1. At this point in my life, I am not sure if I have any good friends.
2. But how do I know what a good friend is anymore? Every good friend I’ve had, I’ve grown up with, and known since early childhood. The very definition has changed for me — any potential good friends I might make now must listen to my story to understand me. The good friends I used to have lived my story with me.
3. Following from that, I haven’t had to “tell my story” or “share about my life” with friends before, as they’ve lived it with me. I have realized I’m not very comfortable at all about sharing about myself, and am not sure of the right ways to do it.
4. Also, having known the same people all my life, it seems that I’ve never learned how to make friends, and that my social skills in that area are especially lacking.
5. Having spent most of the days of my youth participating in different school activities with my good friends (which usually ran from 7:00 am to 9:00 pm), I have never learned what kind of effort needs to be put forth outside of classes to maintain a friendship, like telephone calls? and hanging out?
6. It seems the more I try not to be the kind of friend someone might not like (ie: the annoying tagalong, the quiet creeper, the awkward story-teller) the more I start acting like it.
7. I am married. That makes finding friends exponentially harder, trust me.
8. My wife doesn’t seem to share the same longing for social interaction.
9. It seems to me that everyone in a social setting is either normal and aware of others’ awkwardness, or awkward and completely unaware of it. Why the Hell am I socially awkward and know it? I think either of the first two roads would be better than the last.
10. I realize that for most people, this process is hardly less than instinctual, and I would have agreed four years ago — I never would have thought I’d one day be searching for advice on how to have friends. But here I am…got any?

When I was a kid, I spent a ton of my time wanting to grow up, to escape childhood. I realize that this is probably the case for most young people, however I do believe after discussing it with some friends that I was just abnormally obsessed with the prospect of becoming an adult.

For instance, I began reading books off my parents’ bookshelf in 2nd and 3rd grade. These included a lot of Stephen King, other horror books and books with some adult situations that I was probably not at all ready to be exposed to. But I exposed myself to them nonetheless, mostly out of the desperate longing to do what grownups did — to know what grownups know. I also remember trying at all times to act more mature than my classmates, to be very lofty around my younger sister, to speak with grade-school teachers on their own level.

Now don’t get me wrong — I had a wonderful childhood when I wasn’t trying to act twenty years older. I also read tons of kids books like Harry Potter and my personal favorite back then, The Chronicles of Narnia (I’ll come back to them in a minute).

It seems nearly comical to me now, after leaving home and spending a few years introducing myself to what will one day become the “grownup world,” if it hasn’t already, that I desire nothing more than to have my youth back again. I long to return to that place prior to the “veil” being lifted from my eyes, before the discovery of the tainted world — to Narnia, if you will. I listen now to the songs I listened to as a child and experience tremendous heartache! I wonder if all pure imagination has since gone.

All of this can be summed up easily enough: I spent my childhood hopelessly longing for a certain period in my life to come, and once I passed it, I became just as obsessed as ever in trying to get it back.

Now here’s the kicker: in the Chronicles of Narnia, those awesome books I’ve read over and over throughout my life, there is a character who does exactly the very same thing I’ve done. It’s Susan — the eldest sister — who leaves Narnia for the last time doubting whether all of the “magic” was real. She instead focuses her energy on growing up, on forgetting her childhood fantasies and “maturing” into a respectable woman. And after she’s reached that point in her life, she clings to it desperately as Time sweeps her away from it. And you know, when the rest of the children (then grown up) return to Narnia permanently at the end of the series, Susan is not with them.

Now, I don’t think Lewis is trying to make the point that it’s wrong to have nostalgic feelings — even longings — for the innocence of childhood. I think this whole series works to induce readers to long for something more — something like innocence found in childhood. But obviously it does me no good trying to return to some previous existence or jump ahead to some future one. First of all, it’s not possible, and second of all, worrying about it wastes time, which seems a bit ironic as its time you’re trying desperately to get back.

