But shall we think of nothing fit to hoard—
Of grace, of joy, of safe security?
So long we ne’er make jealousy our Lord
Its work in love evokes our Surety

Say, shall I let another man caress her
For sake of showing jealousy suppressed?
No! Jealousy is love’s great intercessor
A jealous man doth love his woman best

Indeed, if God is jealous of His bride
No jealousy shall I see fit to hide

The world was in chaos (of course). I found myself with a group of friends whom I had survived with for what seemed like quite a long time in the dream. The friends were new people–no one I know from real life was there.

Although I can’t remember the specifics, the chaos around us was a result of a world war that had devistated pretty much every square inch of the globe. There weren’t very many people left alive, and those that were were simply tired of running.

Anyway, our group was made up of about thirty or so people–one of the largest groups running around. The members tended to ascribe to the Christian faith, and many of them thought that this was the reason we had survived so long. Others of us recognized this was not so–it would have been a huge blessing just to croak.

One person in the group (with only some of our knowledge) acted upon this notion and comandeered a LARGE nuclear warhead transporter. He learned from the men running the vehicle that one of our country’s enemies had become aware of our group specifically and was planning a napalm strike upon our group. He reported this back to us before driving the nuke off to some place where he could detonate it, and effectively wipe out life on Earth, for the better, we all thought.

So we went on the move. Those of us who knew about the plan were constantly looking over our shoulders, waiting either to be napalmed or nuked–we were all hoping for the latter.

Finally, we made out the sound of airplanes in the distance. We were in the middle of a rocky, flat landscape, and immediately took shelter wherever we could. But a loud roar quickly overpowered the sound of the planes. A few of us looked towards the horizon, and saw a mushroom cloud in the distance. The whole Earth shook. Seconds later, a blinding white barrier of heat came racing toward us, destroying everything as it came, including the planes on the way to napalm us. I remember standing up straight, raising my arms up, and letting the heat rush over me. I remember being very interested in how my body felt as I died, noting how my clothes burned away, my skin, etc. I died confident that I was about to meet God.

I then found myself in the midst of a large, bewildered crowd. I looked around and found that I recognized some of them as the people from my group and others. We were all standing in front of what looked like a huge, spruced-up version of a discount department store like Wal-Mart. A large podium stood before us and a man promptly stepped up onto it.

“Welcome to the afterlife,” he said, “You’ll find that things here are exactly like the good things you remember from your previous life. We’ve worked hard for a very long time to create an environment where we could live and thrive” — he paused — “and I realize this vision may not align itself with what your beliefs were back then. But please realize: that life is gone, and this is how things are now. This is what the truth ended up being, and we are doing fine with it.”

A strange mix of emotions came from the people around me. Some were wailing with sadness and disappointment, some were nearly jumping with excitement. I pulled my two closest friends aside and asked them what they thought. One was leaning to being on board with the man, and the other was clinging to his Christian beliefs. I was caught in the middle, unwilling to give up my beliefs, but also realizing how obsolete they seemed to be under the current circumstances.

After a few days nosing around the place, it became apparent that not everything was as it seemed. The authorities (who were about as old as the earth itself–your age sort of determined your social class, which left me at the bottom of the food chain) were definitely keeping secrets from the rest of the LARGE population. I resigned to hold to my beliefs, and sniff out what was really going on.

The dream ended before I could get any resolution.

You know that chick from “The Brothers Bloom” who collects hobbies? I think if I ever inherit a large sum of money (which could only ever result from the revelation that I am really the son of Bill Gates or J.K. Rowling or someone like that), that’s exactly who I’d become.

You see, that pesky fourth commandment — the setting aside of some rest time — usually feels more like absolute weakness, laziness, and failure to me. The way I see it, by golly, any free second is a wasted second.

