Nick Hindes - Living Out a Spirit of Adoption

Losing Faith in Mankind

Mon, 14 May 2012 00:00:00 GMT

I recently finished Charles Murray's most recent work, Coming Apart: The State of White America, 1960-2010. Much of what I what I read was a preverbal slap in the face, an abrupt andrude awakening to truth. In his study, Murray provides data that suggests a shift the American population has made since the 60's, predominantly within the white population. One point that I have been stuck on is this: that the white population has moved from social gatherings and club membership to becoming all-inclusive hermits, fearful of the world around them and full of distrust for the general masses. Consider these questions:

When social trust breaks down, social capital breaks down across the board. With that in mind, consider this set of three questions that the GSS (Center for Strategic Studies) has asked almost ever survey since 1972:

Would you say that most of the time people try to be helpful, or that they are just looking out for themselves?

Do you think most people would try to take advantage of you if they got the chance, or would they try to be fair?

Generally speaking, would you say that people can be trusted or that you can't be too careful in dealing with people?

(Charles Murrary, Coming Apart: The State of White America, 1960-2010, Location 4050)

Every time I read this section, it stung like the bitter cold of January on my face. Is there any faith in our fellow mankind? Most people would say that there is not need to put faith in their fellow man because "they are looking out for themselves," "will take advantage of you if given the chance," so really, "you can't be too careful." We have shifted from community and fraternity to skeptical and distrustful.

How would you answer these questions? Post your comments here.

I am a pastor

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 00:00:00 GMT

Fancy suits. Enormous hair. Bright lights. Pulpits. Thousands of congregants in their midst. Booming voices. Books, mp3s, podcasts, TV shows. Endorsements. TBN. Spitting when they talk. Walking with a strut. Swagger.

That's not me.

Being a pastor is...it's not...

It's not some title or some honor bestowed upon some attention-grabbing individual, who desires the perpetual and proverbial spotlight cast upon them from the hours of 9am to noon, one day a week (and the occasional 90 minutes on a Wednesday). It's far more than a position to be noticed or a description to be applauded.

I have not church. No congregation. I'm not ordained. I have no messages or podcasts. Written any books. Created a Nooma-type series. None of that has been ascribed to my name. By all accounts, I'm a nobody.

Yet I pastor.

However it doesn't look like anything you would associate with the term. It is less glamorous. It can be dirty. It doesn't stem from position and entitlement. You find yourself in with the people. In their midst. You become accessible.

Afternoon coffee appointments. Dinner dates. Hospital visits. Birthday parties. Pub talk. Conversation. Shooting the breeze. Encouragement. Edification. Comfort. Adding value. Speaking life.

Simple, right? Anyone can do it. Yet, few even attempt it. It's not glamorous. Little, if no, recognition. There are few perks. It seems too common. Far too ordinary.

When did it become too common to encourage people? To see them come alive? When did our fellow man deserve less than support and edification? Who said it was ordinary to comfort those who needed peace?

When did we rise above taking care of the widows, orphans, and sick? Those who are abandoned, struggling, poor in spirit, depressed, imprisoned, who told them they were worthless?

It's not beneath or below me to care for them.

Is it beneath you?

mature for my age

Tue, 7 Feb 2012 00:00:00 GMT

I've shared my story. Or really, a few chapters of my story. The quest for sonship/adoption from the Father was a fight. It was a struggle to move past individuals who at various intervals, succeeded in impeding my attempts to achieve adoption. It sounds harsh. Well, it was harsh. I cannot apologize for the tone used here. This is my story. I am sticking to it.

This quest for sonship and adoption caused me to grow up. That is such a generality. I have felt so often that I was robbed of my youth. I lost my innocence. I lost all hope at being average, of this sense of normalcy. It crumbled into dust at my feet. At twelve, I had an effervescent spotlight cast upon me highlighting every single movement and action I took. I stood out on the front stage, alone and watched by the glistening eyes of the masses.

I became a pastor's son. Stamped and label. Wearing the "Hello, my name is..." nametag perpetually. Their vigilant eyes always watching. Always waiting. Never blinking.

I now had to fit someone's expectations.

I wanted to be normal. Average. Regular. Plain. I wanted out from the limelight. I felt bombarded with questions. Why did I have to be held to higher standards? Why couldn't I hangout with this group of friends? Why did I have to be active in serving t the church? Why did I have to be the first to participant? Why couldn't I say these phrases? Why couldn't I take about these books I read? Or movies I've watched? Why was everyone so uptight when I was around? Did I do something wrong? Why was there a look of disgust when I made a mistake? Was I a failure? Did I screw up so badly? Was I beyond forgiveness?

It always intrigued me how grace was extended to every other person and yet I seemed to be without. I would curse, get into a scuffle, or worse, had pierced in my ears. One single step out of line, and everyone knew. I was a poor example. Worse, my parents were seen as terrible role models. All because I had both ears pierced. What a joke! Or the time I obtained a Blink 182 album (I believe it was Enema of the State). Such uproar of disgust and horror was never heard before. By their standards, it was appalling. I was subsequently labeled, a bad seed. Whatever that means. Words.

I didn't fit the model. I was different. I never seemed to fulfill any of their expectations. I just seemed to fail. Came up short. Time and time again. Cyclical. You get the picture?

I tried to measure up, but always came short. Why was I different? I always wanted to know why.

The answers are never what you expect and subsequently, never what you want to hear. God has a knack for those sorts of answers. Simply stated, I was set apart. Beyond simplicity, I was being trained to pastor. I was being taught through situation and circumstance, how to extend grace to people who would much rather see me punished, than to be let off the hook. I learned how to love people despite their overbearing opinions and criticisms of what they thought about me. I learned how to be Christ in the midst of seekers.

I didn't fit the model. Neither did he. I failed people's expectation. So did he. His story and mine intersect quite a lot.

Being a pastor's son, taught me how to be more like Him than I would have ever believed.

Who would have thought? I know I didn't.

How much is too much?

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 00:00:00 GMT

This is a guest post of mine from my dad's blog, which was publish last Friday. I really enjoyed writing it and decided to repost it here. I did change some words, as some language was a bit strong and could not be translated to this site. In short, I did not wish to offend the host or the organization it represents.

When I lived in Spain, I had this heated conversation with a friend’s dad about the use and misuse of grace. In his humble opinion, there needed to be more fear of hell and eternal separation in order to turn people’s heart toward the Father. He felt grace couldn’t do that and that people would just end up abusing God’s love. We both left the debate with sweat dripping off our faces and blood vessels bulging on our foreheads. I could not believe how obstinate he was, or for that fact how obstinate I was. He ended the conversation with a statement I’ve yet to shake, “This grace thing you talk about maybe great, but there’s just too much of it.”

“There’s just too much grace?” When did this happen? Who decided how much is enough? Is there such a thing as too much grace? When is it enough to say (in a perfect “Soup Nazi” accent), No more for you?

I think it’s safe to assert that this sentiment of “too much grace” is due to all the grace abuse. You know what I’m talking about. We extend grace (“getting what you don’t deserve”) to people who will ultimately abuse it. I mean they’ll deficate right on top of the grace offered, as if it meant nothing. The fear is legitimate. I know there’s been times when I’ve taken advantage of the grace extended to me. You’ve done it too, we all have. We’ve all at some point abused the grace He’s offered us.

