tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17305746847155094312024-02-07T14:22:34.168-08:00 Keeping up with the Johnson's <center><i> Rambling since 1992. Rambling on the internet since 2011. </i></center> David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-11883003536053565842018-11-03T14:36:00.002-07:002018-11-03T16:42:26.360-07:00ExposedVulnerability is tricky.<br />
<br />
The strangest part about opening up to someone else is that you have no obligation to do so, but something propels us, nags at us until we do. We're social animals using communication and connection as a vehicle to self-validation.<br />
<br />
We shout into each other and pray that the echo quells the loneliness inside; we risk the regret and the pain of rejection for a response that assures us that we are, in fact, just like everyone else.<br />
<br />
But we forget so quickly, don't we? The waves of complacency and confidence break on the shore, a silent erosive process to independence. Understanding the tides, the push and pull, we grow.<br />
<br />
There are some still searching though, still throwing out lifelines. They're trying to leverage that vulnerability to find peace. They're taking on that risk that we no longer see the value in because our feet are so firmly planted, buried in the sand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Don't let them sink.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-9253591183292829772017-09-17T18:30:00.001-07:002017-09-18T17:32:59.863-07:00Heat<i>Wake up.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shower because you haven't in a couple days. Don't try to eat, you'll puke. Short-sleeves or long-sleeves? Long.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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Breathe in the silence. Talk yourself through what might go wrong, things that have gone wrong before, things that will inevitably go wrong again because you can't learn from your mistakes.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Queue the lowlight reel.</i> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember that honest text that you sent that one time to a friend who sent it to someone else and exposed a piece of your heart like a raw, unabridged nerve? You trusted back then, you let your guard down. <i>Stupid.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember that time that kid in high school called you a "f**got" in front of half the class and they laughed? And you just sunk deeper into that pastel colored cafeteria stool, practically spilling into the floor because there was nowhere and no one to soothe the heat flushing into your cheeks.<i> Four years to go.</i></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<b>Snap out of it. </b>Look at your phone. Scroll through your news feed. Refresh. Scroll through your news feed again. That hollow feeling is starting to sting your temples.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Listen to her breathe through her nose before you leave. Smile. Pull the strand of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. You've always liked her ears, the feminine way they curl into her jawline. It's okay that she doesn't understand the storm; she hushes it anyway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Get in the car. Stuck behind the bus again. <i>You waited too long.</i> You're going to be late. You've probably already blown your chances at a promotion anyway. <i>You're outdated.</i> There's a line of people waiting for you to slip up, smarter people. Innovators.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember that time you dropped the ball on that report last November?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Stop.</b> Focus on the road.</div>
<div>
<br />
The bus is turning to pick up those kids on the corner. Check out the one with the football cleats slung over his shoulder. I bet he has a lot of friends.<br />
<br />
<i>It's your fault. </i>You had limited athletic ability and lack of social skills. Your big nose, your oily skin, your bony frame, gravity pulling your head to the ground. At least you knew the degree, the length of the hypotenuse, retina to pavement. Pythagorean Theorem. A sorrowful triangle.<br />
<br />
You kept your head down where the pretty girls wouldn't see. They only wanted the guys with their chests painted up in the bleachers every Friday night anyway, the guys with the football cleats over their shoulder.<br />
<br />
<b>Grow up.</b> You're the only person on earth thinking about that, the only one dwelling. Those days are over. <i>No, those days are lost.</i><br />
<br />
The reflection in the glass on the office door makes you look like you haven't slept in a week. To be fair, you haven't slept in a week. Not truly.<br />
<br />
"Hey, man." Hold the door. Fake a smile.<i> Your voice sounds like a prepubescent child.</i> The base of your spine tingles. The heat comes back. Inhale. Exhale. The backs of your ears emanate soreness, high-pitched ringing accompanied with a keen awareness of the insignificance of this moment.<br />
<br />
<i>Is this your life now?</i><br />
<br />
Your phone buzzes. "Good morning, baby." The heat subsides. She always knows what to say.<br />
<br />
A friend greets you by name. Another stops by to talk about their weekend. Another catches you by surprise with a hug in the hallway. Your muscles settle. Your fist unclenches.<br />
<br />
Crack the shell. Fill the space around you. Allow yourself to feel...safe.<br />
<br />
That one coworker that seems to get along with everyone rolls his eyes when you speak. <i>What's wrong with you? </i>Tell a joke. Try to be kind anyway. No response. <i>It's your own fault.</i><br />
<br />
Your fingertips soften to paper, your fingerprints ink. Your pockets bleed black. Keep your hands there. Graze your jagged index nail with your thumb. It stings where the nail should be, chewed below the quick. Keep shrinking. Look at the clock.<br />
<br />
<i>Why did God make you this way?</i> Question the path you're on. Question the career you're in. Question if you'll ever be successful. You won't ever see six figures. That's who you are.<br />
<br />
Don't do it for the money. Do what you love. <i>You love this? </i>I love her.<br />
<i><br /></i>She's beautiful. <i>She'll find someone else.</i> Maybe they'd be proud of you if you made six figures. Maybe the demons will stop whispering. Maybe God will give you a purpose.<br />
<br />
A purpose. <i>God gives everyone a purpose.</i><br />
<br />
Not you though, not people who doubt. People who don't pray enough. "If you prayed more, you wouldn't feel this way." If your faith were stronger, God would take this sickness from you.<br />
<br />
But it's a sickness, an illness. <i>No, this is who you are.</i><br />
<br />
The heat rises in your throat this time. You swallow. It settles in your stomach, grips the lining, stirs the acid. Grit your teeth. <b>You need to work.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Look at the clock. <i>You don't have plans. </i>Ask someone to hang out. <i>Keep your head down.</i> It's a beautiful day. <i>But you have work. </i>Wonder what she's doing now. <i>You shouldn't have skipped church this week. </i>The whispers are always loudest around this time. <i>Did you take your medicine?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"There's power in prayer."<br />
"It's in your head."<br />
"Have you tried Xanax?"<br />
"Those drugs alter your personality."<br />
"Have you tried exercising? Eating differently? Going to bed earlier?"<br />
<br />
<i>Is this...sin? </i>Your saliva thickens. You taste red. The heat is back again.<br />
<br />
It's time to go home. <i>You really should sleep tonight. </i>The rest of the day is yours.<i> The day is almost over.</i> You can still smell the office on your collar.<br />
<br />
Get in the car. You feel the past 10 hours of sweat and dust settle, matted on your arms and that strip of ankle between your sock and the hem of your jeans. <i>Your legs are too long.</i> That's genetic. <i>Chicken legs.</i><br />
<br />
You turn on the radio to quiet the noise. <i>Chicken legs don't belong in football cleats.</i><br />
<br />
Remember your old boss? "You aren't leadership material," he told you. "You're just not." Static. The radio isn't helping. You call her. The dial tone resounds along the curvature of your ear drum. Four. Five.<br />
<br />
Voicemail. Your lifeboat sinks.<br />
<br />
Shadowed faces start to fade in and out of the dead space between your peripheral and your consciousness. You were there for them. They turned on you anyway. They swallowed the birthdays and the moving vans and the tears. They breathed out the dust from the rubble. They built again.<br />
<br />
Together, without you. <i>Can you blame them?</i><br />
<br />
Home. The sun kisses the fringe of the trees across the street. Inhale. Just oxygen this time.<br />
<br />
Your heartbeat synchronizes with the rhythm of a softer memory. She runs her hand across your forearm. The noise clings to her palm. You pull her closer as the sky bleeds a pale orange. Turn on that show you like. <i>You're lazy. </i>The glow fades, darker now. <i>You can't ignore an itch.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Why are you angry? </b><i>She sees you for who you are, you know.</i> Rage chisels a block of tension into your jawline. If you could freeze this moment, you would. Stop the cycle at the crest. Your eyes water. Yawn, convince yourself that's why.<br />