Alright, it’s time for a serious re-evaluation of my future: here are the facts:

1. I am a Songwriting Major, and a Creative Writing Minor

2. I love writing and performing songs

3. I love writing novels

4. I think I can get a job doing either if I try

5. I have a limited amount of creative energy

6. Ash and I want to raise our kids in Lamar, CO

7. I think it would be nice to begin having kids within the next 5 years

8. I might like to teach Writing at LHS and/or coach and/or run a youth or music program at a church and/or head up some high school organizations in my spare time

9. I have high ambitions, and don’t plan on leaving Nashville until they are accomplished

10. I will graduate from college in approximately 1 year

I’m sure you can already see some problems with these statements. I’m sure if I really tried, I could write both songs and stories, and make a living doing both. But not in Lamar. In fact, the truth is, if I plan on returning to Lamar, the Music Business is almost out of the question. I guess that now, after being married and considering the prospect of children as an actual reality, I have finally opened my eyes to the blaring contradictions staring in my fact the whole time. Curse naivete! — Even despite how naive I shall seem to myself a year from now. It just might be my undoing.

So after considering all these options, I realize with a sinking stomach I am now facing that which people have long told me I would one day face — a decision, a polite decline to one of these things. Since I obviously cannot have all of them, I must decide carefully which one(s) to give up–presuming that with the least amount of statements I have to give up, the easier my decision will be and, hopefully, the more fulfilling my life will be.

I realize straight away the obvious choice (especially for people like my grandmother). Scratch number 9. With number 9 out of the way, I can return to Lamar, get a job teaching, write on my own, and raise kids and live happily ever after. But the truth is this–going back to Lamar is the same as admitting defeat with my writing. Nothing will come of it there. And although I do desire to live a simple life one day, I do not want to return to such a life without living out my ambitions first.

Another option is to scratch number 6. Why must I raise my kids in Lamar? Or scratch number 7. Why in 5 years? Firstly, I absolutely refuse to raise my kids in a big city. I do not need to explain why, as I have been around many people raised in both rural areas and large cities, and I have formulated my own opinions on such matters. It comes down to the idea of what I deem is absolutely best for my future kids, and that subject is of great importance to me. Scratching number 7 is a bit more valid–it only deals with a certain amount of longing and homesickness, which are easier dealt with than strong convictions about how to raise kids. Still, I would like my parents to be alive when my future son or daughter is playing high school sports (or acting in plays, or singing in choir, or whatever). And on top of that, I am not sure if Ashleigh really enjoys being here, and I know her parents are pressuring her go back also — which makes me wonder if there was ever any faith put into my writing abilities at all…

Another one might be scratching number 2–forgetting about songwriting and focusing on novels (as I can write those from any place I like). To tell you the truth, if I were to turn in my most recent manuscript and a publisher picked it up and it gained a lot of momentum that earned me a reputation, I would probably start looking for houses in Lamar immediately, and write songs from then on only as a hobby. But how long would that take? How would I know when to go? And would my craft of songwriting (the very subject I’m earning a COLLEGE DEGREE in) go to waste, unused?

It seems I have a big problem indeed. Out of all possibilities, the ones listed above are the only ones I could really imagine in which only one of the statements must be crossed out for the rest to work. Perhaps, in the end, a way will open up, but right now it looks a lot like a big sloppy mess–one that I’ve no doubt constructed with my own ambitions. I have nothing left to do but to wait and see.

Well, not exactly…

I really do hate to sound like some radical fundamentalist, but the sight of those blue-and-white “Coexist” bumper stickers really put knots in my gut every time I see one.

Obviously, I get message, and I definitely understand the intended affect a person with a Coexist sticker hopes to have on someone else who might be intolerant to another person’s beliefs. But are we really teaching the right lesson, here?

I think I can safely say that these stickers are, for the most part, worn in response to fundamentalist Christian groups that speak out against, make judgements upon, or even persecute followers of other faith traditions. The stickers are a message to these groups that those types of practices are not acceptable. They call fundamentalists to tolerate people of other faith systems, to co-exist, to “live and let live.”

Now, initially, I would say that I agree wholeheartedly with this cause. Tolerance is essential. So when I first saw these stickers popping up everywhere, I had to ask myself why I suddenly felt so conflicted when one turned up in the road in front of me.