I am not saying that I advocate abusing grace. Yet, I don’t think that because some abuse it we should say - “forget you grace-abuser, you’ve used up all your grace, no more for you”.

I could sit enthroned upon my position and make the proclamation that unlimited grace be extended to all. Yet, what would be the response to my extreme grace? Some would love it, some would receive it, some would abuse it, and still some would resent my carte blanche offer. It’s all kind of a cyclical argument, isn’t it?

The point I’m trying to make is this - I don’t want to live in a world that has limited portions of grace. I will probably always be at odds with any position that states there’s just too much of it.

Maybe I’m rambling and perhaps incoherently. You may think me naïve, believing I don’t see “how the world really is.” Whatever!

But here’s a question I want us all to answer: Who empowered you to decide how much grace is too much?

It's my right to be right

Fri, 6 Jan 2012 00:00:00 GMT

I think I maybe a bit obstinate. Possibly, slightly combative. Sometimes far too aggressive for some individual's liking.

We could be discussing the merit of authors such as Margaret Atwood and Salmon Rushdie, why U.S. politics should cease to be two party, or how certain "Christian" literature is utter nonsense, how U.S. citizens do no give football (soccer) a fair chance as a national sport, or why people seem to love to hate the Big Ten Conference, especially the University of Michigan. There is a possibility you may have even had a conversation like this with me. And there is an even higher possibility you have gotten frustrated with the conversation and mentally checked out.

I sometimes have that affect on people.

I have a strong opinion. More than that, I want to be right. I like being right. It is not enough to be liked I have to be right. I mean you feel good when you are right. It gives you a sense of entitlement and pride. You are better than other because you are right. Sounds good, doesn't it?

It all started back in college. I was a political science/history major, who was looking forward to being a professor not a middle school teacher (the jokes on me). I took some classes on World Politics more so on Global Issues and U.S. Foreign policy. This is where I learned how to debate, to defend and promote a position. It came natural to be combative, and boisterous and opinionated. I should have gotten into law or became a lobbyist. I think I would have made a great lobbyist.

Aside from learning how to defend a position, I learned how to prove I was right. I became antagonistic. I used to pick debates every time someone else defended a weak position. I was unstoppable.

I started noticing that people were resenting me. To be quite honest I was called a jerk. In fact, there was a myriad of obscenities I was called, but those I cannot post here on this blog. Not very PG if you catch my drift. The fact was simple, I liked to be right and no one else seemed to care.

Then one of my mentors posed a question that has lingered like cigarette smoke: Why was being right so important?

Great question. I mean why was being right so important? I mean I thought it was. Still the question stayed with me. It provoked other questions: Why was it all right for me to critic and lambaste individuals for their opinions and views? Was any of this justifiable? Was being right worth risking integrity, being positive, and being influential?

Nope.

I mean I thought being right was great, yet now it seemed so frivolous. It meant nothing to be right. Nothing. Nada. Just another cyclical argument/debate that never resolved anything. Just a glorified pissing match, nothing more.

So I leave with you with this:

Why is being right so important?

Check out my guest post today on my dad, Michael Hindes' blog. Also check out his blog on "Kingdom Living in a Post-Modern World."

2011: the year of fulfilled promise

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 00:00:00 GMT

This year began a quest and will end with the start of the journey.

Even in the wildest of dreams, would I have ever deduced marriage in a singular year. It seemed to be an element always out of grasp, only to remain a dream. For so long I desired to find her wondering if it would ever happen, if this dream would ever become reality. I had found myself so very disappointed and frustrated in my ability to perpetually remain single. Yet this became the year all of those sentiments faded like the receding of fog.

The start of this year began with the pursuit of love, life, and partnership. How alive I felt, reinvigorated with excitement and joy. Dreams began to turn into reality, as if I was awakening from a long and down-winded slumber. Finally I was able to feel a depth in this emotion of love. It was the year, promises were fulfilled. It was the year, where I pursued a woman with all my heart and proposed to her. It was the year I became married; beyond that, pledged my life and love to her, for the rest of our lives. All this in 2011. In one year, promises of marriage were realized, actualized, and finalized. In a year, hope was restored. No longer would I spend my life alone and independent. There was another that I would be partnered with in this journey of life. We would pursue life together.

All of this again, in one year. Hopes and dreams became reality. This is the year that the journey began.

So this is dedicated to you, Kayla Marie Hindes; my friend, lover, and wife. 2011 was an incredible year and I look forward to seeing what 2012 has in store for us.

Here are a few of my favorite blogs I wrote this year in dedication to my wife. I hope you enjoy them.
- This is Real
- I know that I have found love

December 10th, 1997

Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:00:00 GMT

I've played around with the idea of writing about or the subject of Christmas. There is much I have desired to say and yet have decided much of it is left unspoken. Christmas is my favorite holiday. There are plenty of family birthdays throughout the month: mine and Jason and Wade's. Mine being Christmas Eve and theirs on the nineteenth. Christmas invokes multiple meaning such as love, passion, grace, and redemption. All are great topics that one-day I should hope to write on. However there is a meaning that follows closer to me than those others. For me, the holiday symbolizes a celebration of family.

And fourteen years ago I lost part of my family.

The cool December weather was a welcomed changed to the dreary Fall November brought with it. The rays of sun reflected down on the winter wonderland of snow, glaring an animus light off the ground below. 10:15am, I found myself in my Bible Studies class, a cliché class fit only for a parochial school. At twelve years of age, I was preoccupied with two thoughts: finally turning thirteen in two weeks and what gifts I would be able to open on Christmas Day. Shallow and pedantic I know, yet I was living in the 90s: the age of stylish, electronic yo-yos, Nintendo 64, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, the Taco Bell chihuahua, and the Dodge Viper. Yet beyond those definitive icons, I sat in a Bible class at 10:15am getting ready to prepare a Christmas skit in front of my classmates.

Little did I know this would be a life-changing day.

Around 10:35, a few of my friends were performing their skit about military history and the possibility of World War III, and that is when I saw it. An ambulance. Now ordinarily, it would never have bothered me, but there was something worrisome about this one; it was different. I found myself to be quite nervous. I wondered about that ambulance and the person within. I say this because my school was right down the road from my grandparent’s home, less than a mile.

The whole day seemed to pass by so slowly. I was antsy. I just wanted to go home. Finally the bell rung at 2:50, telling us it was time to go home. The ride home I was sullen and abnormally quiet. I felt as if something bad had happened. Jason, Wade, and I were dropped off at our home. At 3:05, our house looked dreary and listless. I almost did not recognize it as I was let out of our carpooling van. Edging closer and closer to the door, I felt a knot in my stomach and again I felt that some nervousness that had stolen my attention in third hour.

We walked through that big walnut colored door to see our mom sitting on the couch. This is never a good sign. She sat us down and explained with tears in her eyes the most unthinkable thing; Grandpa Hindes had passed away that morning. Life seemed to pause as if this moment would never fade. There was a lump in my throat.