<br />
Your head sinks into the pillow. Silence. You run your fingers between hers. Smile. For the first time all day, you exhale first. She talks. You talk. You both fade.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Wake up.</i></div>
David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-17257034316123473342017-06-05T19:08:00.000-07:002017-06-05T19:08:34.227-07:00WonderlandDespite the blatant drug references, I've always loved the story of "Alice and Wonderland."<br />
<br />
Not in the typical, HotTopic special order Cheshire cat window decal love that seems to be a rite of passage into the "Wonderland" community. I really just like the precedent that the infamous tea party scene sets when the Mad Hatter introduces Alice to "un-birthdays."<br />
<br />
An un-birthday, for any uncultured swine who haven't seen the movie, is a celebration of ANY day other than your actual birthday. Friday before your big day? Go celebrate! 5 months until you blow out the candles again? Turn up. <br />
<br />
It's a truly wonderful premise to consider that each new day is worthy of celebrating.<br />
<br />
I've never felt particularly excited about my birthday before, largely because I don't like the unmerited attention. This year is no different, I actually forgot that I was even due for an age change. Turning a quarter of a century old isn't what it's cracked up to be. <br />
<br />
Although the prospect of a lower insurance rate does <i>legitimately</i> excite me, another year of converting oxygen into carbon-dioxide feels like hardly a reason to pop the champagne.<br />
<br />
Ironically though, birthdays are the most common type of celebration we partake in, aren't they?<br />
<br />
We're taught from a young age that birthdays are for celebrating people, opportunities to make them feel special. We use the calendar like a lap timer for the next scheduled show of appreciation: Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentines Day, birthdays, all "reminders" to celebrate the important people in our lives.<br />
<br />
What if instead of waiting for a holiday to cue our affections...we told them incessantly? What if we expressed to the people in our lives that they matter <strong><em>everyday</em></strong>?<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I celebrate all of those "official" days with the best of 'em, but I can't be alone in desiring appreciation in a genuine, non-commercialized form.<br />
<br />
I know, firsthand, how it feels to pine after the acceptance of those you truly care about; you want to be admired or simply appreciated, but they always seem to be looking the other way. I know how lonely it feels to pour yourself into something, to<b> </b>lose pieces of yourself in the process, and never even get an "atta boy."<br />
<br />
I can't help but think maybe there wouldn't be so many kids questioning their self worth if their families built them up every chance they got, not just guilt-buying their affection once a year.<br />
<br />
Maybe more husbands and wives would stay together if they spent evenings in their PJs watching "Friends" reruns and eating ice cream, instead of forced candlelit dinners whenever Kay Jeweler's runs their annual ad.<br />
<br />
Maybe our parents wouldn't decline in health so fast and harden their hearts in stubbornness as they age if we made it a priority to include them in our lives and our kids' lives.<br />
<br />
Maybe there'd be a little more love and a little less madness in this world if we remembered to celebrate the un-birthdays too.David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-80240889844397931952017-05-24T19:24:00.000-07:002017-05-24T19:58:40.001-07:00RemoteIn December, I dedicated myself to the mentality that 2017 was <i>my</i> year.<br />
<br />
We had recently moved into a new house the previous month. After two years of renovations, our starter home had yielded enough profit to upgrade to a larger space, one that would accommodate our growing family.<br />
<br />
Work, for the first time in my life, held new meaning. It was no longer a "paycheck" but stepping stones towards a career. I was building skills, growing as an individual, and contributing to something <i>bigger </i>than myself.<br />
<br />
With motivation from some friends and co-workers, I began setting fitness goals. I started eating differently, lifting weights and running, something I'd not (willingly) done in years.<br />
<br />
And perhaps the most personal, meaningful achievement: <b>I FINALLY finished my Bachelor's degree.</b><br />
<br />
Killer year so far, right? You'd think I'd be ecstatic to have ticked so many boxes on my "successful adulting" checklist.<br />
<br />
But truth be told, I wasn't.<br />
<br />
As I sat there, clad in an unflattering square cap and baggy, overpriced poncho, I wasn't excited at all. Fear welled up in me like a balloon leaving a hollow ache.<br />
<br />
College had been a goal of mine for so long that the pursuit of that ridiculously expensive piece of paper had become a part of who I was.<br />
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Gone was the elaborate spiel of excuses that I'd rehearsed for awkward family barbecues where every greeting was followed with a conversation about "why I still hadn't graduated." The education segment of my resume had, at long last, changed from "expected graduation date" to "graduated May 2017." No more homework, projects, or exams.<br />
<br />
Still, I sat there, drowning. <i>Dreading</i>.<br />
<br />
The commencement usher motioned for my row to stand up, and the nauseous pit in my stomach moved with me; it reminded me of the home stretch of a hard run, when all of your focus, your cognition, your <i>being</i> funnels into propelling your body forward.<br />
<br />
<i>Left foot. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Right foot.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Breathe.</i><br />
<br />
I managed to loosen my sweaty grip on the name card and hand it off to the announcer.<br />
<br />
<i>Left. Right. Breathe.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Crossing the stage, one incessant thought poisoned my conscious, "What now?"<br />
<br />
<i>Left. Right. Breathe. *Thunk*</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
In that moment, as my name echoed into the rafters of Thompson-Boling Arena, something heavy swung in my pocket, struck my leg, and instantly, I recalled what it was: a television remote.<br />
<br />
It was my parents' television remote, to be exact, and here, in this moment I had been dreaming of and working towards for nearly 20 years...<br />
<br />
...it was the only thing that mattered.<br />
<br />
You see, my son is like a magnet to electronics, so to avoid having to deal with constant channel surfing and the volume fluctuating, I have to hide TV remotes from him wherever we go. My parents' remote is no different, and you can probably fill in the blanks as to how I ended up with it.<br />
<br />
As ridiculous and...odd as it may seem, the presence of that remote grounded me.<br />
<br />
The "purpose" that I had such a deep-seated fear of losing was sitting a couple hundred feet away eating Goldfish crackers and watching "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" in his mama's lap.<br />
<br />
I smiled at the thought of those sticky, grubby hands wrapped tightly around my parents' remote. It was never about a piece of paper; it was always about that beautiful little boy and my Molly.<br />
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Every success I'd celebrated, every accomplishment, past or future...it was always, <b>always</b> for and about them.<br />
<br />
Yep. 2017 is my year.<br />
<br />
<br />David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-54171220825255902542015-10-21T17:07:00.001-07:002015-10-21T17:56:07.919-07:00On the Day You Were BornDear Mason,<br />
<br />
<br />
They told me that I couldn't understand love until I had a child of my own which is a catchy little life lesson that, after learning, I fully agree with. But it's also not <i>entirely </i>accurate.<br />
<br />
What they neglected to tell me is that prior to experiencing the joy of parenthood, prior to gripping my wife's hand as a human being encoded with our collective DNA drew oxygen into its lungs for the first time, prior to looking into two beautiful little eyes and catching a glimpse of myself...I didn't know <b>a lot</b> of things.<br />
<br />
For example, on the day you were born, I cried for the first time. Obviously, I'd "cried" before, but before you came along, crying was just a physical response to extreme sorrow or extreme happiness.<br />
<br />
Then, I watched your little chest heaving during those first minutes of life and lost it, all physical control gone. Every fiber of every muscle in my body leapt in response to your presence. My nose was running all over the place like it always does, but for the first time, my <i>heart</i> ran. It ran from my body and wrapped itself around that little, squishy boy and clung to him and hasn't let go since.<br />
<br />
I felt fear for the first time too, not because you were in danger, not because your mom was in danger, not because I was in danger. I felt fear because time had become my enemy. We had studied and prayed and saved and prepared for your arrival, but we weren't even close to ready. We prepared for the rigid, textbook event of birth. We were ready for a physical, methodical step into being classified as parents. What we weren't ready for was for God to hand-deliver us a child that was so wonderful, mere seconds were like coveted treasure, a treasure that time was now hopelessly robbing us of.<br />