So . . . here’s how I pretend I’m living a productive life: I come up with new projects (oooh! I think that’s my favorite word!). I’ve convinced myself that in this circus-world, with its trapeze walkers and lion tamers, life is best lived as a juggler — where the only rest I need happens in the split-second one ball leaves my hand and another finds it. And when things get a little dull, that just means it’s time to toss in yet another ball, or better yet, a bowling pin, or sword, or flaming torch. One must learn by doing, after all, and by doing everything.

So, you wanna know what my projects are? I am more than happy to tell them to you — it gives me a great feeling of validation when you realize how hard I’m working! I’m currently juggling three novels — one in third draft, one in second draft, and one a couple chapters into the first draft. I’m writing songs for a new record. I’ve spearheaded Matt Papa’s website, as well as a few others for Centricity. I’ve started a new YouTube channel with my buddy Mark, which will come out with it’s first two videos hopefully within the next couple weeks (oh, and I’ve still got my own YouTube channel to nurture; new music vid in the works). I’m writing a screenplay for my internship at Belmont Health Sciences, which I will also soonly be directing. I’m recording a Christmas album with friends, establishing my artist presence both at shows and on social media, seeking out employment plans for December, reading a few books, keeping in/getting in better shape, making my yard look nice, etc. (obviously, this blog was dropped from the list long ago).

Anyway, I’m really hoping you’re impressed. Obviously, the projects listed above don’t include my usual, daily strivings like completing school projects, pursuing my wife, pursuing friendships, seeking to grow in faith, and all of that stuff that’s a little bit harder to measure quantifiably. So it’s not really surprising that, when I find myself right in the middle of a spare moment, I inflict upon my conscience every type of guilt at my disposal in order to obtain some objective progress — something I can add to my glorious pile of achievements. My days are measured in choruses sung and chapters written.

The only thing that really sucks about all that, though, is that it’s hardly ever satisfying. It seems like it all works backwards, which is pretty freaking disappointing. Here’s what I mean: usually, in those free moments while trying to decide how best to use my time, I only choose from my grand list of projects because they can show me visible results when I’m done. However, when I rest in love — when I decide that I’ll simply spend time with my wife, for instance (when no other stipulations are needed) — I find myself more fulfilled despite having no immediate, tangible evidence of any progress. In other words, progress alone hardly ever produces fulfillment. Ughhh.

Still, once I’m done writing this blog and I have a few minutes before bed to use for whatever I choose, I’ll go open my word document and get to editing. Just as any good temptation would advise, I’ll trade in real joy for the allure of progress. And once I feel its pull, I’ll invent some new vessel to get me there; my projects will ferry me to the land of all things calculable, where I’ll set up new docks and ports and hope that if I’ve just invested enough time and energy in the most diverse of trades, I’ll reach the end of my strivings and be content. I guess I have yet to fully grasp the simple fact that when you’re hooked to progress, not only do your strivings never end, your steps know no comfort.

So I know what to do: turn all my rest into a project, right? Keep an eye on the clock while I sacrifice the second hand for the sake of my heavenly standing — my “progress” as a growing Christian? Actually, this seems like the greater evil. Now, not only do I live under my own crappy expectations of myself, but I also apply those crappy expectations to God in assuming that if I complete my projects for his sake, I’ll earn something from Him. Now I’ve transformed from a tax collector to a Pharisee — at least Jesus would visit and eat at the house of the former.

Nope, I’ve got to kill the project mentality if I’m going to rest right. I’ve got to rest in defiance of my projects, and work to keep their number relatively low so as to avoid any sort of popular revolt or mob psychology.

Anyway, it’s past my bedtime. Night, chums.

I was back in Lamar, perhaps a bit older than I am now. My baseball buddies that I grew up with had decided to start a competitive softball team for old time’s sake. We had just finished a game and were all hanging around the ball parks reminiscing. Some of the girls who used to watch us were there too — Carissa, Brittney, Lindsay.