The answer was this — what kind of call to action is tolerance, really? How much effort does it take to co-exist with another human being? I’m sure it probably takes expends less energy than picketing graves or making public statements. If I were to “live and let live,” that simply means that I take you off my radar — I leave you to go about things your own way and become apathetic towards you altogether.

Now, that seems a bit ironic — I might venture to say that one of the biggest problems within Christian churches today is their overall attitude of apathy. Apathy is why Pastors choose to bash other religions, because studying up on them takes too much effort. Apathy is why “Christ followers” don’t dig deeper into their own faith, and in turn don’t discover some of the revolutionary teachings Christ shared about love. And then, what do they see in those stickers? “Coexist” … more apathy.

Unfortunately, I just don’t think an act of tolerance gets the job done… If I may, I’m going to quote Derek Webb — “Time looks the same at the ones who hate, and the ones that do nothing.”

I’m afraid that tolerance, co-existence, apathy, will not bring any permanent change to the close-mindedness people are faced with every day.

What we need instead, as you might have already guessed, is love. Sure, it may be a bit ambitious, but at least it’s active. Love is in pursuit of understanding, not only to grasp deeper truths within one’s own faith, but to recognize slivers of it in someone else’s. Love tends to build bridges — it reforms broken bonds. While apathy — the lack of feeling or emotion — is only self-serving and idle, love serves others, and remains in a cycle of perpetual motion and is therefore eternal.

That sounds like something we can all believe in.

Top Friends

Gosh, I hate choosing top friends on MySpace or Facebook. I avoid it at all costs, if possible (I have recently cut it down to just one–my wife). No matter how I try to order the people in my life from least to most important, I am always left feeling guilty about it. And picking groomsmen was a nightmare for me — I will probably always feel some sort of guilt about it, even though I’m not really sure what I should feel guilty about.

You see, I have never been very good about ordering things in my life — books, movies, songs, etc. When someone asks me, “What is your all-time favorite movie,” I am most likely to respond, “Which sort of movie? Action or comedy or horror or drama or…?” I have a hard time grouping things into a single category — or perhaps better put — I have a hard time finding a common criteria by which to judge such things. The same is true when I try to order my friends.

Even though this might sound cliche, it is the truth, and exactly the reason why friend-ordering is so hard for me. It’s that old, overused adage — everyone is unique. Seriously, if everyone was the same, I would have no problem choosing which of my friends is most important, next important, and so on. But how can I do that when everyone seems to fit nicely into their own category? What standard(s) — that all of my friends share — should I use to make these decisions? Maybe I just haven’t discovered it yet.

Also — I hate looking at other people’s top friends, especially if I’m on the list. For one, since I am rather competitive, I always find myself disappointed if I’m not high up, even if I’m number 2 to someone’s mother. But mostly, I’m just not comfortable knowing where I fit in at on a friend’s hierarchy of valued people, and that goes for all friends — even ones who have me at the top spot. I don’t want to know the order by which they prioritize their friendships …

I think it’s probably that “we’re all equal” mentality that I get hung up on — I’m not sure. Like I said, I guess I just haven’t found the right standard to arrange my friendships by … and as far as this subject is concerned, I’m happy to settle for ignorance.

- 10:30 -

This dream had a very clear beginning.

I sort of just…came to myself in the middle of a dirt baseball field. (At least the infield was dirt–I can’t remember if the outfield was too, but my gut feeling was that it was) It also wasn’t a full sized baseball field–it had the look of one of the fields we used to play on with the Big R traveling team, especially those in Fort Collins.

When I looked beyond the fences of the park, however, I saw hardly anything at all. The field seemed to be suspended weightlessly in a kind of thick, gray fog. The fog was a bit darker where it issued out from underneath the park, and it also seemed to clear a bit in the distance, allowing me to make out a faint horizon (although it was impossible to distinguish any sort of landscape or other shapes upon the ground) The air inside the park, however, was perfectly clear.

Anyway, when I found myself on this ghost of a field, I was standing on the pitcher’s mound, right on the rubber, looking toward home plate. I was confused a bit as I squinted around, but then, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of someone sitting quietly in the third base dug out. It was Clay May.