My grandpa was gone.

At twelve, almost thirteen, emotions do not carry the weight they do when you are twenty-seven. You do know how to react when situations and circumstances occur. You become numb, unable to analyze how you are feeling. At twenty-seven, you can shed tears, remember the good times had with that person, and grieve with others. At twelve, it does not make sense. Funeral homes are indicative of all the awkwardness in the world. You cannot greet people at the door or bear emotion with those grieving or sit still for any length of time.

You are twelve and you lost someone you cared about.

It was a difficult season for my dad's side of the family. It appeared to be a chaotic mess of emotion that could not be contained. Christmas came and everyone was there. Family members I had only seen once or twice in my life made an attempt to be a part of my life. Death happened to bring a dysfunctional grouping together. They could grieve together and remember the good times of Donald Hindes. I heard humorous stories of my grandfather's antics and tales of his struggles. It was overwhelming at twelve years old.

Still this is a time of regaling stories and celebration.

So today, Grandpa Hindes, I celebrate the memories we had for the first almost thirteen years of my life.

This is to my grandfather who introduced to wondrous sport of ice hockey. Who would let me sit in the driver's seat of his Mazda truck and honk the horn until neighbors complained of the annoyance it became. Who always came to Grandparents day at school and told jokes and bs stories to all my friends. Who was never too tired to stay up and read me stories before I went to bed. Who taught me that cowboys were far better than ninjas or pirates. Who gave me an appreciation for Clinton Eastwood and Charles Bronson action films. Who always took me to Cavis Grill to get a hot dog with French fries and chocolate milk. Who was always filled with love.

I will always love and cherish the time we spent together. Thank you for being a man of change. I am truly glad that you were and still are my grandpa.

Love your grandson,

Nicholas Barthel Hindes

If you enjoyed reading this post, check out another one written by my dad about my grandfather being a man of change in our family. You can read it here. It is great read!

Confession: I dislike character development

Thu, 15 Dec 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Disengaged. Disenfranchised. Done.

I set foot upon U.S. soil for the first time in a month. One month. It seemed like an eternity since I had been stateside. I was drained of enthusiasm, life, and grace. That is what done meant. I didn't care if I would ever be asked to lead again. Leadership was such a crux.

The entire trip appeared as such a joke. I had participants resent me. My co-leader and I were never on the same page. I was too harsh and high confrontational. Our ministry fell through. The hosts never spent anytime with my team. We always seemed to come up short. It was too easy to be a tourist than a missionary.

Can anyone relate?

Little did I know these feeling of hostility and resentment would stick with me for a while. It would take time to fully process the gravity of what had transpired. All I could think about was erasing this experience from my memory. If I would never talk about it again, I would be glad. Yet that is not what God had in mind.

We would talk about it. We would talk a lot about it. Just when I thought it was over, we would have another conversation about it. And to be honest, we still have conversations about the experiences though now they are more productive. How I abhorred talking about it!

Let's just stop talking about it. Drop it.

The more I tried to close it off from my mind, the more loudly He would speak to me. It needed to be dealt with. I mean I had said before that I was a "grace person." Apparently, this was contradictory to that statement. Maybe, just maybe He was right. There was a contradiction in my heart.

For a person being as high confrontational as I am, I was so closed off to conversation.

An epiphany was due to occur.

My feelings and sentiments had nothing to do with how well the trip ended, if every participant got what they were seeking, or if I appeared to have it all together. I was frustrated because this is the path I walked down. It did not look the way it should have. My expectations were shattered. Yet this was exactly what He had in mind.

There's the epiphany.

I was supposed to walk through the mess. I was being trained to walk through my grace. Areas were exposed. Expectations were being exposed and cast out. My character was being developed.

How I disliked character development!

I was reminded of these experiences a few days, during final debrief for the Fall Passport teams. One of my friends came home from leading to find themselves in a very similar state of mind: disengaged, disenfranchised, and done. Feeling like a failure. Questioning why they did become a leader? Why did they walk through such a mess? Was this even worth it?

I understand the feeling.

After conversing about the feeling of failure, it dawn on us that the feelings stemmed from the dislike of the process they were being walked through. It was not as glamorous as they would have liked. There was hope that God would change the process into something worth sharing with others. Not this.

Yet that is not what happened at all. They (and subsequently, myself) went through a process that caused us mature and grow up in a way that was difficult. They walked exposed before their followers (participants) and it was gritty and dirty, yet so very real. It is not always pleasant, appealing, or tolerable. Still there is a lesson to be learned.

Your character is going to be developed. Get ready.

Confessions of a PK

Fri, 9 Dec 2011 00:00:00 GMT

One time, I was angry.

Just a simple understatement.

There once was a time when all I could see were the red veins swelling beneath my forehead. Finding myself perpetually clenching my fists. Appearing as though at any second I could explode. The right situation or circumstance would set me off like a powder keg of emotion. A fight would be eminent.

Beneath this shallow exterior was a man...No...a boy trying to grasp hold of his emotions. I found myself so alone, or at least, feeling so alone. Anger filled my bones.

I was done with the church. I was fed up with faith. I told God to take a backseat. I had no desire for council or advice. It will be me, myself, and I against the "unforgiving" world. I was in a cloud of darkness, shrouded off from those who desired to help me.

To be frank, I was turned off to the church and it's community. They were to blame for my current predicament. This was a view I held (for a season), as it was only logical. They hurt my family and I was supposed to live out of grace for them.

Grace, such a callous term. "Give people grace who didn't deserve it," who thought of this nonsense? Did anyone else see how this affected my family? Was there any thought of how this would affect my brothers and I? Did they know this was going to hurt me? So, why should I extend grace to them? I have the "right" to be angry.

I have the right to be angry. That is what I thought. It's what I used to believe.

Then something unexpected but miraculous happened. God met me where I stood. I felt peace like I had never felt before. I didn’t feel angry anymore. Hate no longer surged beneath my exterior. I became whole once again. I was free.

I received healing from my past wounds. Yet I was left with the nagging notion: Do I still have the right to be angry with people? Could I not extend grace to them? I mean they didn't deserve it and yet, neither did I...

I spent all this time harboring bitterness and resentment because I was hurt. Now it was gone. Could I still live my life without these elements? I spent five years wallowing in them, becoming immersed in such negativity. Could I function without them?

Could I go back to that way of life?

I had to give it up. I knew I had to. When it was a part of me, I was slowly dying inside. It was suffocating and stifling. It would not seem sensible to return to old mindsets. Despite the madding cry of justification and vindication, it ceased to be appealing.

It was not appealing anymore. Those words ring loud and clear in my ears. Vengeance no longer became my life's mission statement. Being right no longer seemed to matter anymore. I found myself enticed by a different motivation...

Grace.

::Author's Note::

These past two blogs (this one and the previous entry) have been a series of reflections on my growing up in the faith, while also seeing the raw side to church politics. I don't claim to have handled all of this in absolute integrity, but I feel that having walked through it, it has given me a new perspective on sonship. I hope you have enjoyed reading these entries.