<br />
Moments spent with you meant and continue to mean something so much bigger than myself or your mom. Our words, our actions, our inactions...everyday is a chance to steer you towards Jesus, towards kindness, towards the man we pray every night you will grow to be. Financial struggles aren't scary. School projects and work assignments aren't scary. Knowing that you are the single-most influential force in the life of another person? Now <b>that</b> is scary.<br />
<br />
And yes, admittedly, I truly fell in love for the first time that day. But don't get too cocky (or roll your eyes, since you'll probably be all angsty by the time you can read this) because you may have taught me love, but on the day you were born, you weren't the only one I fell in love with.<br />
<br />
No, on the day you were born, I fell in love with an impossibly gracious Creator who, in His infinite power chose, at 7:42pm on August 24, 2015, to entrust us with you. I fell in love with the amazing, out of my league woman that I have the greatest pleasure and honor of calling my wife (who brought you into this world and will take you out, hear me?).<br />
<br />
And I fell in love with the summation of both of those relationships in the form of an almost-nine-pound, brown-eyed little boy.<br />
<br />
You don't know it yet, but there's this cool movie we'll watch every Christmas about a green dude called the Grinch. He's a jerk for most of the movie, but there's a part near the end when he stops being a jerk and his heart literally grows three sizes (which, in real life, is bad and you need to go to the hospital immediately), but I like to think that's what happened to me that day.<br />
<br />
Love didn't just grow in me. It multiplied and thrived and took on a life of its own. I had never been so head over heels for your mom before, I had never appreciated grace or mercy so much, I had never praised God like I did when you were born.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ApJa1lJtcH3gLJoBMcYmCgWColRl5pCadDO-m4dIOF7sm1ScvU1mGKqA-D9-zsXOsXR6pASO3YctRD_ff9_TswRkP7G5ZylNhbV4Jf3r6STejqx2IzJyk3CDBP8l0Kv4m0f9rV3gt4eQ/s1600/mmase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ApJa1lJtcH3gLJoBMcYmCgWColRl5pCadDO-m4dIOF7sm1ScvU1mGKqA-D9-zsXOsXR6pASO3YctRD_ff9_TswRkP7G5ZylNhbV4Jf3r6STejqx2IzJyk3CDBP8l0Kv4m0f9rV3gt4eQ/s400/mmase.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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So yeah, when they tell you one day that you don't know love until you have a child, they're right. But just know that love they're talking about, when you know it for real, will change <b>everything</b>.<br />
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To the moon and back,<br />
<br />
DadDavid.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-84402674455208642952015-07-11T20:00:00.001-07:002015-07-14T18:14:19.742-07:00Year One.Growing up, no one in my life has used the word "love" quite as often as my grandmother.<br />
<br />
Granted, it's generally in reference to food (she is her own favorite cook), but the way she so freely identifies the things that she loves has always been something I've admired.<br />
<br />
I think I find it inspiring because most people seem to harbor an unpronounced fear of showing love or vulnerability of any kind. We're quick to take a stance against things, forming hate-based agendas preceded by innumerable "anti" adjectives.<br />
<br />
We jump on bandwagons of boycotting and shaming, but love? That's an unsettling premise that we won't address directly, and when we do, we dilute the expression through humor or some other means of "playing it off."<br />
<br />
Tomorrow marks a year since I married my beautiful, precious wife, Molly. And I can wholeheartedly attest to the fact that, in 364 days, I've come to understand love more than the previous 22 years of my life.<br />
<br />
But as is with most life experiences, the more I know, the more I realize I don't know. For prosperity's sake, though, here's what this past year of being married has taught me:<br />
<br />
<b>1. When it comes to our relationship, three opinions matter: mine, my wife's, and God's.</b><br />
<br />
Regardless of how long they've been married or in a relationship, people are relentless when offering their two-cents worth whether it's warranted, welcome, or none of the above. I've learned to take each new bit of advice with a grain of salt, even from the people closest to me.<br />
<br />
Marriage isn't formulaic in nature. There aren't "10 easy steps" to follow, nor are there his and hers guidebooks on making it work. Marriage is an organism that needs to be catered to just like any other living thing. You feed it with communication, you train it with time spent together, and you grow it with love.<br />
<br />
<b>2. We fight on a regular basis, and it's a beautiful thing.</b><br />
<br />
I've mentioned in the past how Molly and I maintain our relationship by (verbally) duking it out. This isn't some crazy, masochistic lifestyle we've adopted because we're weird and into stuff like that. Fighting with each other <i>genuinely</i> improves the quality of our relationship.<br />
<br />
At the risk of sounding like a marriage counselor, I've come to truly live by the thought that "marriage is a bond between two <i>independent</i> individuals." My personal feelings can, and frequently do, contradict Molly's. Very rarely do we go more than 24 hours without arguing about <i>something</i>. From where we should buy car insurance to which Star Wars movie is the best, our opposing views don't, in any way, degrade the strength of our love for one another.<br />
<br />
<b>3. I've come to truly cherish the "little things" about her.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
A few days ago, Molly went on a brief trip to visit her grandmother out of state. Although it was only for one day, that night I actually <i>felt</i> the absence of her presence in bed. Everything down to the smell of her hair after she finishes her nightly shower is something I've grown to appreciate and love about her.<br />
<br />
I love the way she sets her jaw crooked when she's focusing hard on something, and I can't help but smile at the way she crinkles her nose so gently when she laughs. When I have to get up early in the morning, the steady sound of her breathing is literally one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. With each new day brings new things that I grow to appreciate about her, things I would have previously never even dedicated a passing thought.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Marriage isn't a means to an end.</b><br />
<br />
There's a growing stigma within our age group that seems to have everyone thinking marriage is some kind of end game, but that couldn't be further from the truth.<br />
<br />
Exchanging vows and rings doesn't initiate a secret plot to turn your life into an episode of <i>Malcom in the Middle</i>. I promise, the moment you're announced husband and wife, you won't suddenly be teleported to a house in the suburbs with three kids and a dog waiting inside.<br />
<br />
Marriage, if anything, is the beginning. It's the beginning of one of the coolest adventures you could ever embark on. When you say "I do" to your best friend, you're saying "I do" to every new experience, every hardship, and every joyful moment the two of you will share for the rest of your lives.<br />
<br />
<b>5. You're not ready to get married.</b><br />
<br />
Marriage is very, very hard. It truly is. And being married <i>at our age</i>? That's not just hard. It's crazy.<br />
<br />
I've come to accept that no one will ever really be "ready" to get married. No matter how much you know or think you know about each other, no matter how much you pray about it, no matter how much counseling you go through, how many Dr. James Dobson books you read...you're <i>not</i> ready to get married. We've gone through some tough stuff, things that we never saw coming, but we did it <i>together.</i><br />
<br />
And that unpreparedness, that crazy scary uncertainty that rests solely on the trust you have in one another? THAT is what is so incredibly beautiful about marriage. THAT is what is so incredibly beautiful about love.<br />
<br />
From the moment we tied the knot until today, 364 days later, Molly and I have been consistent. We're just two kids who don't know much other than that we love the heck out of each other.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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See what I mean? It's crazy, absolutely crazy. But I don't regret it for a second.</div>
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David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-82086950142674428532015-06-19T14:27:00.000-07:002015-06-19T14:37:12.563-07:00"I'm fine."Recently, I shared a post on Facebook that appeared on a page I follow. The post was a series of simple, yet clever comic panes depicting how depression can affect an individual.<br />
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As someone who has been diagnosed with depression, I honestly thought nothing of it until I received a few, for lack of a softer word, shocking messages from friends reacting to the post. The consensus was that something must have happened, that something was <i>wrong</i> with me.<br />