Slowly, I made my way over to him, and he smiled.

“Good to see you,” he said. He looked exactly as he had when he had played on Big R — not a day older — and was wearing baseball pants with a tucked-in gray shirt, both of which matched the eerie fog surrounding us. On his feet were those famous silver cleats of his.

“It’s been such a long time,” I replied, a little choked up. He didn’t reply–he was staring fixedly at the spot I had just come from.

I took a seat beside him on the bench, and we remained completely silent afterward, waiting, as if for another one of our teammates to materialize. I wanted more than anything to talk to him, but I couldn’t decide what to say.

And suddenly I began to feel guilty–I was wearing normal clothes and felt rather out of place. I was also desperately trying to hide my wedding ring–a sign that I was moving on in my life when he could not. I hid my flip-flops underneath the bench so he couldn’t see that I didn’t have real shoes on to play. I started smoothing my hair, hopelessly wishing for a hat to put on it. I wouldn’t glance over at Clay at all for fear that he might be disappointed.

I became scared that he might find out how I decided not to play baseball at Belmont, and that I had taken up his role as catcher after his death, and that we just couldn’t seem to win another state championship without him. He might see how, the day before his funeral, we laughed our heads off as we made his memorial video, unsure about how to deal with the shock.

As these thoughts rolled like little avalanches through my mind, I remember staring out across the barren field, waiting guilt-stricken for something to happen.

And that was more or less as much as I can recall. I wish I could have finished it–I’m sure it would’ve had a happy ending!

I’ve been thinking about God’s sovereignty a lot lately. Of course, it’s a topic that’s come up countless times in my Doctrine and Cornerstone classes and whatnot, and I’ve always pretty much written the topic off as something that “I’ll never figure out, so why try?” I still more than likely think about it that way, but I guess God’s been dropping me some hints, and for whatever reason, he likes to do it by locking my keys in my car…

As you might imagine, I was minding my own business at the Shell station near my apartment. Like I always do, I left my keys in the front seat and went to pump some good ol’ petroleum. (If you’ve read this blog before, you will know how stupid this was for me to do–however, that particular incident happened only once, and I’ve left them in the front seat a hundred times since). What I had failed to consider were my two dogs, Pepper and Chuy, running amuck from behind the Jeep windows. Chuy, who likes to wait in the driver’s seat for me to return, poked one of his little claws up against the lock button (on my keys, mind you) in just the right angle and with just the right amount of pressure to cause the horn to give a quick toot, the knobs beside the windows to drop, and Blake to curse at the gas machine.

After wasting some time trying to coax Chuy into stepping on the keys again (while he looked at me like “What the heck are you doing?”) I went inside to get the number of the Police. You see, they had been the ones to break into my Jeep the last time I got stuck in Indiana, so I figured they’d do it again. The lady inside gave me a good laughing at and then a phone book, and I dialed up the police station and asked them politely to come unlock my puppy prison. A woman on the other end replied, “Uh…no, sir…we don’t do none-a that.”

So the lady at the desk suggested I call a locksmith. Well, there were about a billion of those in the phonebook, so I picked one towards that middle that said “24 hour lock-out service.” You see, the sun was about to set. I called it, and an old man answered. I told him my situation, and he chuckled and said he’d be on his way over immediately. Then, before getting off the line, he mentioned that his services would cost me 65 buckaroos. I paused for a moment, and then told him to come on down. What else was I going to do?

Over the course of the following 15 minutes while I waited, however, I really began to hit myself in the head about it (not literally, of course). I really couldn’t afford to chalk up 65 dollars over something so trivial–I had double rent to pay for August, as Ash and I found a house to move into and couldn’t talk our previous landlords out of a 13-month lease, I had a good hefty sum to go to the artist doing my album artwork (not to mention the eventual cost of the albums themselves), and another good bit to go to a co-writer to cut and pitch a demo. Oh yeah–I had a wedding and a honeymoon to pay for, too… I was really beginning to worry that God was about to pull a Job on me when the Locksmith showed up.