If you are looking for a different type of community, a grace-filled community, than I highly recommend checking out the Gathering.

this is my story

Thu, 1 Dec 2011 00:00:00 GMT

This is my story. This is where my life and the Kingdom crossed over. It is where I ceased to be wandering vagabond, and became a son to my Father. I do not claim that all of this is positive, in fact, much is far from the point. Yet it is the story of my becoming the man I was called to be.

I grew up in the church.

No. That would be an understatement. I grew up going to church, every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening. Without skipping a beat, I would find myself seated in the same row, the same chair every time my family would attend church.

I would walk through the big wooden doors, onward treading upon bland, red carpet, which led me to the sanctuary. An odd-shaped room with tall ceilings and few windows. In it, my nostrils would be engulfed by a sour and nauseating smell of mildew laced with a potent stringent, i.e., bleach. Fragments of dust particles were shown in the rays of sunlight.

Hours spent, singing hymns, bearing no cultural or personal connection. Hours spent, seated in an uncomfortable chair, listening to the droning of biblical significance. None of this ever resonated in my soul.

This is not the brunt of my disenfranchisement; it is only the beginning.

At the age of twelve, I obtained a term I abhorred and detested. I became a pastor's kid (a PK, for short). How could such bad luck befall me? Higher standards, overshadowed by the overbearing masses, having a permanent spotlight shown upon my character and persona. It is what I dreaded most. I was set apart from others. I would be measured time and time again, subject to scrutiny. I was a representative of my family in the public eye.

It forced me to grow up and to embrace maturity. Yet it did something to me. I gained influence. I found my voice. I discovered I had character. Though new, I flourished; it became natural.

I discovered something that was previously unbeknownst to me. I had a relationship with the Father. For the first time in my life, I heard His voice and felt His presence. Finally this faith became real. No longer was it a ploy, nor a fanciful tale. I knew Him and He knew me. There was confirmation in my spirit. From that day forward He never walked away from me, never stopped talking to me, never stopped loving me, never stopped pursing me...

I was forever changed.

But tough situations loomed ahead. A series of church splits and schisms changed my paradigm. I never understood why believers, those of faith, Christians do this.

Why is it that being right, is worth losing friends and family over? Why does criticizing the opinions of others, makes you feel better about your own thoughts and ideas?

I was torn. I lost friends over these shifts of loudest voices. Those closest to me, no longer trusted me. Some spoke negatively of my family. Others took to the streets criticizing the very parents who raised me. I was hurt. I became angry. I was so filled with hate. I wanted to exact revenge on them. I wanted to prove my parents’ righteousness and innocence. I wanted them to be right and to prove that they were right. I wanted us to be right. And more so, I wanted to be right.

Yet that never happened. Instead of witty banter and harsh criticism, my parents stayed true to the message of integrity and "blessing those who curse you." I was conflicted. How could they stand by and take all of this nonsense? In fact, how could God standby and let people of honor (my parents) be treated with such malice? Bitterness seeped in; a poisonous notion of hate, animosity, and frustration filled my heart. I resented my family, my parents. I was angry with God.

Oh yes, I spoke ill of our relationship.

God knew how angry I was with Him. Beyond that sentiment, there were hateful words spoken to Him through my voice. I was done. I wanted no more of Him. I was done with His words, His love, His grace. I broke our relationship. I was nineteen.

At least, I thought I could break the relationship. Little did I know, I couldn't. He established it with me. It was not mine to break. Only He could do that, and He said He never would.

I spent the next five years living my life without any help or guidance. I loomed in the darkness of my own bitterness and frustration. During this time, depression and hopelessness sunk in. Slowly I was suffocating, dying inside. I was drowning in my own sorrow, with no hope in sight.

Yet a ray of hope, shone through this cloud of misery.

A family friend invited me to come, visit his training center/school in Southern Spain, that summer. He asked me to come, to catch my breath, to get healthy. It was such a tempting offer, I could not refuse.

I boarded an airplane in June of 2009 marked for Malaga, Spain. Something was beginning to happen inside of me that I had not felt for years. Peace. I finally felt calmness in my spirit.

The first night spent in that Mediterranean paradise reawakened something inside of me. In my sleep, a voice called out for me to come near. I knew who it was. I recognized His voice and yet I knew it would require explanation on my part. As I edged closer toward the voice, love began descending upon me. Feelings of adequacy, hope, and purpose filled a darkened void in my soul.

His voice called out to me to come near. In His voice, there was no condemnation, anger, or bitterness. In that moment I my Father called me into His presence. Once again, I was called a son. Me. He called me His son. In that moment, forgiveness set in and bitterness was thrust out. He became my Father again and I, His son. Our partnership was reestablished.

I was whole again.

I felt it was time to share the story of how I came to be a beloved son. It was time to share how I became disenfranchised with the church and I regained my hope in the hearts of His children. I don't claim to have it all figured out, nor that I have been a great son or believer. I am just a guy who found His grace and is now willing to die for that grace. The grace that gives mankind what they were told they would never attain, they never deserved.

That's my life message. I lived through it. I still live in it.

This is my story thus far.

Black Friday Rule

Fri, 25 Nov 2011 00:00:00 GMT

And for every tear that is lost from an eye
I'd dig me a well where no man could destroy
I want to believe in a freedom that's bold
But all I remember is the freedom of old

- Flogging Molly, Black Friday Rule

Years past, I've spent much of the evening of Thanksgiving, sitting in van, with some friends just waiting for Best Buy and Target to be open. Nights spent drinking Mountain Dew and devouring Taco Bell. Us guys spent the night, playing video games and watching movies, until 5am came around. We, like all the Michiganders around us, stood out in the frigid air, hoping to score deals on games, DVDs, music, and electronics. What we purchased were gifts for ourselves. Selfishly we braved the cold weather and lengthy lines, in order to spend hard earned money on ourselves. But that was under the guise of "Christmas shopping." I was young and selfish. I understand that today.

Last year, I had the opportunity to spend three months in Kenya. My team and I spent the bulk of our time in the IDP camps, located in the Rift Valley. Three months were not nearly long enough. All that we experienced passed by in blur; leaving us with the memories of those individuals we had the privilege and honor of getting to know. These people shared their lives with us. When we spent days in their village, they would open their homes to us. They welcomed us to eat at their tables. To them, we were old friends. Such generosity was difficult to comprehend.

I mean I had been incredibly selfish in the past never satisfied with what I had, entirely frugal and controlling with how I spent my money, yet I met those whom none of that mattered. Individuals who gave all they had and more to my team and myself. Honestly, how can you handle such generosity?

On November 14th, 2010, it would be our last visit to the IDP Camp. We would be heading back to the States soon thereafter, to be home in time for Thanksgiving. One of the participants desired to bless a young boy she had grown quite fond of. He and his siblings had gone through a terrible predicament; both parents decided to call it quits and leave them stranded. He and his three brothers would now be raised by their preteen sister. This broke our heart, especially Lizzie. She decided to spend money on shoes for this young boy, so that he would have his first pair of new shoes, ever!

The video below showcases the entire fifteen-minute presentation of Otto receiving his first new pair of shoes. For the first time in his life, he got new shoes, not hand-me-downs.