We decided to walk through the evergreens that formed a wind break West of the complex, in memory of the time Fos had caught us trying to drive to the park instead of walk. But as we were walking through the trees, the rows seemed to grow longer and the trees themselves bigger. Feeling uneasy, we stuck to the course.

When we came out, it was daylight, and we realized quickly that something strange had happened. The complex looked very different, but not totally unfamiliar. It looked exactly as it had when we were very young–we had somehow gone back in time.

We wandered the fields a bit, awestruck wherever we went. There was a game going on at Merchant’s, so we stopped by to take a look. Jordan recognized some of the high school players on the field, and guessed we had come back to somewhere around 1995. We were about to leave when I noticed Tim May in the stands, and beside him, a very young boy with bleach blonde hair. It was Clay.

I stuck around for a moment as my friends moved on. Eventually, Clay got up from the bleachers and took to wandering the premises. Like a regular old creeper, I followed him. He asked me if I was a baseball player. I said yes. He told me he was going to be a famous baseball player someday. I wanted so badly to tell him that he wouldn’t — that he would die at 15 and he needed to worry instead about not letting that happen, but I couldn’t.

I told him instead that I was sure he’d be a great catcher someday. He wrinkled his nose and replied that he didn’t want to be a catcher–he was a short-stop, through and through. I told him I thought that he’d make a good catcher, and he asked me to show him some things.

I immediately became extremely self-conscious. This required perhaps the most “dream bravery” I have ever needed in order to go ahead. But I went ahead nonetheless, showing Clay the things I learned from watching him myself when we were much older.  He took to them quickly.

My friends finally showed back up after wandering a bit. They were as amazed as I was to be standing in front of the younger version of Clay.

“Are you all baseball players?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you good?”

“Definitely.”

Clay stared around in childlike admiration of us, his eyes sparkling.

“What do I call you?” he asked. I thought for a moment.

“Kids,” I said finally, remembering Clay’s old calls of encouragement from the dugout. “You call a good baseball player ‘kid.’”

I was invited by a secret company to be involved with different dream experiments involving lucid dreaming. They knew to contact me by reading this blog.

Before going under, they explained what I was to be dreaming about — a pellet gun battle in an old factory with a friend of mine.

I’m going to take some time right now to explain a few things: I realized last night that although I do lucid dream most of the time (I am aware that I am dreaming and can consciously participate within/change the content of the dream), the ability to change things gets harder in dreams within other dreams. I think this might be because I have another sleeping version of myself to deal with somewhere, so the more dreams I stack on, the more disconnected I feel like I become with me (the dreamer) and the other me (within the dream).

All that being said, I had some trouble lucid dreaming like the scientists wanted me to. The dream changed of its own accord at the beginning. A friend of mine — Reid — and I were indeed at the old factory, but instead of pellet guns, we had small frisby discs that we threw at each other in a sequence that led us in and around the factory. During that time, however, I started to remember that I was indeed dreaming and what the doctors had asked me to do. So I changed the frisbees to pellet guns and we continued our faux battle. But not long after I had caught on to everything, a man ran up a set of metal stairs to the balcony where we were fighting, lifted up a small square device that looked a bit like a small camera, and from one of its corners sprayed a round of real bullets at Reid and I. Read was hit, and fell to the ground. I panicked as the man approached, feeling like I had failed the scientists’ tests. Feeling like there was nothing else to do, I started the sequence over.

Reid and I were now back at the beginning of our routine, only this time, we’ve started out with the guns. I direct us both down the same course of action we took the last time, and when the man comes up the stairs and points his little camera-gun at us, I grab his arm and stare at him.

“Leave us alone,” I say. “Put the gun down now and I’ll leave this place.”

The man nodded. “I was just trying to rob the bank around the corner and you guys were stirring up the authorities with your little game,” he said.

“I’ll be gone as soon as you put your gun down.”

