Journeys of a Wandering Wordsmith
Journey with me on my blog!
After Helene: And the Leaf Still Holds
Walking out your front door, you rarely consider how different life will be when you return home. When you walk back through that door. Like a portal, you leave one home behind ... and return to another altogether. On September 21, I left Asheville for a road trip to visit family and friends across Pennsylvania. On October 2, I returned home to a hellscape like nothing I'd ever seen.
Alaska, At Last
Back in 2020, in that early sliver of what was sure to be a promising year, I started making preliminary plans to visit Alaska. Known widely as "The Last Frontier" and my own final frontier, too. I’d traveled to 49 states since touching down in Hawaii a couple years prior, and it was time, at last, to conquer them all. Well. We all know why that trip didn’t happen. And it’s been plaguing me ever since. Three and a half years of longing for Alaska. Until now. I refuse to long any longer.
I Can't Believe I Came From Her
My grandmother died. These words rattle around my heart like pinballs that won't settle, even a week beyond her funeral. And yet I wonder if the settling of these pinballs would be any better – the finality of their lodging into the belly of that machine, no longer kept alive by another flap of the paddles. Mayme Alice was the last of my grandparents to leave this earth, and undoubtedly the one with whom I grew closest.
What About Bob's Son
I don't know anybody in Ukraine myself. But I do know someone – a few someones – you can be praying for stateside. I've been reminded of Bob from my Running To adventure. Remember Bob? Sure you do. He's the single dad from Maine, a university professor I found on Couchsurfing who asked if I was sure I'd had enough soup for dinner. Oh Bob. So folksy with that thick Maine accent. Bob never married but always wanted to be a dad. So, he adopted two sons: the older from Russia and the younger...from Ukraine.
Beyond the Rot of This River
I've become more justice-minded in this year of isolation - to do something with this faith of mine. To borrow a vivid example from Ronald Rolheiser's "The Holy Longing": to not just retrieve dead bodies from the river, but to go upstream and find the source of all this death.
To Watch the Storms of My Sadness
Gluggavedur, "window-weather," is the notion of watching a storm from afar. Of being safely indoors, warm and secure, while the storm brews on the horizon. Lightning, swirling clouds, and rain – all seen through a pane of glass. The concept can be taken metaphorically, too, to separate yourself from your swirling emotions within. Of creating a space between you and the storms: sadness, anger, stress, fear, etc. Of not ignoring these hard feelings, but being aware of them, watching them from the other side of the glass...until they eventually pass.
The God Who Won't Speak Back
Six months into a pandemic, three into an autoimmune disease, my outlook feels more than a little frantic right now. Constantly on my phone or laptop and craving some sense of connection or novelty. A momentary break in the loneliness, the stuckness, and the waiting. Sometimes the break comes. Often it doesn't. Often I am greeted with silence. Thick, dark. Empty.
A Time to Refrain from Embracing
Looking down at my precious niece in my arms, I realized it's really something, how we need physical touch to survive. Need to be swaddled. Need to be held. Need to feel the warmth of another human emanating against us, if only to affirm to one another we are not alone in this desert. To embrace for my soul or not to embrace for my body? Life with an autoimmune disease during the pandemic of the century: one calculated risk after another.
Thank You for Being Brave
I'm writing this blog from home. And I never blog from home. Like ever. I have no other choice. Nothing is open. No late-night coffee shops and no early-night coffee shops either, for that matter. Coronavirus has violently disrupted every facet of normalcy. Society's. My own. Normal Monday evenings aren't normal Monday evenings anymore. And for God only knows how much longer.
A Safe Place to Vomit My Heart
I returned to counseling last week for the first time in six months. Counseling, therapy — I never know what to call it. How about a safe place to vomit my heart? Above all, I've needed two things sorely: Scripture and Jesus. Even after just one session back, I feel enriched: a session bookended with prayer as I shared the overview of my story. I started choking up after just twenty minutes.
Itch
I'm itching for home. God, I'm itching for regularity again. I'm itching for therapy and CrossFit and training for a marathon and the same coffee shops and writing my third book and building local friendships and taking Your Other Brothers to bold, new frontiers. I'm itching for this road trip to end.
Leave Me Alone
I'm grieving more than just the loss of my grandfather — a hero, a giant, an embodiment of God's love. I'm grieving all relational brokenness. I'm grieving human death for the first time, yes, but I'm also grieving everything else that separates humanity. Divorce, war, disagreement, misunderstanding, vitriol. Friends who aren't friends anymore.
A World Without Ahh
"I hope you have a lot of friends one day, Tom." My grandfather spoke these words to me when I was 15. We were in the car as I joined him on his usual run of errands: the bank, pharmacy, post office. It's strange referring to him as "my grandfather" — he was always just "Ahh" to me. Even stranger now to think of him in the past tense. My grandfather, Ahh, died this week.
Joy Terrifies Me
It's so clear now — something I've always known to be true about me and yet see anew. I'm terrified of joy. Joy just terrifies me. For how fleeting it is.
I Need to be Sad
The sadness. I can't ever let myself forget how sad and broken everything is. From the inside out. I can't, or I go on autopilot. I become a monster of a human I'd never want any of you to see.
This Isn't Real Life
When real life gets hard and messy and not as it should be, I have an inner sanctum I return to, again and again. One rotted by dopamine-laced falsities.
Do Not Calm This Storm
Jesus won't calm the storm with a single word. His way is a way of work. Of picking up crosses daily. Of lugging said crosses up mountains. Of taking the narrower way of all the broader ways available to my wanderlust.
End of Year Emo Blizzard
As 2018 winds down, I find myself in my most emotionally raw, volatile state of the year, probably ever. The North Carolina skies opened with a blizzard this week, and how I wanted this snowy downpour to cleanse it all away.