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Although I cherish the concern, the truth is that I am perfectly fine. I am perfectly fine, <i>and</i> I am struggling with depression.<br />
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Yes, the "and" was intentional.<br />
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I guess, since I've dealt with it for so long, understanding how depression works is something I take for granted. It's human nature to seek the source of our problems with the hopes of solving them, and therein lies the fundamental issue with the concept.<br />
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As hard as it may be to grasp, chronic depression doesn't derive from tragedy. Nothing has to "happen" for it to take over.<br />
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That's not to say there aren't triggers that <i>can</i> be the cause. But, in general, searching for causation is a dead end, and I think that's what frustrates people who don't commonly struggle with it. Unfortunately, depression is just as difficult to explain as it is to comprehend, which is why the instinctive response it to hide it.<br />
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Depression is like an ache that creeps into our bones and roots itself in the marrow. It resides in the hollow places within us that we can't explain. It echoes in our heads like white noise drowning out logic. Depression is physical and it's mental. It can last seconds, or it can last days. The hardest part about depression is that even those of us who have it really don't understand it.<br />
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"What's wrong?" is a vastly intimidating question to someone with depression because, while we are well aware that "I don't know" isn't a socially acceptable response, it is, in most cases, all we have to offer.<br />
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As a Christian, things become further complicated for me when trying to get others to understand. "You just need to give it to God" is a favorite response followed closely by "Have you tried praying about it?" Yes, I have tried praying (quite a bit) about it, and after beating myself up over it for a long time, I've come to the conclusion that <b>my depression has no correlation whatsoever to my faith or lack thereof</b>.<br />
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In other words, Christians who struggle with depression are <b>not</b> any less of a child of God than those who don't, and if someone tells you otherwise, punch them in the face. Don't really do that...well, only if you want to.<br />
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But in all seriousness, that theology is twisted and baseless and set me back quite a bit in my personal struggles. 1 Peter 5:6-7 says, <i>"Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, for he cares for you."</i><br />
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I must've missed the part where God said, "Humble yourselves, therefore, that ye may be without sadness, anxiety, fear, and/or any combination of the three forever and ever. Amen."<br />
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I don't know what scripture everyone else is reading, but "<i>Your</i> anxiety" sounds a lot like God is acknowledging that <i>you</i> <i>will </i>struggle. He didn't intend for depression to be exclusive to non-believers, and He certainly didn't promise immunity from the hardships of life. Don't get me wrong; there is, indeed, power in prayer, and I have, without question, felt the relief and peace of spirit because of that.<br />
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However, to insinuate that something as overarching and common as depression is an indication of a lack of faith in God is simply ignorant.<br />
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As difficult as that is to believe for those of us who frequently experience it, there's no shame in seeking help. The best medicine is, truthfully, just talking it out, whether that's with God in prayer or with a doctor or friends and family.<br />
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There is no pot of gold at the end of a monochromatic rainbow awaiting discovery, no cure in a laboratory somewhere. We're simply wired to be sad sometimes. And as weird as it is, <i>that's</i> <i>okay</i>.<br />
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Just realize that there's not something inherently wrong with you, and if you're lucky enough to never have experienced depression, understand that being there for someone who is struggling is the absolute greatest thing you can do for them.<br />
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For such a complicated thing like depression, the solution is beautifully simple.<br />
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We just need love.David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-31252607364298220442015-04-28T11:22:00.001-07:002015-04-28T11:30:10.327-07:00Dear DadI remember growing up: the Saturday projects, going to "shoot one" on the old N64, camping out on Douglas Lake, and through it all, hearing you say, time and again, how much you loved us.<br />
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I remember the weekends we spent building a deck on that old Blackhawk house. I hated carrying those heavy planks and making 784 trips to Lowe's because there was always something else we needed. I remember being annoyed with how we had to measure twice and sometimes even three times before each little step of progress could be made, and I remember being horrified at the sound of the skill saw spinning up to make the next cut.<br />
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With age, though, I've come to realize that you don't remember that. You don't remember the events of my childhood at all.<br />
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At least, you don't remember them <i>how I do</i>.<br />
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You remember that deck on that old house, that old house that had an awesome backyard for your kids to play in but was pretty dated and needed quite a bit of maintenance. You remember those weekends, those weekends spent adding sweat equity to your home and, further, giving you the chance to spend time with your boys and teach them the value of hard work. Those trips to Lowe's are still in recall too, along with each and every dollar spent, money that you busted your tail throughout the week to earn. You remember the dread that Monday would bring when you had to go back to earning, but that was nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment and pride looking at your beautiful deck that you built with your own two hands.<br />
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I didn't get it back then. Heck, I didn't understand how you saw the world for the first 22 years of my life. But I think, just maybe, I get it now.<br />
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I understand how it feels to look at another person and, without a shadow of a doubt, know you love her more than yourself or your family or anything else. I used gag and groan when you would gush about mom and how she was your "greatest treasure" but now, after finding my own treasure, I'm endlessly thankful for it.<br />
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I understand the two-edged sword of family, how lonely and scary it is to have the weight of that treasure resting on your shoulders but how grateful to God you are to have the privilege to support them. We were blissfully unaware of the strength it took to walk through your own door every night. The ability to bottle up anxiety and mask the worry in hugs and kisses and smiles was something you perfected over the years. Whether a blessing or a curse, I've adopted those abilities, acquired that strength, and as I said, even if only a little bit, I understand.<br />
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I understand how it is to look at the echo of a human being and think to yourself, "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."</div>
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And shortly after asking, "God, how am I gonna do this?"</div>
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We don't remember my childhood the same way, and Lord willing, Mason and I won't remember his the same either. I can only pray that, one day, he looks back in one epiphanic moment and understands, just as his dad did, what a sacrifice, what a joy, and what a privilege it is to be a father.</div>
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Thanks, dad, for everything.</div>
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David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-26672741237380534662015-03-13T10:17:00.000-07:002015-03-13T21:38:43.819-07:00GrownupWhen I was younger, my brother and I shared a bunk bed. Rather than a place for sleeping, the bed usually served as a jungle gym, a rocket ship, or one of many other scenarios that we imaginatively created.<br />