The man did, and I woke up in the laboratory. The scientists said that although I didn’t get it right the first time, they were impressed with the second go. They told me that more tests were necessary, however. I explained to them that it’s harder for me to lucid dream when the dream is inside another one, to which they replied that I was catching on fast and would need further training.

They instructed me about what to dream again, saying that this time I would meet a person within the dream who would help me.

I fell asleep into a scene in a marketplace with cobblestone roads. The place looked an awful lot like the city of Saltillo, Mexico, only a lot cleaner. There were no less people walking the streets, that’s for sure.

It wasn’t long before a man made his way up to me. I knew immediately that it was the dude who was supposed to guide me through; he looked a bit like Bruce Willis, admittedly.

“Are you lucid now?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you always lucid from the beginning?”

“No,” I said. “Not always.”

I followed the man through the market square, which was nestled between an array of adobe shops and houses. A small fountain and statue stood in the middle of the square. There were tons of people moving around us.

As we neared the south entrance of the square, I could see a grassy knoll just beyond some of the far shops. That seemed to be where we were headed.

Before we reached it, however, two men in black masks stepped in front of us and pulled guns. My guide took shelter behind a shop and exchanged fire with one of the men, leaving me weaponless to defend myself against the other. I created a gun in the back of my pants and pulled it out. I remember still feeling panicked despite knowing I was dreaming. I pointed my gun at the man, who was seriously only a bit farther than arm’s length away, and tried to shoot him. I fired off many shots to no avail, and the reason was this: every time I tried to shoot the man, my arm would come into contact with some sort of barrier that outlined the man’s body, if that makes sense. Every time I attempted to aim my gun at any part of his body that would harm him, my arm would “bounce off.” Meanwhile, the man was firing off numerous shots into my forehead, which did no damage whatsoever.

Finally, I ran out of bullets, panicked, and fled to where my guide was behind the shop.

“You’re not very good at this yet,” he said to me.

“Are you kidding? I didn’t let any bullets even scratch me. I never get hit by bullets in dreams if I don’t want to.”

“You couldn’t hit him.”

I folded my arms. “So?”

“So, does that mean you don’t really want to hit him?”

“I guess.”

“You’re pathetic.”

I grew angrier. In a last attempt to prove myself to everyone, I stepped out from hiding and began to yell at the men.

“Lay down!”

They ceased fire. I could feel myself gaining control over the dream state like I had before with regular dreams.

“LAY DOWN!” I yelled in a voice that shook the market like an earthquake. People screamed. The two men walked to the grassy knoll, laid down on it, and stayed there, unmoving, as I walked back to my guide, who was smiling.

The scene was somewhat post-apocalyptic; the world seemed a strange mix of the residual modern culture with the trappings of 1st century A.D. in the Middle East. There were bazaars, camels that pulled makeshift metal buggies, people walking around with knives and swords and such.

I lived on the outskirts of some very important city — one of the few cities left. Because of the extreme arid environment, everyone wore minimal clothing. Desert sand covered the streets and stretched out to completely cover the land away from the city. Toward the city, a large cluster of skyscrapers were visible, rising out of the sand as if they’d been planted once by seed.

A new kind of commercialized Christianity had become extremely popular among the city’s inhabitants, and this was mostly due to the fact that Jesus himself had come back to walk the streets. Although he was often seen there carrying a young girl on his shoulder, no one really talked to him. Instead, they took pictures and posted them in gossip magazines and newspapers (because the media was apparently the only major industry that survived the apocalypse). In other words, he became a huge celebrity figure, though he hardly ever commented to reporters on anything except through mysterious parable-like sayings here and there.

Anyway, like I said, I lived on the outskirts of this city with a group of other survivors. This group included a few friends from RUF, namely Zach and Reid, who had become very close friends after some incident surrounding our survival had landed them both in wheelchairs. Ashleigh wasn’t there.

The strangest thing about this dream was that even though the time period was obviously set after present day, none of us were older. To the contrary, we all seemed much younger than we are today. I’m not sure why my “lucid dream police” allowed this little contradiction to slide, but hopefully it’s a sign that I can let myself start dreaming creatively again.

