Sometimes just before I go to bed I can’t tell if I’m hungry or if I’m tired. Should I stay up later to eat something, thereby satisfying my hunger and risking the digestion process keeping me awake (although sometimes it has the opposite effect)? Or should I just go to bed, get plenty of rest, and wake up in the morning dying for breakfast?
Some nights I just don’t have a lot to say.
Do you ever stop and wonder why Jesus died for us? Who are we that the son of God should give himself up for us? And why does it not affect us that he did give his life for us? Imagine a good friend of yours laying down their life for you. It would change the way you see the world when you wake up in the morning. It would change the way you act, it would change everything. Yet we’ve become callused to it. Callused to love, callused to life, callused to Jesus. We need the Holy Spirit to poke through the thick, dead skin that we might feel again.
Bad news? Is it bad news? It’s bad news, isn’t it? It’s always bad news when you say it like that.
You can really ruin your day when you let your assumptions go too far. Don’t do that.
It was good news, by the way. Really good news.
If it only cost you $250 to fly to a foreign country would you go for the weekend? That’s what I love about being in college. You can legitimately consider such last minute lunacy. I received an e-mail tonight advertising a round trip flight to London, Paris, Frankfurt, or Amsterdam for $250. The only stipulations were that you had to purchase your tickets before January 30, fly between February 1-29, and stay at least one Saturday night. In two weeks Interim is over and we have a five day weekend. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“So what’d you do over break?”
“I went to London.”
But alas, I don’t have $250 to throw around, and if I did, I need a passport. And good luck getting one in two weeks. Oh well, maybe next time.
Dreams and memories come and go, rise and fall, shine and fade away. I have so many thoughts, so many desires, so many experiences, but only so much time. It’s always the walk back to my dorm that draws inspiration. And it should. The quiet, peaceful night. The chill of the night air. Every light is out, except for the night owls. A rabbit scampers off. This is what I experience before I sit to write these thoughts. As I walk the feelings of the day fall away, I shed them like a cocoon, and prepare for that blissful sleep, when all will be forgotten until the cloudy haze of tomorrow comes rushing back into my nostrils and my eyes open like almond slivers, wondering what time it is and why I can’t sleep another five minutes.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. We get the day off school. Banks close. There’s no mail. But does it mean anything to you? Thirty-five years ago this man, along with millions of others, worked to break down the shackles of racism in our society. In some ways, they succeeded. They forced the government to deliver their promised rights.
A thousand voices echo through the hall, rising and falling in a crescendo of worship. Hands are lifted high in praise, voices strain and tears fall. A powerful wave of emotion sweeps through your body as you catch the tiniest glimpse of the meaning of the words you’re singing. I watched the drummer pound out the beat with every ounce of strength he had. Joy overflowed in my heart and I beat my hand against my leg to the rhythm.
God, how can I constantly miss you? I’m there, and I take the time, but somehow I’m just not there. My mind isn’t there and my heart isn’t there. You long for all of me, and I give you a time slot in my day. Take my life.
Better is one day in your court,
Better is one day in your house,
Better is one day in your court,
Than a thousand elsewhere.
What do you expect from me? You come here occasionally, sometimes daily, looking to glean a little slice of thought. Why do I always have to be the one to think? I stare blankly into the screen at 1:07 in the morning, wondering why the screen stares so blankly back at me. I’m not a brilliant guy. I don’t know it all. I don’t have the answers, and I certainly don’t pretend to. Yet you keep coming back, presumably to see what I have to say. Am I that profound? Or is it just fun to see what’s on my mind? Do I actually stimulate your thinking? Or are you just bored, looking for something to amuse your eyes while you eat your breakfast? Sometime I can’t help but wonder what the point is. For me it’s a selfish reason, I need to think, I need to write. So here it is. But what about you? Why do you come here? Do you have anything to say? Sometimes I wish I could here it. Here the thoughts that echo in your mind at the end of the day. Would you ramble on about something that ticked you off? Or would you ask a puzzling question and saunter off to bed? Or maybe you’d tell a little tale, adding in a few rhymes and have yourself some fun. What would you do if they were your thoughts? Would you even open them for the whole world to read? Would you speak in cryptic tones that border on poetic insanity, or would you lay it out cold? Sometimes I just sit here and wonder, when I should really just go to bed.
He was the kind of person your mother told you to stay away from. I sat next to him on the train. I offered him some crackers, and listened to him talk about crack. Tattoos ran up and down his arm like the profanity woven through his language. The other passengers glared at him or pretended he wasn’t there.
He sat slumped against a potted tree, clutching an empty water bottle, its label long since faded away. He mumbled quietly to himself. I watched him take a long, soothing drag on his Marlboro, and then extinguish the burning embers underneath his shoe. I could see his bare toes wiggle as he smashed the cigarette, his toes poking out of his holy socks, poking out of his dilapidated shoes.
It was hot enough to make the asphalt sticky. I was slumped against a building, trying to build up the strength to continue on. From my vantage point I watched her fall all the way to the earth. She stumbled, her leg giving out, and her knee came crashing into the concrete. It slammed into the concrete with jolting force. You could feel it from a distance. The others around her on the sidewalk hesitated for a moment. We all saw her fall. Their pace slowed for a second. They weren’t sure what to do. But the proud woman kept her gaze low. With all her might she pulled herself back up and struggled on. The people around her resumed their pace, grateful they didn’t have to dirty their hands and stoop to help the clumsy woman.
What did you see?
The snow flakes fall like a million stars in the nighttime sky. It covers everything like a soft, quiet blanket. It covers the ground and sticks to the branches, it buries cars and sticks to the grooves in your tires. Through it all voices echo, screaming, yelling, cheering. Bodies move in not-so-fluid motion, arms flail and feet kick. Sticks fly and a small orange ball rolls lazily through the snow before a flying dive and the ball is sailing across the rink again. People scamper and everyone converges on the ball.
Broomball. The ultimate winter sport of buffoonery. At first glance it looks like a game for clowns. But those clowns know how to have fun. Tonight I scored my first goal ever.