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Despite mom and dad's constant warnings against playing on the top bunk, the thought of climbing that bright red metal ladder was, more often than not, too tempting to resist. The top offered so many exciting experiences like pretending to "walk" on the ceiling, dangling our action figures perilously over the edge of the "cliff," and, of course, jumping to the floor below.</div>
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Nevertheless, our parents insisted that we were to never play on the top bunk "unless an adult was in the room."</div>
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One evening, when my Aunt Stephanie was visiting, my brother and I seized the opportunity to lure her into our room and begin playing on the top bunk. Her presence, we assumed, made playing up top fair game. Before long, my mom came in, hand on hip and eyebrows raised, "What are you two doing?"<br />
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"Aunt Steffy's a dote!" I responded in our defense.<br />
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If only it were that simple. If only my childlike definition of adulthood were the whole picture. If only adulthood were marked simply by the fact that you surpassed a certain age threshold.<br />
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But adulthood is far more complicated and difficult and unlike anything I've ever had to do.<br />
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Being an adult is working full-time and taking night classes and laughing when people say things like "when you have free time." Being an adult is going to Walmart at two in the morning to get your wife cough medicine. It's sitting up with her into the early hours of the morning laughing and crying and discussing the future as unsettling as it may be.<br />
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Being an adult is missing your best friend's birthday party because you have to work and you can't afford to lose the hours. It's having a panic attack in the driveway because you're so overwhelmed with stress that you can't bring yourself to go inside.<br />
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Being an adult is saying "I'm doing well" when people ask how you are, although it couldn't be further from the truth.<br />
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Being an adult is finding out that you're going to be a father, that you're going to have a child when you secretly still feel like a child yourself.<br />
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I wish it could be as simple as I once imagined it to be. I wish my childhood perception of being an "a dote" aligned with what I now have come to understand as true adulthood, but it's not.<br />
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Growing up, I was told in school, at church, at home...everywhere that I was bring prepped to make that headstrong leap into adulthood. Looking back, I realize how misguided that notion is.<br />
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Adulthood isn't a state of mind or a chronological place in your timeline. It's a choice to set difficult goals and achieve them, to swallow the stress and the anger and the sadness and grow more than you ever thought you could, work harder than you ever thought you could, and become more than you ever thought you could be.<br />
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Growing up is hard, hard stuff. But it's worth it.</div>
David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-58999408002822446502015-01-15T18:15:00.002-08:002015-01-15T18:46:50.184-08:00An Open Letter to the WorldSometimes, an apology is the only, albeit difficult solution. That being said, I am sorry, truly and deeply sorry.<br />
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I'm sorry that we've allowed stereotypes to shape our views in ways we always said we wouldn't. I'm sorry we have become a people synonymous with "judgmental," with "hypocritical," with "hateful."<br />
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I'm sorry that we've embraced a tainted culture and that our congregations distort scripture under the guidance of flawed leaders. I'm sorry that we have become an inward-focused, sycophantic clique under those very same leaders who are more concerned with their social status than the well-being of their fellow man.<br />
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I'm sorry that we don't practice what we preach, that we knowingly go against our own doctrine. I'm sorry that we've discounted and undermined the message of our Savior to the point where no one wants it anymore, to where you don't want it anymore. I'm sorry that we've allowed the unthinkable to happen; we've allowed a life-giving Hope to become something undesirable to those who need it most.<br />
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I'm not going to make excuses for our actions or lean against the cosmic crutch of "human nature" to absolve our people of the guilt we should feel for our actions. If darkness is the absence of light, then we have succumbed to that void, embraced its chill, and fallen silent and still to its power. The light that should shine through us has been dimmed and dulled to a grain-sized glimmer of a reflection of a spark beneath layers of inexcusable behavior.<br />
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We have created a religious autocracy to replace our community of prayer, and in doing so, we've dripped poison into the remedy we were created to be. Worse, we've put the poison in an attractive glass, filled it to the brim, and tipped it against the lips of your children, our children, our future.<br />
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We're more focused on trying to make sin a quantifiable equation to be multiplied and added and ranked than we are introducing people to the One who takes sin away, the eternal minus sign. We've become sin-seeking missiles trained on sexuality and abortion and whatever hot button the conservative agenda is currently pushing. We're trained to obliterate our targets rather than to love them.<br />
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We've perpetuated a sickness in the Middle East with the wrongful damnation of a people as a whole rather than the radicals that besmirch their existence, enforcing their doctrine through violence and a deep, unrelenting hatred of their own. We've neglected to aid a hurting people, we've neglected to mourn their dead, and our knees have yet to hit the floor in prayer for their relief.<br />
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We've aided in the erection of walls segregating faces of our brothers and sisters based on their complexion. These walls stretch higher everyday, the mortar thickening at the expense of unborn children whose tiny, undeveloped ears have already been exposed to gunshots echoing off the walls of their mothers' wombs, echoes of an unfounded hatred.<br />
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And it runs deeper than black versus white, east versus west, "religious" versus secular. There is an infection, a curse, an <i>evil</i> in the lifeblood of our people that has left us vulnerable to the petrification of our hearts. Where believers once met the world with unyielding love and a message of unprejudiced hope, they now cling to cold, bitter stone.<br />
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As sad as it is, rarely do Christians represent the former half of their title. So, for what it's worth, I am truly and deeply sorry.<br />
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If you don't take anything else away from this apology, please don't look to us. We will only fail you.<br />
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Look to Him.David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-74916659954404178512014-11-18T18:31:00.000-08:002014-11-21T16:39:21.420-08:00A New Endeavor<div>
<i>"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens."</i></div>
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<i>Ecclesiastes 3:1</i></div>
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Molly and I have undergone a pretty intense "season" of change these past months. We're talking riding-a-wild-stallion-bareback-through-a-minefield intense season of change.</div>
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Besides getting married (which short of giving your life to Jesus, is just about the most world-altering thing you'll ever experience), we became first-time homebuyers. And no, rumor mill, mommy and daddy didn't buy it for us. We did, indeed, purchase the house with, wait for it, our <i>own </i>money.<br />
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Lately, our priority list consists of figuring out what's on our priority list. Friends have turned on us, goals that were once important to us have been put on the backburner, and to top it all off, we both recently just left our jobs on less-than-ideal terms with our previous employer.</div>
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On the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale (a life unit scale regarded by the medical community as the best predictor for stress-related illness), marriage, loss of friends or loved ones, purchasing a home, and changing jobs are all among the top 20 most stressful events that can happen to an individual. Believe me when I tell you, we didn't need a group of psychologists to tell us that. We've felt the effects of every last "life unit" from each of those events.<br />