This circumstance has changed my perspective and my life. I hope you find it encouraging as well.

The self-proclaimed biographer (autobiographer) or that old so & so...

Tue, 27 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

I, TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS DRUSUS NERO GERMICUS This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius", or "Claudius the Stammer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best as "Poor Uncle Claudius", am now about to write this strange history of my life...

--Robert Graves, I, Claudius

::Author's Preface::

Much of what I have given my writing to stems from self-actualized perceptions of misunderstood circumstances. Stints of poetic inflection, written in prose are an expression of fixated epiphanies and wisdom, achieved through a recollection of emotional trauma.

This statement, adds a justification to personal revelations, though unneeded, contribute creditability to my own thought process.

Ergo, the post...

I am a shameless self-promoter, self-biographer, and self-endorser. Yet I am poor, if not, horrifically terrible at doing so. I have struggled with what countless writers have fallen prey to, a desire to be read, at any cost. Trying to write is parallel to the struggles of a band striving to become noticed and ultimately, receiving a contact to be endorsed in order to continue onward unto their dream, of making music, money, and gaining fame. What a fantasy, have I allow myself to believe in?

I could have easily titled this post "Confession #1: I desire to be read at any cost" or "Why I write (and how it doesn't work)." It might attract more people. In fact, I almost went with one of those titles. The key word here is almost. Yet it would not have connected with what pressed upon my heart, insecurity with my art. Quite seriously. I have struggled for weeks upon months, deciphering the message, I so desired to communicate. Through the struggle, I've written well. I've written so-so. And I've written tripe. I begrudgingly keep it, to read myself of what I do not desire to become. In a way, it is a reminder of what I am not.

And yet, look; I am not famous for my wit, creativity, nor the syntax of this post.

Still, it is something I have had to come to grips with. I have spent so much time comparing myself, to others who are far superior to my own talent. I even wrote about it. But again I've had to come to terms with my own skill, talent, and desires, whatever you want to call it. It's not a weakness, nor a frailty. It is a style. It is what I was given to write and somehow, at times, I feel I have squandered it or shoved into the closet, as I have had no need for it.

Writing is what I have equated to a baseball card that I store away for safekeeping, hoping that one day, it will appreciate in value and then I can sell it to become rich. It doesn't work like that, ever. The analogy is a farce. It is a delusion. One, I have believed because it sounded good. I have had to learn it is a craft and must be treated as such. It has to be perfected and worked upon. It ages like fine wine.

Confession:I have treated writing like a get rich quick, pyramid scheme.

There is a maturity I have had to walk through, due to delusions and decisions I have choice to partake. It has not always been an easy journey, where Wilson stands on the other side of the fence, offering friendly suggestions as to solve the problem with ease. If that were the case, I am quite sure, I would never have learned the lesson of hard work and the struggle for creativity.

Ever felt this way?

I remember...

Sun, 18 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

...standing the midst of a multitude. A gathering of people who seemed to be growing larger and larger with each step I took. Moonlight, we walked, only able to see a few feet in front of us. They closed in around. All I can hear is their voices rising, shrouding us in their present needs. The words spoken are unintelligible, yet the tone in which they are relayed, is ever increasing. Louder and louder still, it breaks my concentration. Their needs are heavy.

As our host pushes us onward, there is a subsequent pulling at our garments. I can feel the tugging at my shirt, the grabbing for my attention, yet I am told to move onward.

We cannot stop here.

It lingers in my ears.

Voices rise. I cannot think. Their cries break my concentration. Still, I am forced to continue moving forward. Cannot stop here. Keep moving. No, do not stop. The words of my host follow in sequence with those of the onlookers, begging me to stop. Yet he speaks English, they do not. I am inclined to follow his direction.

In the motion and commotion, I feel a hand adhere itself to my shoulder. With it, a still small voice breaks the madness.

I have no money to give you.

I turn to face, this interrupter. My glance finds a seasoned and weathered individual, frail and tired. Our eyes meet and I can see the scars life has wrought upon his tender frame. It not been kind to him. He looks at me, mouthing words, yet I don't understand. He speaks and I find myself unable to comprehend. I cannot concentrate. It is far too loud. I try to interpret his beckoning plea, but there is a distraction in his stance. I notice a trembling in his body, a shaking in his stature.

Why is he so nervous?

It then becomes apparent; it is neither fear nor nervousness. It is not as deep as emotional or psychological pain. These tremors are physical. Each convulsion, solidifies, he has Parkinson's. We could not meet one another in conversation, yet his body language provided the proof of his need.

It is at this moment, something rises up on the inside of me, causing the blood in my veins to rush to my face. Heat surges through the entirety of my frame. I feel alive. He is standing in front of me. Something must be done. I latch onto his raised forearms, and he closes his eyes.

You are healed.

In that moment, shaking ceases. Tears glistening the moonlight sky. In that moment, his need was met.

Here I find myself, reminiscencing about a man I meet on the streets of India. It has been a year since I thought about him, and yet, now I cannot think of another story but his.

I never caught his name. I did not understand his language. And I have never seen him after that night. But still, his story lives on. Overcoming language and preconceived notions of directives, a man regained more than healing in that night. His faith bolstered.

And me?

Well, his story intersecting with mine, has changed my life. I am forever changed by our meeting.

Thanks, Allison, for the challenge yesterday. It was much needed.

Stifled by Bitterness

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

You do things and do things and nobody really has a clue.

- John Updike, Rabbit, Run

Boundless, restless, contempt pervades longing. Is it all for naught?

Eloquence, flawless diction, smooth talking, words are lost, shattered to rubble. Nowhere to be found is the phrasing, capable of describing this emotional resentment. Misanthropy settles in, the blood boils, and my face is shown in pigments of red. Surrounded by inner heat, anger settles in; bitterness is all I can taste. Emotions are powder keg: volatile, combustible, and contents under pressure, ready for a spark to ignite. It ticks away. What shall set off this emotional time bomb? Moreover, who will be the casualties?

Pent up frustrations, stifle thinking. Thoughts are clouded. Life is slowly being choked to death. Anger presses it's thumbs down on the larynx, drowning out the screams for help.

What hath wrought a feeling of resentment?

Deep inside, the desire to change is conflicted. Shall I change or allow myself to slowly drift away, in the murky pools of hatred?

::Author's Note::

This is an emotion, I wanted to expound upon for two years. You see, it has been over two years, since I gave up my hatred and resentment. I was in such a dark place with where my life was going, with where I found myself. I was misanthropic, bitter at the very people I need to release. Truly, I was dying inside with no hope or recourse to save me. At least, that was the delusion I bought into. It was the justification to continue wallowing in the self-righteous delusions of my own standing.

Despite the inerrancy of my logic, I found myself committed to the success of this instilment. The bitterness was rotting away my soul, and I was credulous to believe I was unobjectionable.

I came to place where I discovered the flaw in this line of thinking, in that the logic I held so firm to, be actually poisoning me. A release of pressure and segment of surgery was needed to exhume the lethargy from becoming atrophy.

This is to bluntly and blatantly say, I was once held in this prison. And now I can say that I am free from its control.

Dear Avid Blog Subscribers...