He was an old white man, with a crown of silver hair framing the pale, freckled skin that ran roughly over the top of his head. He wore a good-to-see-you smile as he stepped out of his oldsmobile, his hands trembling with age. I shook one of them and told him I was thankful he could come (which was, as you are probably thinking, a lie). His smile broadened as he watched the dogs stare out at him from the back seats, and immediately got to work.

In a matter of seconds, the door was unlocked, and I was shaking the man’s hand again, digging in my pocket for the cash with the other.

“Are they vicious?” he asked me, pointing to Pepper and Chewy.

“Not at all,” I said, opening the driver door, and adding “they do get a bit excited, though,” as they jumped to the front seats, their tails wagging furiously.

Fearlessly, the old man reached his hand into the Jeep and was met by a flurry of tongues from both the pups. (And if you know my dogs at all, you’ll know how much of a miracle it was that they didn’t jump out, tackle the man to the ground, and attack him with a billion sloppy kisses). He held his hand there for a long time, letting them lick for a while, and then returning their gestures with some scratches and belly rubs. It wasn’t until after I had finally gotten the money from my pocket and counted it that I looked up and realized the man was crying. Frozen on the spot, I suddenly felt paralyzed upon seeing tears fall down that face that had moments before seemed so confident and peaceful.

“Had to put my German Shepherd down last week,” the man said in a distant voice, talking really to no one in particular. “Such a shame…such a shame…”

Feeling a bit awkward, as I almost always do around people who are experiencing deeply emotional moments, I could only find the gumption to say “I’m sorry,” and then simply remained silent.

After composing himself, the man closed the car door and said, “goodbye pups!” with a little wave. I handed him the money (now feeling no desire at all to keep it) and he gave me his card.

“Give me a jingle if this ever happens again!” he said, and then, leaning a bit closer, “the next time’s free.”

I thanked him again and watched him drive off, realizing that even though I didn’t get exactly what I had expected when I pulled into that gas station, the Locksmith ended up getting exactly what he needed.

Guys that look like this:

See also: Crappy, rat-infested apartments with wide-screen plasma televisions, and people who pay their cell-phone bill first and worry about money for food later.

Patriotism — love for or devotion for one’s own country. (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)

Usually, this subject is one that I try hard to avoid. It’s mostly due to the fact that in most cases, when I talk to someone about it, I end up thoroughly embarrassed–a feeling that from there, quickly turns to shame and silence. You see, I am not able to be patriotic…

I remember (with horrific detail) a conversation I had last year with a buddy of mine at Belmont during a particularly rainy day outside. He asked me whether or not, in a time of war, I would go and fight for the U.S. if I was called upon to do so. I couldn’t find it within myself to say I would. He shook his head at me in disgust. Feeling dishonorable in all regards, I remember picturing Uncle Sam walking up to me, spitting in my face, calling me a sissy, and pushing me into the mud.

I also remember being made to stand up, lay my hand on my heart, and say the pledge of allegiance every school morning for the first 18 years of my life. Sometimes, very secretly, I would feel strangled, terrified, suffocated. Some days I would only mouth the words, too afraid to use my voice. I didn’t want to pledge my allegiance to a nylon flag waving in the English Literature classroom every morning.

Now please don’t get me wrong–I certainly didn’t choose to be this way. There isn’t any sort of problem with my attitude or my upbringing (not in this subject, anyway). I, like many other people, just feel an inclination to place my allegiance in a different sort of place.

I can almost imagine Wormwood reading a letter from his uncle about such a topic:

My dear Wormwood,

It has come to my knowledge that your patient has recently become much too thankful concerning the place in which he lives. You realize, of course, that thankfulness is another weapon the Enemy uses against us, and must be perverted immediately.

This can be done simply enough–draw him to one of two extremes: ungratefulness or patriotism.

First, you may try to pull him towards the side of ungratefulness, but know that it is the more difficult option of the two. Start by calling to mind all the injustices of war–make him remember warriors like Napoleon and Custer, even if they weren’t born in his own country. Then, make him remember the Crusades and the faults of his own kind. By emphasizing these things, you cause him in his heart to separate himself from his country, hopefully calling his thankfulness into question as well.