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But you know what the psychologists didn't bank on? They didn't factor in an awesome God coaching us through it all. And you know what else? We're hanging in there, and we're doing a pretty dang good job of it.</div>
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Despite the months of searching, despite a lender committing mortgage fraud and causing our first contract to fall through, despite saving every last penny we could only to turn around and spend a nauseating amount of money on a down payment, God allowed us to walk away with the keys to a beautiful, affordable home.</div>
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Despite having my integrity questioned by a corrupt workplace full of "cookie cutter Christians," despite raising money to help people in need only to find out they were blowing it on new cars and vacations, despite serving faithfully with leadership I could never fully trust, God provided me with a new, better paying job that provides enough for Molly to go back to school. God has taken away our misery and replaced it with happiness and more time together as a family.</div>
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And despite being told, time and again, how we were moving too fast, despite being told that getting married young was a bad decision, despite being told (literally) that "you will most likely not make it," despite the naysayers, the doubters, the "friends" waiting and hoping for us to fail, God has taken care of us. God is taking care of us. God is growing us. <b>God is <i>with </i>us.</b></div>
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That's all I could ever ask or hope for, to know that my God <u>has my back</u> regardless of what anyone else, friend, coworker, boss, family member, or otherwise have to say about it.</div>
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Change is defined by Webster's Dictionary simply as "to become different."</div>
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Through it all, that's what Molly and I have done. That's what we're continuing to do. Heck, being different is what God <i>calls</i> us to do. When seasons of change come, it isn't easy by any vastly exaggerated stretch of the imagination. Staying where we are may be easier, remaining stagnant may feel safer, but God's will is so much better, so much more rewarding than any risk we could ever encounter.</div>
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Whether we want to admit it or not, when life demands change, when God demands change, it must be unprejudiced and wholehearted. We can't always plan for it. Sometimes, change takes whatever it is you thought you knew or understood and throws it in your face, demeans you. Sometimes, change holds you down and forces you to rethink your priorities, forces you to come to grips with the fact that things simply cannot stay the same.</div>
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And we aren't staying the same, we won't stay the same. If that means leaving behind a bad job or friends who won't grow up, so be it. But every new day is a gift from God, a new endeavor that we have to <i>choose</i> to take on, to adapt and grow with.</div>
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Don't waste it.</div>
David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-50514407025047637472014-10-11T13:05:00.002-07:002014-10-11T13:34:48.101-07:00Excuses, motivation, and some other junk<i>"Above all else, to thine ownself be true."</i><br />
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<i>- Shakespeare</i><br />
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Most of us grew up with some form or assemblage of these words echoed through parents, teachers, preachers, and friends. We've heard stories, read books, and watched movies where the protagonist emerges triumphant despite wave after wave of opposing forces trying to convince them to deny a part of themselves.</div>
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We've foolishly absorbed this information as if it was nothing more than an inspirational pick-me-up for the soul. Our generation is locked in this purgatorial stasis where we acknowledge the necessity to be true to ourselves, but yet, we consistently neglect to do so. We treat self-actualization like a period of rapid ascension into adulthood or some post-mid-life enlightenment designed to kick in at a predetermined moment in our lives, but it's not. It was never meant to be like that.</div>
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Owning up to who you are as an individual, the core of your metaphysical existence is not an event contained by any time-based parameters. It's a process that you have to take part in, <i>choose</i> to take part in everyday. And I say <i>choose</i> because it's 100% your decision who you are and who you want to become.</div>
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This isn't some motivational speech. This is your life we're talking about.</div>
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Stop trying to define yourself through your friends. There's an old saying that goes, "If you hang out with chickens, you're going to cluck, and if you hang out with eagles, you're going to fly." </div>
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Frankly, that's a load of crap. </div>
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That statement is so fundamentally weak that it might as well gift wrap an excuse for the behavior of every individual who falls prey to it. Statements like that apply situation-based logic to displace blame and mask guilt. It's nothing more than a glorified, universal crutch. </div>
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I'm here to tell you that <u>I make my own choices</u>, not my friends, acquaintances, or anyone else I interact with. I make my own choices just like every other human being on this planet God created <i>including yourself</i>. Free will isn't just a cute little biblical concept that we toss around on Sunday morning to make us feel warm and fuzzy. The living, breathing creator God thrust His hand into each and every man and woman and specifically positioned free will at the forefront of our design. Free will isn't an afterthought; it's hard-coded into our DNA. <b>Free will is etched into our souls.</b></div>
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Ephesians 6:11-13 says,</div>
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<i>"Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world...put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything...stand."</i></div>
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In simple terms: "God can literally protect you from the devil himself, the embodiment of evil, so why are you worried about everything else?"</div>
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In even simpler terms: "Take your excuses and shove 'em."</div>
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Stop trying to absolve yourself of the guilt you feel for your past actions, seeking refuge in "yes men" (and "yes women") to soothe the sting on your conscience. Stop trying to define yourself or "find yourself" in anything this world has to offer. Stop letting your job deteriorate your value system. Stop allowing negative people to influence you, and when they do influence you, for Pete's sake, don't make up some screwball excuse. You messed up. O<b>wn it, and move on.</b></div>
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God gave you one shot at a beautiful, fulfilling life, but you have to take charge of it. You have to stop letting authority figures bully you because you have the Ultimate Authority on your side. Stop letting people tell you the way you think or feel or act is wrong when everything in your soul tells you otherwise. Stop living in fear and misery.</div>
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Cut the crap. Drop the act. Make use of the free will God gave you.</div>
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I know you've heard it a bajillion times from every person under the sun, but for the sake of your heart and happiness and future listen and absorb and dissect these words...</div>
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<b>Just be you.</b></div>
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David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-73155722485634635882014-09-11T06:49:00.002-07:002014-09-11T14:56:19.409-07:00BurdenedWhen I was younger, I <i>lived</i> for the weekend, not because I was some renowned party animal amongst my prepubescent social group (we're talking elementary-school), but because Friday nights were family nights.<br />
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Our living room, while it served as an office, a classroom, and on some occasions a dining room every other day, was transformed into my favorite place in the world for just a few hours each week, a sanctuary where love lived and thrived. Even during the school year and the holiday season and when everyone was at their busiest, my parents still managed to reserve that most coveted of evenings to spend together as a family.</div>
