who loves me.

I am in a period of searching for significance through my work. May I remember that it is worth nothing to build my name in something other than Jesus.