Mon, 12 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

We have some fresh and exciting news for you that we believe you will find enjoyable.

Last Tuesday, September 6th, Real Life changed it's name and became the Passport. With the name change, came a renewed vision for college-aged missions. Read more here, to see what we're talking about. And check out our new promo video of "more awesome'ness":

A slew of teams just launched last week to six different countries. These teams will be on the field until mid-December. To follow one of these amazing teams, click one of the flags and you will be transported to the corresponding blogs. Remember, these young adults need encouragement while on the field.

Guatemala Cambodia India(Goa)

Kenya Swaziland Uganda

If you came across this blog, welcome to the Passport. We are glad you found us. If you are looking to go on a mission trip and you're between 18-22, then check out some of the amazing trips we have next semester. They launch in January so you have plenty of time to sign up.

Passport meets DragonCon [Part 1]

Thu, 8 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Friday began the start of another training season for our department. 60+ participants landed in Hartsfield-Jackson airport, preparing for a launch. They would be headed to six different countries, for a term of nearly four months. But first they would be heading to a four day training camp and before that, they would be sent on an adventure...

Teams sat around a central location, in the heart of Atlanta airport's atrium, waiting patiently for their teammates, leaders, and Passport staff to arrive. Many of these young adults, waiting for a few hours until their parties had finally come together. It came to pass, that they were handed an envelope, Super Fun Clue #1. Inside these off-white encasings, were a folded piece of paper and a specified amount of cash. The adventure was afoot. The directions would take them to homeless outreach in Central Atlanta, known as Safe House. They arrived to find, their adventure was not over. It was just beginning.

Each team was handed a second envelop, with the title, Super Fun Clue #2.

This is where my story intersects with their journey. You see, I was given the task to join team India for the duration of their adventure. I was charged to be the male presence for their group, to deter any would-be harassing onlookers. At least this is what I would imagine my job description would be. Now back to the story at hand...

With suspense and intrigue, one girl mustered the courage to unveil the business envelope containing their next objective. With increasing mystery, Alicia read off the nights challenge. "Hear a story. Share a story. Connect the dots. Recount your New story."

Tonight would be about hearing stories of those we encountered. No ministry objectives. No ulterior motives. No predispositions. Just swapping stories. Simple enough, it seems. Little did we know what the night would hold for us...

the faint memories of Kenya

Fri, 2 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

The sun hangs overhead, sweat drips from my brow. It trickles down my cheek, plastering dust to my face. Dust has coated my beard. Each drip of sweat streaming down the brow in my eye, results in a stinging sensation. I find myself blinking excessively, each and every time; I brush my forearm across my face. My eyes are bloodshot and the weariness of the days came be shown in my face.

Dust and soot adhere to my clothing, per the cool breeze. Wind rustles through the earthy plains, stirring up the red earth under foot. Upon further look, the clay clings to the white trim of my shoes, staining them with an auburn hue. The blue canvass has faded, beneath the topical coating of dirt. With each step, I wear more of the African dirt on feet. I doubt I will clean them.

For until this moment, I have questioned my present location. It was not my first choice. It was not a preference. I had dreamed of visits to slums. There was a desire to tread upon the weathered steps of Rocinha. To be immersed in the colloquial beauty of Portuguese. My dream was all I could hold onto. Rather, reality dictated a more distant, and often times, dismal culture. A place full of English influence and pre-Western culture. An environment known for difficult character development and harsh realities. Its name will forever be known as Kenya.

Here, I found myself in the midst of a ramshackle village, composed of plastic tarps, held together with twine and tree branches. Shelter constructed of ingenuity and good intentions, offering protection from the unforgiving elements.

Starvation.
Congestion.
Pollution.
Stagnation.

In that moment, reality became the utmost of importance. No dreams of grandeur or romanticism could describe the gravity of such reality. This was real.

It was time for me to grow up.

Returning whence I came... [Redux]

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Upon the return from such hopeful heights, I found myself reflective. I had an inclination to expound on the recent series of posts attributed to the ambivalence of visiting "home." To be fair to my birthplace, it becomes imperative for me to divulge into the difference. When I came home after an extended period of mentorship in Spain, we both met with mixed feelings. Home resembled a hollow shell of its former shelf.

January 8th

11:34am

The snow in January would plague upon the anxious feelings I carried. Bitter cold weather, encompassed me. I felt shrouded by the hostile climate, which only served to prey upon my fears.

Could I ever fit in?

Each day placed an enormous weight on my shoulders. With each snow fall, the gravity of it's control gaining more and more control. Drowning under the weight of precipitation. Each step I take, I find myself trudging deeper into the depths of snow. No amount of protection could prevent the body from feeling the harsh winds of winter. The wind burns upon my face. Stinging, sharp, it presses against my cheeks. The blood rushes to my face, but futility is its name.

How could things change?

Meetings do instill the joy they used to. Conversations feel manufactured. I find myself uncaring of the tone in which I communicate. All I can find solace in, is the notion to flee. Escapism.

Disenfranchisement sets in. Hope fleets. A feeling sets in, one I have not felt in years...

I no longer fit in.

*Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 of Returning whence I came...

Returning whence I came... [Part 4]

Wed, 24 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

*Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 of Returning whence I came...

Home is where one starts from.

-T.S. Eliot

August 14th

11:59am

Reaching for the brass door handle, creates a sensation which conjures memories, not too distant nor in obscurity. It is a place I am familiar with, a place I found employment. Two years since I had last set foot in this establishment. Nothing has changed. The look, feel, even smell, remain unchanged. It is as if time stood still, these passing years. It is all too familiar.

The door edges inward, to reveal bright and effervescent lights, cascading illumination upon the fixed faces of familiar friends and family. No detail facial feature left unexposed, before it's equivocal gaze. Joy is shone upon their shimmering faces. Excitement resides in their smiles. Their joy invokes a contagious laughter, which fills the atmosphere.

Ah laughter, it sweetens the air.

Covered in joy. Neither stagnant emotion, nor failed frustration can take root. Decaying bitterness, no longer swarms my nostrils.

Handshakes and hearty-hugs are a welcomed exchange. I feel at such peace, and my conversations feel organic. Intriguing. The words conveyed feel natural, personal, real. It feels as though hope was not differed.

I am back home.

::Author's Note::

Last Sunday's wedding shower, was a breathe of fresh air, inhale into my lungs. I felt energized, forsaking all fears and frustrations, which may have lingered. All those who showed up to support us, bequeathed such life into me, of which, I had never felt before. Redemption came and reigned high throughout our time in my hometown.

I felt as though I could have spent a few more days there. I think that there is more hope in this transition. Or maybe, I am looking at transition through clear lens, rather than rose-tinted glasses.

Returning whence I came... [Part 3]

Sun, 21 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

*Read Part 1 and Part 2 of Returning whence I came...

My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing.

-Aldous Huxley

August 13th

10:46am

A night wrought with distraction; a sense of mixed feelings lingering. Sleep was less of a comfort than was anticipated. A walk will clear my head.

The brisk temperature, light wind, and lack of humidity are a welcoming presentation. The weather is friendly. I have been familiar to the harsh reception giving by winter, that I have forgotten how summer feels.