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I remember the long nights we spent watching movies and eating our weight in popcorn, building forts out of my grandma's old quilts, eating ice-cream sandwiches and getting the foamy chocolate caked onto our fingers, playing <i>Mario Bros.</i> on the Super Nintendo before "graphics" and "high-definition" were even conceptually relevant terms, waiting until mom went to bed to watch "big kid" movies like <i>Indiana Jones</i> and <i>Terminator </i>with dad.</div>
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Looking back now, I cherish those memories, those tiny swirls of vibrance that detailed my childhood. Even now as adulthood dilutes that essence with its stream of gray, those bursts of youthful color reinvigorate me.</div>
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Friday night was where I could find happiness and dwell in it. Friday night served as insulation that protected me from the world, from the disappointments, from the expectations, the deception, the bullies, the fear.</div>
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It doesn't work like that anymore though. It stopped working that way a long time ago.</div>
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The calendar remained vigilant, gifting seven days each and every week. But while the time between Fridays never changed, the time between those Friday nights got longer with the passing of the years.</div>
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That's just like life, isn't it? Simplistic in origin, but ever growing, ever complicating.</div>
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For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why God would make us in such a way that our timeline is one of declination. In <i>Isaiah 48</i>, He promises to teach us and direct us in the way we should go, so why the heck would He make it so increasingly difficult as we age to achieve childlike happiness in our lives?</div>
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Then, it hit me. Every new day is a battle. Although we may put on our armor and lock emotion away, "have thick skin" as some suggest, every day that armor takes damage. It dents with each demeaning blow from a boss or coworker, it cracks under the strain of a loved one with cancer, it rusts in the rains of depression, and when we're at our weakest, it can and it will break.</div>
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As a child with so few days on this earth, so few battles waged, I delighted in God's blessings and rejoiced because I felt His love through my family. As an adult, I've faced quite a bit more than that little boy in snuggled up to his daddy in a blanket fort. These eyes have strained from fighting tears and from yearning for sleep. Every scar and stress line etched into my skin tells a story of pain. I need more than a weekend with my family to handle all that life is throwing my way. I've grown weary trapped in this world that is not my home...but, praise God, I don't have to struggle alone.</div>
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<i><b>"Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)</b></i><br />
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And therein lies the secret to a colorful life, one of excitement and continually renewed happiness in an ever-worsening world, in an increasingly difficult life. <b>Sharing the weight.</b> We weren't created to go in alone, to "tough it out" because we think we're strong enough. We're called...actually, we're <i>invited </i>to cast our cares upon Him, <i>invited</i> to find relief and peace where there seems to be none.</div>
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And as for me? I'm RSVPing to that party.</div>
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David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-23949722908976263992014-08-06T16:04:00.004-07:002014-08-06T16:16:03.024-07:00Married Things: Day 25We're officially three and a half weeks into this glorious union that Molly and I have entered, and I've gotta say, things have been pretty awesome. We've settled into our house, the hubub surrounding our new status is dwindling, and things have finally slowed down a little bit.<br />
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It is truly amazing how fast time has flown by. (Cue my dad saying, "I told you so.")</div>
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The wedding day, the honeymoon, and everything up until now is stored in my memory as a swirling blur of emotion and color and highlights. But despite the rush of these past few weeks, I've managed to learn quite a bit of useful information about marriage that unmarried guys may or may not be aware of. Don't get me wrong...I am by no means an expert on all things matrimonial.<br />
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Heck, I'm not an expert on <i>anything </i>relating and/or pertaining to marriage. I understand that I'm still in that "honeymoon phase" that you relationship veterans so charmingly reflect on. But I am, in fact, still married and my wife hasn't<i> </i>killed me yet after living in the same house as me for nearly a month, so I must be doing something right. That, or she's lulling me into a false sense of security with food and cuddling. Regardless of whether this is the last thing I ever write or not, here's the top five things I have learned post-knot tying:<br />
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<b>1. Always lift the toilet seat, and put it back down when you're done. </b>Even if you're dog tired and the neighbor's obnoxious, mange-ridden chihuahua has disturbed your sleep and restored consciousness to your bladder FOR THE FIFTH TIME IN ONE NIGHT, just lower the dang lid. Because if you thought you didn't sleep well last night...you certainly won't find peace in the morning.</div>
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<b>2. She isn't going to know/have the ability to do all the things you can do. </b>Take weedeating, for instance. She may not understand why weedeating is necessary. You might have to explain that slamming the lawnmower into the side of the house won't gently cut the excess grass along the wall without damaging the siding. Be patient. Remember you fell in love with her for a bajillion reasons, none of which relating to her prowess in lawn care.<br />
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<b>3. You no longer have full ownership of anything. </b>You've departed from bachelor world where you the words "my" and "mine" dominate your vocabulary. "Our" is the new go-to when referring to anything and everything you may have at some point in your life thought you had claim to. It is now referred to as "<i>our</i> house." <i>Our</i> car. <i>Our </i>bed. <i>Our </i>television that is constantly tuned into "Keeping Up with the Kardashians" and other celebrity-filled, drama-fueled programming that makes you want to gouge your eyes out with <i>our </i>scissors. Sharing is caring.<br />
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<b>4. Your friends don't understand, and it's strangely okay. </b>Despite how you relish in the fact you can use (and overuse) the words "husband" or "wife" freely, your friends are gonna shoot you weird glances when they hear them and hesitate before they say them. They'll still be hitting you up on the weekends and summer nights just like they did before, but weirdly, unlike when you were dating, you'll be okay with it (most of the time). It's like a well-kept secret, a silent understanding between the two of you that the "dating" mentality is no more. That hectic sense of vying for each other's time is non-existent because you're together all the time. Perhaps, the weirdest change is how that time you spend together is so much deeper and cherished. And before you say it, it's not just sex that makes that time so incredible. (Mind-blowing, I know.) It's simply being in the other's presence and knowing that there's no place in the world you'd be happier.<br />
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<b>And last but not least...</b><br />
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<b>5. She is the most beautiful, wonderful, and precious thing in your life.</b> </div>
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Don't you ever, ever forget it.</div>
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David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-21612586041119089552014-06-27T18:42:00.000-07:002014-06-27T18:57:38.438-07:00Everyday.Two weeks. Two. More. Weeks. That's how long I have to wait to marry my best friend and better half.<br />
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That's how long I must wait to hear those beautiful words leave her lips, those words I've been dying to hear since I fell in love with her almost two years ago: "I do."<br />
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Stories are often told of little girls who grow up dreaming of one day finding and marrying their true love. It's not the norm for a boy, much less a 22 year-old man to openly admit to dreaming of finding love.<br />
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But I did.<br />
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Growing up in church, I received my weekly ration of Adam and Eve references, how God created Eve of the same flesh as Adam and how whole and completing their relationship was. I marveled at how love between two people could be that powerful, so powerful, in fact, that the human race was literally born of it. Words cannot describe how sacred and profound that first romance must have been. Their marriage was founded deeply with God-crafted emotions predating the universe itself, and while they were created as <i>two</i> creatures, that ancient, wonderful, incredible, breathtaking love bound them together as <i>one</i>.<br />
