A Word To My Reader
I am not a perfect voice calling out in the dark, but a broken voice calling out in the dark. I have not said anything perfectly, nor have I ever touched on perfection flawlessly. Every element I speak on found here will fall short on every degree because of the breadth and width of which the topic expands (both logically and emotionally). In fact the only thing I can come closest to in explaining perfectly would be my brokenness, because that, I know better than perfection. I can only try to speak about the glimpses of perfection I have seen in my life. Please bear that in mind as you read. I hope that these compositions can bring further light to the honest depths and heights that life teaches us about ourselves, the world around us, and the starter of this all, God.
As Phillip Lopate says, in reading this you will learn more about my “habits of thought” than the activities that actually make up my day to day. I do not assume that most will want to read any of this, but for the one who is feeling lost or confused, for the one who is trying to find reason to keep living, for the one who is fighting against himself, others, or his God, and desiring to better understand why, I hope these pieces of writing might be a friend to you. I hope they push you to press on, to appreciate living (and working), to appreciate the smallest of moments with a family member, close friend, or stranger. I hope they move you to explore and imagine, to find the “why” behind anything, and to trust that though we have a finite understanding, the One who is infinite has been made accessible to mankind. Mankind meaning you and me, and there is no small amount of peace to be found in that truth.
P.S. I attached a song to the bottom of each composition to accompany its reading. Enjoy!
The Sound Of A Clock
(March 1, 2022)
There are a few things in life that always sound the same; a clock, for example, is one of them. No matter where you are or what type of clock it is, a clock is a clock, and so it sounds as such. Cars passing on the street at night is another, and the same goes for the sound of people shuffling through an airport, or the dishes being done in the kitchen while another sits in the living room.
Some sounds, some feelings, will always stay the same no matter where you are, or who you’ve become, or what season of life you’re in. They are good old friends (but too often, they are forgotten as we grow up because their sound is not deemed important enough to notice). But I am trying to remember, and because a clock always sounds the same, it reminds me of 15 years ago when I was a child at a sleepover, noticing that I and the clock seemed to be the only ones still awake. And though it kept me up, I always felt peace because I knew that the clock’s consistency would not change based on mine.
As we age, life pushes us to shed layers and put on others. But sometimes, we find that we have shed some layers that we didn’t actually mean to lose. We made a radical decision to rip layers off because they didn’t fit with our new understanding of the world—as a matter of fact, life wasn’t as kind and beautiful as we imagined. And so we threw those layers aside, because they had felt like lies amidst our new felt pain. And besides, we seemed to be judged by our peers for those whimsical layers anyway, so it was good to throw them off.
But I have become quite hard and sharp on the edges now. So I’m trying to remember again. I’m scavenging the floor to find some of those old layers, some of those old jackets. They may be worn and frayed, but they raised me through much of my childhood. And though, at times, the glasses were a little too rose-colored, that was sometimes a good thing because it further brought out the colors that were already there in the world (and without them, I would have been too oblivious to notice).
So now, I’m listening to old songs I used to love in 2015 and 2016. I am taking the time to feel them all over again; I remember why I loved them. I’m re-hiking old mountains and taking the time to sit silent where I used to sit for hours, only hearing the cars bustle below. I’m thinking about memories of my younger sister when she was just 16, belting her favorite songs with her eyes closed and her mouth turned up in a smile. I’m once again driving, looking out at the trees, the clouds, the sun, the road in front of me, seeing them for what they are and what they were, symbols of hope and endless possibility. I am beginning to dream again.
I found some of my old layers (and I’m still looking for others). I missed them, I have changed, but they haven’t. They still feel like home. And now they seem to fit even better than before because now I know how to wear them. And so I write this as I lay on my couch in my living room, staring up at my ceiling, noticing once again that it’s just me and the clock who are still awake tonight.
And so it’s true, life isn’t as beautiful and kind as we imagined, and yet it is. We just have to choose to see what those rose-colored layers were trying to show us all along.
Chess Pieces
(July 16, 2020)
Are we just chess pieces to the Heavenly Beings?
A game between God and Satan over who will win? And who will get the most glory?
I am a pawn, and you, the bishop. I run into you, we speak, you say something quite profound, but expected, which makes me switch directions or jump to another square, and you likewise.
Is life made up of different pointless encounters? Encounters that only matter in relation to the Almighty in order to bring about his victory, but in relation to us, mean and matter very little?
Has my value been forgotten, or did it ever actually exist outside of someone else’s victorious purposes? Am I valued because I was created to move from this square to that, in order to help bring the match to a fine conclusion? But once used or destroyed, taken off the board and placed back in the box to either never be played again or to be used for another's purposes?
And do I look any different from that of the other pawns? Or am I just one in the number of cheap wood pieces that sit and move within the confines and rules of the game? I am made of dust, after all.
I wonder, above all, if I am cared for. Or if I am loved.
I resolved to make my conclusions until a response from outside invaded my dialogue. It pierced through each and every question, straight and clear. It prevailed over all other thoughts, as a sword slaying all in its way.
“A Chess player does not die for his chess pieces.”
And there was the answer to my questions. This thought was not of me. It was an answer from the Almighty.
My Body
(December 23, 2016)
It's funny, I do think I know my body... this garment that covers my soul. Though, I have found that I know it only in part. I understand it solely because of the countless times I’ve looked over it, seeking to find imperfections in order to fix them. It wasn't till tonight that I had realized that never before had I studied my body, simply to know the perfections. Never had I looked in the mirror to study and observe my eyes, my brows, my nose, lips, cheeks, or chin.
God could have given me any arrangement of these structures, and yet He specifically gave me these ones, those that build what seems to be a face, my face. Would I know a picture of my hand, my hair, my shoulders, feet, nails, or silhouette because it was a familiar form I had looked over for 20 years, eyes trained to notice the usual imperfections? Or would I notice that it was mine because only I owned that trait? This was not a body I happened upon, but a body that was uniquely designed and chosen for my soul. I should learn it; I should know it. There is beauty held within this body. In every line, scar, and detail. This beauty to be acknowledged is not one of vanity, as if it was an accomplishment I attained. No, it was handcrafted by the one above and given to me, and it is just as much a part of this breathtaking creation as any other part. Should I not also study it in complete amazement as I would any other part of creation? My body, too, is a stunning miracle.