Could this be a sign? Have things changed?

Dwindled hope now protrudes and shows signs of emerging. I feel lightness upon my shoulders. No longer do I feel the weight of fears and frustrations, driving their claws into my shoulders. It is as if their presence has dissipated altogether.

Maybe things will be different.

This walk has cleared my head. Maybe there is hope here. Maybe it is not all for not.

There is hope.

::Author's Note::

During this morning stroll, the fears of unrelatability and misunderstanding were squelched. Verbally processing through with Kayla, days prior, produced a change. Pessimism ceased to take root. I could finally think clearly and act out in hope, rather than the fear that produced dread in me.

This would be the start of two glorious days of redemption.

Returning whence I came... [Part 2]

Fri, 19 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

*Read Part 1 of Returning whence I came...

August 10th

11:31pm

Hesitation clouds my mind, muddles the concentration. What are these thoughts? She is talking to me; still I am distracted. My mind is elsewhere. It's Wednesday.

Two days and I will be back to a place, all too familiar. Forty-eights hours and counting. Still I feel so conflicted.

How much longer must I endure?

My fingernails are chipped and cut, such I a nervous set of habits I have developed. Again, these eyes sting from rapid, consecutive blinking. Stress is present on my face and has riddled my stomach. The words of fear and anxiety are shown in bold Ariel print upon my facial features.

Hopefully no one will ask.

A flare glistens in my eyes. Did she notice? Unintelligible words mingle around in my mind. She speaks to me. What she utters out of her mouth proceeds as a slow-motion observation, not unlike a car-wreck. I am helpless to escape its fate. The question has been asked.

"What's wrong?"

The all-inquisitive, bare question for which a man cannot remain silent upon it's call nor swiftly avoid. I stammer with these words, nothing sounds as clearly as it did in my mind. They exhibit a certain lack of coherency. All I say is unintelligible to my mind. I guess my heart had other plans.

::Author's Note::

The journey from McGregor to Snyder was a strenuous proliferation of emotional disarray. I have never felt such restlessness over the dismemberment and stagnation of emotions. Times like I find an inability to vocalize any and all of what I feeling. It has become enticing and comfortable for me remain in this sweltering atmosphere. Granted, it becomes obvious there is tension in the line, yet few would wager a closer look toward the cause. It was what I was counting, no one asking any questions.

Luckily for me, Kayla, would never allow such an atrocity to occur. Wisdom and discernment always shed light on areas in need of healing. I count this as a blessing. I am verbal processor, through and through. When I am able to communicate what I am feeling, I find healing and freedom from that which holds me back.

Returning whence I came... [Part 1]

Wed, 17 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

August 6th

2:04pm

Beads of sweat condense and appear on my brow, glistening in the effervescence, fluorescent lights above. The droplets of water trickle my hair follicles down past my brows and descend upon pages of The Sun Also Rises. Its tan-colored pages absorb the moisture and leave remnants of discolored spots on previous chapters. I cannot remember the last time; such a degree of perspiration was displayed upon me.

Minutes are perceived in the quantification of forever, a monotonous stretch of perpetual time and banal boredom.

Is this really happening?

My left foot is found wrapping, conjecturing volumes of noise. When did I learn to create drumbeats? The harmony of my music would be perceived as a distraction. I most certainly am I distracted. Though I would much rather be discreet about what is occupying my mind.

What have I gotten myself into?

I feel a throbbing pain in my eyes. The sort of pain, which resembles the feeling of sand under the eyelid. Scratchy and gritty it slowly descends down my iris. It is then I am aware. I am blinking. The duration between each opening and closing gradually becomes minuscule. To look upon these elements, one could decipher, there is a problem. Maybe it is time to admit to myself, there is a problem.

Why am I so afraid to go back home?

::Author's Note::

Ten days ago, my fiancé and I went on an excursion to visit family and friends in our perspective homes, West Texas and Southern Michigan. For both of us, it was an opportunity to one to introduce the other to those closest friends and family.

What happened for me, on the other, hand was a lingering feeling, an uneasiness, to revisit my hometown of twenty-five years. I had been back only once before this engagement, in January; it was met with mixed emotions and a daunting feeling to flee. It was a realization, I came to when I left eight months ago, that I had changed. I matured and was in a different stage of life. My hometown did not feel like home anymore. It did not feel like a pair of well-worn shoes or my favorite sweatshirt. It felt old and odd. I did not seem to fit into the puzzle as I once did.

It left me feeling remorse and frustration. I felt I could fall back into place. Despite my attempts, it only solidified the epiphany, I was not home anymore. I was called somewhere else. I had to come to grips with the reality. And it hurt.

These exerts of prose are my attempt to explain my return back home and the health it brought me upon my return. Without giving away the ending, my return was healthy and joyous.

Transition is a Transition

Mon, 8 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

And when the event, the big change in your life, is simply an insight--isn't that a strange thing? That absolutely nothing changes except that you see things differently and you're less fearful and less anxious and generally stronger as a result: isn't it amazing that a completely invisible thing in your head can feel realer than anything you've experienced before? You see things more clearly and you KNOW that you're seeing them more clearly. And it comes to you that this is what it means to love life, this is all anybody who talks seriously about God is ever talking about. Moments like this.

--Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections

There is a daunting yet sutitle realization of which I have had to come to grips over the past few months.

Transition.

It has happened.
It is happening.
And it will continue to occur.

What is even more looming is that I cannot stop it. I lack control over it. How futile it is to actualize transition and try with all of your might to stop it. It doesn't feel right. There always seems to be a unrefined feelings attributed to it.

The only action I can take is to walk through. There is no management. No control. A lack of discretion. Emotions raging and at times, uncontrollable. All I can do, is to walk through it.

This is where I must leave today because in a few days I will be back home, to a place where I have left months, almost a year ago. It is my birthplace yet I feel as though it is uncomfortable. Like hot and humid climate, an undersized t-shirt, or luckwarm coffee, my body language will reflect the effects the atomsphere will play upon me. It doesn't fit anymore. I am no longer at the place where it's practice and influence, impact my life the way they did two-three years ago. A change has taken place inside of me, for which explanation would not do justice.

I have come to an understanding of my attitude during such situations of uncomfortability. I have to embrace it's incommodious impression, despite my particular disposition. My behavior is to treat everyone with the same love, care, respect, and honor I have always given, even though, the encounter is peculiar than in previous exchanges.

This transition is all about being who I am despite, feeling that i am not the same me.

Beneath the Exterior

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 00:00:00 GMT

What is normalcy?

This is the question, Jonathan Franzen, undertakes in his novel, The Corrections. The novel provides a stark realization of the facade presented by the "nuclear family" stereotype. The image of time-honored traditions, strong Christian values, parental involvement, boundless love, and overzealous joy are portrayed as brittle filament in a disambiguous and unrealistic in the modern world. The false provado of perfection is laced with overbearing overtones, devoid of authentic communication, and self-righteous morals. To be blunt, under the polished and proper exterior, the Lambert family struggles to coexist.