This group I lived with was made up of maybe ten or twelve people, all living in a rather large house we had claimed when we moved closer to the city (each year the sands on the edge of down would engulf more and more of the civilization, causing those inhabitants to move closer to the city). All of us were pretty good friends, and were also part of a slightly larger unspoken network of people connected with Jesus. I recall some sort of conflict rising toward the end of the dream, between us and the established government in the city, though I can’t remember what it was exactly. We were getting ready to move once more when the dream ended.

After that, we all make our way inside in search of different workshops to attend. Ashleigh and I get directions from a round reception table with four or five ladies inside, who tell us that we were separated into different workshops to promote modesty at the event.

I then “woke up” from that part of the dream and found myself in the girls’ bunks, where I had been napping on Ashleigh’s bed (all of this is still at the RUF conference). Ashleigh is having a conversation with Kristy, Melissa and Syneva when I wake up. Excited about the dream I just had, I dig out my dream journal and begin recording things down. Kristy, who is on the outskirts of the conversation, notices I am awake and asks me what I am doing. I reply that I am writing down a dream.

I agree to let her read the dream after I am finished writing it out, and after she reads it, she tells me that some of the people I describe in the dream seem eerily like some of the people she knows in reality–people whom I had never met. We discuss the strangeness of this until we hear Melissa crying. Apparently, she has called Joel (who is still apparently in China) and broken off their engagement.

Before I can find out why, I “wake up” again from another nap–this one in the boys’ bunks. I can see and hear Kevin in the other room watching television in a white wife-beater and blue-and-green swim trunks. I get my computer out with the intention of working on my album. I try to open Logic, but instead a flurry of videos fill the screen–videos documenting all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. Kevin walks into the room, and I consciously change the videos back to Logic Studio. Kevin, however, has already seen the videos, and asks me what they were about. I refuse to tell him, and when he presses further, I become annoyed with the dream and wake myself up (for real this time).

Anyway, it was very interesting to read these again, especially since the story is about real characters set in a completely fictional world. Those stories I made up not-so-subtly speak a lot about my attitudes and motivations about myself and the people around me at the time. I couldn’t help but begin to psychoanalyze my 11-year-old self as I read, and though I know I can’t pin down what everything means, I think I’ll explore it a bit further here, on the blog, using the points I thought were most striking. Here goes.

1. The Grim is my Father – I wonder if Dad read these and became offended that I had cast him as my arch-nemesis, who my friends and I kill over and over again to no avail. I’m not sure this is some kind of reflection on my opinions about him at that point in my life, but I’m going to go ahead and say that I don’t think that’s the case. I think I was simply 11 years old and wanted some sort of plot turn, so I stole a chapter from Star Wars’ book and gave my fictional self Daddy issues. If there are any deeper implications here, I guess I’m just missing them.

2. I Hardly Knew My Buddies – Upon looking back through my list of friends in the Colors series, I realized that all of them were people I was barely getting to know in real life, or people I didn’t really know at all. All of the other guys (especially in the first story) were guys that went to Parkview Elementary–a different elementary school than the one I went to (Washington Elementary). Given, I knew most of the guys in Colors from baseball, but I also had numerous really good friends at Washington. Why didn’t I use them in the story? I really have no idea about this one. In fact, when I first started writing them in fifth grade, I didn’t know one character (Daniel Hall) at all, and yet I wrote him in anyway, using information my friends gave me about him.

3. Characters Have Unique Behaviors – Looking at the characters’ behaviors was definitely the funniest part of reading through these stories again. Throughout the whole series (even before I knew him well) I wrote Daniel Hall in as a cocky, wanna-be ladies man who makes the most moves and gets the least in return. He also makes a comment that he won’t be able to date until he’s sixteen. 11-year-old Blake, I applaud your attention to detail when it came to Hall’s character.