Now listen carefully–this is a dangerous spot to keep him; you mustn’t let him dwell there long! Quickly turn his doubts to bitterness. Make every crack in the foundation of his ancestry a canyon to him, and soon he will only ever be thinking about how terrible life is in his homeland, and how he wishes he could live some place else. This is covetousness at its very best, my friend! It will prove a very powerful and lingering distraction.

Perhaps even more lingering however, (and like I said before, easier) is the blindness of patriotism.

Here is the main difference: in the first option, to induce ungratefulness, you target his thankfulness. Here, in order to invoke patriotism you must target his pride. (I’m sure you are aware of such things already, but please make certain to differentiate between thankfulness and pride here. Both are used as very different tools by the Enemy, and though they are useful to His campaign, you must remember that they are always susceptible to corruption!) The next and probably most important step is to entangle him with his country’s politics. Prod him to be overly active in such things. Find him a good politician to support with many of his resources (or better yet, oppose). By doing this, you provoke the patient to swallow your hook–then you must set it.

Soon, whether he realizes it or not, he should start to feel a certain “belonging” to his country. Encourage this! I cannot over-emphasize that point! If the politician he supports works in ways he agrees with, have him say, “This is the best thing to happen to our nation.” If the politician he opposes begins to pull ahead in the polls, let him be heard saying, “Our nation deserves better.” Encourage him to pledge himself to his country as much as possible, even if the pledges only come out half-hearted (a man’s lips are the back door to his mind). Have him join a political group with like-minded people. Annoy him with news of opposing groups and goad him to leave resentful messages about his outrage on his Facebook status. Then, when the politician he opposes wins the vote, you will know when he says, “I should surely move if I wasn’t so attached to this place,” that the hook is set, and you may reel him in. This way, both his pride and his thankfulness are captured, and the patient can no longer think about dwelling with the Enemy as he is overwhelmingly focused on dwelling properly in his own country on the Earth.

Now listen even closer, nephew, because here is where pride beats unthankfulness in all circumstances. Once you have cultivated his patriotism, pair it with his faith. I know this no doubt as sounds ridiculous to you as it does to me–after all, those two things are quite opposites when a man has faith in one place and patriotism in another! However, a surprisingly substantial amount of the humans surrounding your patient pair these two things up as if they were high school sweethearts waiting to be married. How blind are they! You must encourage this also. If he associates patriotism as a companion to faith, the latter being, in his mind, always good and necessary in his own life, why should he ever consider divorcing them? Then, patriotism will become second nature to him, leaving his mind (himself unknowing) split between wanting two different things. That’s when you must begin to bend his faith down the path his patriotism took. But that’s another lesson altogether; I will wait to advise you once I hear news of the course you choose to take for the time being. Be swift and cunning, young one!

Your affectionate uncle,

Screwtape

To one day have a child that has what it takes to be a member of the Mysterious Benedict Society.

I know this sounds like a pretty weird goal, but hear me out–

There’s this new series of children’s books coming out. They’re called The Mysterious Benedict Society. So far, just the first two books have been written (the third is to be released this Fall) and they are completely, mind-blowingly amazing.

First off, if you are like me, then you might have read a little bit of Lemony Snicket. You also might have been somewhat upset/disappointed in the lack-luster end to the series and the overall feeling of doom and depression. The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart takes all the things you didn’t like about Lemony and creates his own masterpiece staring children in much the same light–showing the world all the folly in underestimating them.

To be brief, the story revolves around four very young people who, after a series of rather peculiar auditions, find themselves inducted into a very mysterious society in which they must face great danger in order to save the world. Each member of the society was chosen for a different reason, and each must use their own unique abilities to solve mysteries, uncover clues, and stop bad-guys. It’s funny, it makes you think, it’s…it’s…utterly amazing.

But seriously, this series is quickly climbing up the “Blake’s Top Kick-Butt Favorite Series” list and settling in somewhere in at least the top five. I think Stewart has an amazing insight into so many different topics, including friendship, morality, logic, and the human mind and human behavior in general.

Yup. So go read it.