There is a futility in the desire to portray normalcy, because the appearance of health and wholeness does not fix the problem, a need for health and wholeness. To pretend everything is all right, when in reality, division, strife, and hostility prevail, is denial. Short, simple, and blunt, it is denial. Denial of the problem. Denial of self. Denial of needing help. Take your pick, it is all there.

There is an intriguing point based in the novel and found throughout the fabric of society, what is normal anymore? The structure of families, job descriptions, plutonic friendships, ambiguous hobbies, and the initiation of the internet, have changed the planning field. The 1950s cookie-cutter model not longer fits in post-post-modern society, we current find ourselves.

So again, what is normal?

To me, normal is realizing that the idea of normal, perfect, and average are a fallacy. Walking through life, exposed as the man I am, not the man I pretend to be. I think Kurt Vonnegut said it best, "Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be." You become a liar. A fraud. A charlatan.

Maybe it is time to walk out from under the veil. The candid photos need to be burned. The unfair expectations need to be shattered. The time has come to cast away the Catagelophobia and Gelotophobia. Time to walk into the society we live and confront the falsehoods of perception.

So you maybe asking, is this normal?

My retort will always be, normal is overrated.

Finishing Well

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Finish well.

It's a strange phrase. The kind of phrase, that beckons forth an allotted quantity of inner strength and courage, in order to overcome all obstacles. It is statement that one must embody the characteristic of endurance and perseverance. Sounds like something you say to an athlete. I mean doesn't this define the mindset of a winner?

I brought this up because if you have spent any length of time around my dad or the World Race, you have probably heard this lingering phrase. It gets lodged in your mind and try as you may, you can never seem to shake the daunting challenge it prevents. Granted, I've used this phrase a number of times this past year with all of the male Real Life leaders. I've said it enough times, to make it a catch phrase. A catchphrase, I doubt that is something worth being known for.

I say this because this is something that has been on my mind this past well, as I converse with leaders out on the field. They have one week left of ministry in their perspective countries, after which, they are back home in the States. After this week, they will be done with the opportunities that presented themselves. It will be an end to visiting hospitals, slums, orphanages, and schools. No more relief work or spending time with refugees. No more bar ministry or sex-trafficking education for those at risk. No more goodnights hugs or "I love yous" for special-needs orphans. No more feeding the homeless. No more late night conversations. No more first-time "hellos." No more smiles for those who cannot find joy. In one week, they will find themselves exiting a plane in Hartsfield-Jackson airport. In a week, their trips will have been completed. The work set before them, will be finished.

So why does a phrase like "finish well," carry such weight in these times?

I feel that it presents itself with two equally important reasons. First, it deals with living life to it's fullest. Honestly, living with regret and subsequently, unfullfillment. I feel that this statement checks motives and actions of the heart, with the nagging question of "Why are you here?" In theory, individuals come to a conclusion that they are in a position to serve a purpose, hence selfishness and narcissism are not an option. In short, it's a gut-check.

The other deals with ending a season. My dad always told myself and my brothers that how we ended a season, will determine who we enter the next. The older I become, the more I am realizing the truth in this statement. Finishing well means ending a season with honor, integrity, service, and intentionality. Because if I can show that in the current season, I know that I will maintain those at a greater degree in the next one.

Maybe this statement is more than a catchphrase, yet more complex than a morale booster.

What does this phrase mean to you?

Trapped by Comparison

Thu, 21 Jul 2011 00:00:00 GMT

"I used to analyze myself down to the last thread, used to compare myself with others, recalled all the smallest glances, smiles and words of those to whom I’d tried to be frank, interpreted everything in a bad light, laughed viciously at my attempts ‘to be like the rest’ – and suddenly, in the midst of my laughing, I’d give way to sadness, fall into ludicrous despondency and once again start the whole process all over again – in short, I went round and round like a squirrel on a wheel."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

Begin...

Lift the pen to the page

Scribble inaudible words upon an affixed page

Then it hits me, something stifling. These words are not me. Or at least, they fail to look and feel organic, you know, like writing should...at least that's what I'm told. Frustrated and despondent I quit. Yes, I quit. Time and time again, I quit, or really, stop writing. Not permanently, just for duration of time, until I cling to some unforeseen courage, the kind that is left in the rubble and must be dug out. The very same that is weak and frail, because it's been used and possibly abused.

It makes an appearance. It is something I have wrestled with not only in writing but in life. Comparison. I am quite familiar with this harassment. I am sure you understand my battle.

Why must it take such hold over me?

Because it is an excuse. It is easy.

Ah, there is it is. Easy. It is easy to compare myself to the ramblings, and personas of others because I can never be like them. No matter how hard I try, I cannot be them. But it is fun to try, well, at least that is what Iam told. Why? If it was easy to confront fear, there would be no need for this post. The only part of this that is easy is the route of fear. Give into it and you never have to battle. You can standby comfortably. No cares. No worries. No courage.

Wallowing in cowardice. Despondency in the air. Reality sets in. An epiphany dawns.

I cannot be like them. I was not meant to be them.

I am who I am. Despite the paradoxical nature of the phrase, I am Nick, and no one else.

Ambassador Training Camp #2

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:00:00 GMT

My Everest

Wed, 13 Jul 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Writing has been a gradient slop throughout the duration of my life; up and down the incline I have trekked as if I can truly never decide whether I am wise to experience the top of the mountains or the depths of the valleys. Emotional constipation singularly becomes the very discourse for the constant flux of intrigue andfrustration. As I write, I have become increasingly aware of the peaks and potholes I seem to skip across and fall into. In all my observations, I have been completely unaware of this phenomenon, which is not entirely elusive as it sounds.

Occasionally the tools are with me as I trudge up to the summit, while other instances are not entirely fruitful. Yes, I have climbed the gradient angle, barehanded! Increasingly stubborn and vision blocked by perfection, downed out by the voices of comparison.

As this lingers, I am nagged with a futile notion, that I have completely missed the point again.

Welcome to the Revolution

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Two weeks of intense yet purposeful camps, I find myself at the end of my training season. For the duration of the next two months, I will not feel as though I have exhausted all of my physical and emotional strength, as I continue to invest in young world-changers. Though I have spent much of myself and found my limits, I am grateful for the experiences that these past five weeks have given and to have a role in the development of missionaries who will bring freedom and love wherever they may find themselves.

This entry is dedicated to the Real Life Immersion team, a group of nineteen who will give up the pressures of the world, in order to become pioneers. College and occupations are put on hold, during the nine months, they are on the field. For that reason, I feel the need to call attention to them and bestow upon them honor and blessing.

Youth on the cusp, brink of change. Freedom ringing into a sound of revolution, clanging and clamoring as a resounding noise penetrates the very fabric of life. The world-changers as they call themselves, ready and poised to usher a movement of liberty; setting free those who find themselves trapped. No settledness can rest upon them, no complacency can grab hold. Only transparent is spirit, only visible is raw, only moving is barbaric. They are only ready for the real; not a shallow pool, nor phase of time, but a life that embraces the real. These shakers, these movers will bring a change; more than that, a movement, a revolution.

¡Viva la Revolución!

Ambassador Training Camp #1

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 00:00:00 GMT