Others weren’t as close, though. I wrote Shane Bryant in as an incessant whiner who complained about everything. I wrote Thomas Francis in as a late-bloomer, who showed absolutely no desire in chasing girlfriends after the other boys decided to. I wrote Daniel Nevius (who they called “Shorty”) in as an eccentric, always-hyper lover-of-adventure (which, at the time, wasn’t too far off, I admit). Jordan Romine I wrote in as my best bud, which made sense, because out of all those guys, I knew Jordan best in the real world. Taylor and Josh unfortunately took backseat roles, though they did become more prominent later in the series, when the guys have birthday parties at Josh’s house (where they’re downstairs playing pool, of course). The most Taylor gets is a cool scene where he shares a dream with Blake and together they evade the Grim long after he’s captured the rest of their friends.

The girls aren’t as prominent in the stories, so it’s hard to get a decent grip on their characters, although I did give Carissa the power of being a “psychic,” and wrote her as the leader of the girls–enigmatic, strong, almost omniscient.

4. There are Strange Relationships – Oh, this was funny. I’ll just list the relationships I had going and leave it at that.

Blake – Brooke // Jordan – Carissa // Shorty – Kirstin // Taylor – Lindsay // Shane – Kaity // Josh – Breanna // Clay – Brittney

Wrong on all accounts. Though, I do believe that at the time Jordan and Carissa were indeed dating, as well as Daniel Nevius and Kirstin, at some point in there. Perhaps Shane and Kaity had as well.

5. Clay May is a Bad Guy – This, of course, is the one thing I would change if I could go back and change one thing. In the last book, Clay is introduced as an outsider who gets accepted into the group despite his having no powers. And admittedly, he’s a bit jealous of the guys who do. Despite this, he is told in a dream that he has a special “destiny” and must deliver something of great worth to its rightful owner in order to save humanity. Eventually, he ends up siding with his jealousy and aiding the Grim back to life, but redeems himself by delivering the valuable item anyway and repenting of his mistakes. Then, unpredictably at the end, Clay uses one wish he is granted for his service to request that he become evil for greater power (this, as well, was no doubt another uber-contrived, ill-conceived plot turn that revealed no deeper meaning about my real-life friendship with Clay). I was very good friends with Clay at the time, and I have no idea why I chose pick on him. I hope that he never got the chance to read it, and if he did, that he didn’t feel bad about it (he was the kind of kid who might have). I remember once after reading it aloud in middle school, Carissa told me I should change the ending because it would hurt Clay’s feelings. I ignored her, because by that time, my creations had become somewhat holy to me. Wish I knew then what I know now.

6. I Write an Ideal Life – Many times I stumbled upon instances where the narration made it clear that I was indeed writing my life as Blake’s life–using reality as a model for the made-up story. And yet I ran across many inconsistencies as well. For instance, one place mentions football as my favorite sport. This definitely wasn’t true in real life–between 5th and 6th grade little league football games, I thought that I never wanted to put on a helmet again. I later warmed up to the sport, but I’m not sure why I would write about it being my favorite at the time when it obviously wasn’t, other than that the life I was trying to write wasn’t really my own–it was my ideal life. That has heavy implications on things I’ve already mentioned in this blog, though I don’t think that this concept can be applied to all parts of the text.

Another example is that in Colors, I live on Cottonwood Drive, where Josh, Jordan, and Daniel live. In real life, I did not. Oh, and in the story I like waffles (yuck).

7. I Become God-like – Since these stories were written before I was converted to Christianity, there are many, many instances where my 11-year-old beliefs fly right in the face of my current ones. In fact, they are in some areas blatantly anti-Christian.

