Journeys of a Wandering Wordsmith
Journey with me on my blog!
That Time I Stood Up to a Homophobic, Transphobic Bully – Also, a Pastor
A storyteller I follow refers to his growth in the numerical unit of past iterations of himself. "That was eight Robs ago," he'd say of himself, back when he used to believe one thing or behave a totally different way. I've started viewing my own growth in this vein, thinking about all the Toms that have existed in this singular Tom, particularly with regard to this active-passive dynamic. My passivity has run especially true in matters of relational conflict. Given the option to fight a conflict or flight a conflict (please excuse my incorrect usage of a noun as a verb in the name of symmetry), I will flight nine times out of ten. Ah, but then there's always that one instance...
The Cost of New Creation (2024 Will Hurt)
Sometimes we speak things out, and they become true. Like we're wizards spinning magic into this world; our wands as our pens and mouths, created by a Creator with the same capacity to write and speak and do. Create. And then other times we declare bold things for our stories that do not come true. These goals, these new stories, these fuller versions of ourselves – well, they don't form as we hoped, if even they form at all.
Everybody Needs an Uncle Pat
I became an uncle six years ago, and Uncle Pat has always been my template for uncling. Because everyone needs an Uncle Pat. Someone to remember them on their birthdays, buy them Slurpees, ask about their lives, and drive them around on special journeys. If my nieces or future nephews ever have anything positive to say about their Uncle Tom, it will be because Uncle Pat showed me how to uncle well.
Am I a Writer?
At the end of the day – or, rather, at each day's sacred start – despite all the excuses or hard realities, I must ask myself this question: am I a writer? Do I still self-identify as someone who writes? Because if I'm not doing that regularly – writing – am I, by definition, still a writer?
The Year I Don't Wanna Look Back On (Again)
I don't want to look back on this year. Who would? This year was awful. This year made no sense. Much like its evil stepsister year before, this year isn't one I want to relive. Like, ever. And yet we are doomed to repeat history if we do not learn from it. It's true of societies, and it's true of individuals. As much as I want to forget most of 2021, I also want to learn from 2021 – desperately. The missteps. The failures. The doom. The gloom. What a tragedy for me – for you, for all of us – to enter 2022 or 2023 or 2087 and not learn a thing from 2021.
Our New Alivelihood
In one sense, how convenient for a pandemic to occur in the year 2020-21 and not 1920-21: for many of us to work remotely and stay "connected," at least in some sense of the word. But I've felt the strain of not experiencing a dimension beyond screens on screens on screens. Experiencing the dimensions of humanity and creation interwoven again. Last week, I saw humans with hats and cameras and boots and smiles walking all around me from the blues of Lake Tahoe to the beige of Death Valley. Humans: exploring, basking. Like we were ever ago made to do, like we evermore shall do.
Older Than Jesus
Growing up, Jesus always seemed so much older than me. Not like eighty or ninety or a hundred "old," but when you're only eight or nine, thirty years old feels a hundred years away. But now to have lived the ages of 30 to 33, I have a new perspective on the life of Jesus. Turns out he was way younger – and way stronger – than I'd thought. I've had a tumultuous three years; perhaps the most shaping three years of my life. Again, as a storyteller, I can't help drawing parallels with Jesus' thirties.
Do You See Me?
I did what You asked, I built what You told me to build, and it literally collapsed. So now what? Are You even there anymore? I feel the strain in Nathanael's voice. The wavering. A desperate pleading to be seen.
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.
5 Years With a Blue Ridge Home
Come whimsy or mayhem, for five years running the road keeps leading me back here to the Blue Ridge. However many nights I've actually slept in a bedroom here, it is indeed starting to feel something like home. I stared at the hills the other day and prayed, "God, please don't let it ever grow old."
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.
What Will I Have Done This Year?
Instead of saying, "What do I want to do this year?" try saying, "What will I have done this year?" It's a productivity tip I learned from Donald Miller, and I've never been more eager to implement this subtle mental tweak for 2021.
Am I Worthy of Your Giving?
Am I really worth your hard-earned dollars? Am I worth your kindness? You say I am, but am I really? I don't want to waste my money – your money. I don't want to buy things I don't "need." But I also "need" some amount of pleasure and joy. Can I buy a milkshake with your money? What about a new lamp for my studio? I want to make you proud of my journey, however much you've contributed to it. I want to be worthy of every cent.
Change, Leave!
I want to leave my usual ways of changing, leaving. Of always running from things, even if I'm also running to new ones. Of masking my loneliness and shame with adventures and Instagram posts. I want to continue learning to stay for a change, staying for change.
Break the Silent Madness
Sometimes the blogs come easily; sometimes they do not. Sometimes I feel as if I've nothing to say; other times, I have too much material to choose from. Sometimes it's all safe stuff; sometimes it's riskier. Take politics, for one. Oh the riskiness. Is that shudder from the wind or within? I'm finding it increasingly difficult these days to remain silent about politics while the insanity rages.
These Hills Have Me
I'm not getting out much these days. I used to sprawl all over this city and region, but I've become more of a homebody than ever before. But I'm living in my favorite dwelling I've ever built for myself, a homier, "Tom-ier" place than anywhere else, complete with maps and globes and buffalo art; early mornings with lighted candles and open windows and blanketed fog amidst the canopy. It feels good to be a body in this home.
Not So Wonderfully Made
I don't feel wonderfully made right now. My autoimmune disease makes me feel newly flawed. Like my Designer forgot to quality-check my body before He sent me to the womb, apparently knit with this broken strand.
Jesus Year
In 2017, when I was 30, I quit my full-time job at a boarding school to pursue more of Your Other Brothers. It's work, certainly, editing blogs and producing regular streams of podcasts and videos, but it's also a lot of ministry. Responding to emails from new readers. Engaging with supporters at coffee shops. Planning weekly digital gatherings and yearly "real-life" retreats. Am I comparing myself to Jesus, you're asking? Why, of course I am. But shouldn't we all?
Give Us Tomorrow's Barabbas
Our entire lives we have wanted to be more present. And now that we've been given nothing but buckets upon buckets of the present, we are kicking away the pails and saying, "Give us back our precious longings." The savior we have anticipated through countless yesterdays is finally here in our midst, and we cry for Barabbas.
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.