There is a large Greek Mythology influence (I was really big into that at the time) and the last book actually gives an account of the beginning of the world as depicted in many Greek myths. It speaks in strange language sometimes, about “personal destinies” (stolen no doubt from The Alchemist) and “returning to innocence” (lifted from a song by Enigma). At one point, my character dies and finds himself floating toward a white light. He declines, chooses to float away toward darkness, and is then told by a voice attempting to speak in Middle English that he has passed a test. He then gains a new power as well as a higher state of enlightenment, rises from the grave, and saves his friends. Now speaking in the same faux-ancient tongue as the disembodied voice, he imparts bits of his new power to the rest of his friends. There is a line towards the very end of the last book that says, “Everyone looked at Blake as if he were a god.” Apparently I was a bit ambitious, and very narcissistic.

8. I Quote the Bible – The afterword in the last book shares a brief scene with Blake opening up an “old” Bible. It then quotes the 23rd Psalm, to which Blake adds, “This sounds familiar.” I’m not sure what I meant by that, though I suspect I was probably just enjoying trying to make myself seem mysterious.

I also start the last book off by saying, “In the beginning,” which is, of course, how the Bible starts off. I had no knowledge of the Bible at the time of writing this (except for the 23rd Psalm, apparently).

I walked in the door to a school–the elementary school we worked at on the RUF winter mission trip with all the artwork on the walls. The front doors were actually where that wall was with the school bus “crashing through.”

Anyway, I walked into the school in the morning, just as class was starting and young kids were hurrying into classrooms. I was carrying a bike and had a helmet on. As I entered, I saw a older woman (who reminded me very much of my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Norris) who stood at the end of the hall opposite me. She watched me as I approached her — I got the feeling we knew each other. I also got the impression (mostly from her expression) that she had some bad news to give me.

Once I reached her, she said, “Your mother is two-and-a-half hours late, and ten minutes dead.” I felt a shock, of course, upon hearing this, but the woman urged me to continue to act unmoved. She glanced around and then bent to whisper into my ear, but I never heard what she said.

Like all writers, whether it be of songs or stories or essays or poems or whatever, I am constantly on the lookout for a great idea. I think all of us occasionally find ourselves searching for something pure and true–and not just any pure or true idea, but the purest, the truest. In the least, this is the case for myself. I’ll turn my daily wanderings into a treasure hunt, searching for that single bit of inspiration that is the King of all inspiration–a truth that strikes so deep a chord it rends the soul open wide once penned onto paper or fused with a melody.

I think this is especially true of me when writing hymns. Imitating that unique language acts perhaps as a more resilient springboard into the depth and thickness of the Gospel. In this realm of things, I find myself again searching for that deeper vision–that sparkle at the lowest trench on the ocean floor.

It is perhaps my more sensible half’s opinion that these specs are mostly unattainable in our current state (though my ambitious half will cordially disagree). But let’s talk about those halfway-deep specs we do sometimes grab hold of–those are most interesting, especially to writers.

Sometimes a deep spec comes across our paths, and if we’re paying attention, we might notice it and wonder at it. After regarding it in awe for a while, we might feel just as deeply moved, and feel it necessary to share that depth with others (that is what writers and artists do, after all). We might think, “this will make the most amazing song,” or even, “this is the spec I’ve been searching for.” Hearts racing, fingers trembling, we sit down at our guitars and work desks and begin our mysterious attempts at emulating, through our own realms of expression, the depth of that truth we felt. But if the spec was deep enough (and I’m only talking about the deep ones here), we’ll more likely that not discover very quickly our complete deficiency at recreating the spec. Though we are self-proclaimed masters with words, we find in those times that once we uncover the deep truths our souls longed to resonate with, our words completely fail us. We realize that no string of words we put together will be enough, and we must therefore keep the utter deepness to ourselves for a season, and then set it free without even the slightest attempt at a definition.

I think Jon Foreman probably expresses this paradox best (and in far less apparently useless words) in his song, “Only Hope.” Here are the first two lines:

“There’s a song that’s inside of my soul / It’s the one that I’ve tried to write over and over again.”

Amen, dude.