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That a man and woman could bond in such an all-consuming way that they essentially become an extension of one another in mind, body, and spirit...amazing.<br />
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Throughout my life, I (admittedly) haven't prayed about very many things consistently, but one thing I have asked God for almost as long as I could remember is for Him to allow me to one day find my own "Eden" story, a love rooted in God's love for me and as joyous and rewarding as the acceptance of that love.<br />
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And so...<span style="text-align: center;">as Matthew 21:22 says, "Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive."</span></div>
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And my, oh my, the blessing I have received.</div>
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So no, I don't really mind to wait a little bit longer. Two weeks is hardly anything at all.<br />
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I've been waiting <i>all my life</i> to find that most precious of treasures God describes in His word. The love that Proverbs describes as the "overflowing of a fountain," a love that's "worth far more than jewels" and the physical manifestation of God's own love for man. Patience is a virtue, and my beautiful girl is the reason I know that.<br />
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A few weeks ago, I was looking through photos of the day we were engaged. The joy on her face was absolutely priceless. I decided right then, that if I could make her that happy <i>everyday</i>, if I could make her want to marry me <i>everyday</i>, and if I chose to love her like God loves me <i>everyday</i>, like Adam loved Eve <i>everyday</i>, then at the end of my life I wouldn't have wasted a single moment.<br />
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I love you, Molly, and I will everyday. I promise. Two more weeks 'til forever.David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-33756221161513075662014-05-01T13:23:00.000-07:002014-10-06T11:59:00.858-07:00Do as I say, not as I do<i>Then Jesus said to the crowds and to his disciples: "The teachers of the law and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat, so you must be careful to do everything they tell you. But do <b>not </b>do what they do, for they do <b>not</b> practice what they preach. They tie up heavy loads and put them on other people's shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them."</i><br />
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<i>Matthew 23: 1-4 (NIV)</i><br />
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This verse is kind of a big deal for me lately. As I grow older and more involved in the "business" side of life, I'm becoming more wary of modern-day Pharisees, people who exude a false dedication to the teachings they so shamelessly force on others. From church members to coworkers, I've had my fair share of dealings with people who call on Jesus's name as leverage rather than a lifeline. Unfortunately, Pharisees have had roughly two-thousand years (give or take a hundred years) to perfect the art of hiding how blatantly hypocritical and simultaneously prominent they are in society today.<br />
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Time and again, I've watched self-proclaimed Christians bastardize God's Word, reducing its purpose to that of a corrupted pedestal on which to exalt themselves. These Pharisees practice something I call "situational faith," or in layman's terms, "they're a bunch of two-faced phonies." I realize it's cliche to invoke the <i>"Is the person you are on Saturday night the same person you are on Sunday morning?"</i> bit, but yet, I've known so many who can't answer "yes" to that question. Just a few examples:<br />
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I've met a <b>deacon</b> that consistently fills his "amen" quota every time the church doors open and can out-swear a sailor throughout the work week.</div>
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I've met a <b>music minister</b> that sang "Amazing Grace" more times than he could count who frequently made sexual jokes about "what he'd do" to women in the church, including the pastor's daughter.</div>
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I've met a<b> Sunday school teacher</b> who, no doubt, taught her class the importance of forgiveness and showing God's love to everyone, yet I've watched her viciously insult others behind their backs in an attempt to exile them.</div>
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If you read my last post, you know I'm not claiming that Christians never do wrong. I'm not even claiming that Christians <i>should</i> never do wrong because even God acknowledges that perfection is impossible for anyone but Himself. I'll be the first to admit that I consistently fail God and consistently fall short of His standards.<br />
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But the people I mentioned aren't pharisaical because they're Christians and they screwed up. That just means they're human. No, they're pharisaical because they don't own up to their sins, instead they <i>actively and knowingly </i>choose to live like they don't sin at all.<br />
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They want the title, they want the "oohs and ahhs" of the congregation in awe of their heightened levels of spirituality, but they don't want to work for it. They want to pick and choose who is worth witnessing to or worth "playing the part" around. They don't "practice what they preach." And in doing so, not only are they openly mocking the name of Jesus and His followers, but they are playing with the souls of those who don't yet have a relationship with God.<br />
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It's not my intention to bash anyone, but there has to be accountability somewhere. We can't all go on ignoring the fact that "Christian" has become a label with a negative, hypocritical connotation tied to it. Surely, I'm not the only one who is bothered that our faith is being considered extremist and discriminatory.<br />
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But if we want to abolish the predominant image of the Pharisee from our culture, we have to do more than run around cramming God's word down people's throats. We can't allow ourselves to buy into the notion that Christians are entitled or better in any way. We have to do more than "amen" the pastor's sermon about God's love. We have to do more than <i>act</i> like Christians.<br />
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<b>We have to <i>live</i> like them.</b>David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-28982657965728662102014-04-22T06:01:00.000-07:002014-04-22T08:41:49.879-07:00Hollywood's HeavenAs much as I enjoy the yearly influx of people who realize they believe in Jesus overnight and google directions to the nearest place of worship, this weekend's Easter celebrations left more to be desired.<br />
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There was a big hub-bub surrounding the feel good movie of the month, <i>Heaven is for Real</i>, which conveniently released within days of Resurrection Sunday. A lot of people, like Molly and myself, went on opening night to see the movie. Unlike many of those people, however, we didn't go out of some obligatory sense of Christian duty to support non-secular film. We went because it looked interesting and, more importantly, the tickets were free.</div>
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Because to be brutally honest with myself and everyone else...faith-based movies generally suck. I know that doesn't make me the most popular Bible-reader on the block, but I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. They suck.</div>
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While the message may be great, the acting is consistently sub-par and restricted to a very limited range of extreme emotions. There's only so much I can take of Kirk Cameron rapidly alternating between rage and a seemingly drug-induced state of bliss. And eventually, they're bound to run out of blonde-haired, blue-eyed children and attractive middle-aged women to cast for supporting family roles that require the extensive quoting of scripture.</div>
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But what ticks me off the most about "Christian" movies isn't that the actors are laughably poor. What ticks me off is how they don't even come close to accurately representing Christians.</div>
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Flicks like <i>Heaven is for Real</i> don't convey the true gravity of what it means to be a Christian in an ever-declining society, to cling to a dying faith. The directors consistently fail to capture how exceedingly controversial it is to have a relationship with God in a world where toxic levels of individualism and political correctness discourage religion all together.</div>
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Believers are portrayed as a cloudy-eyed stereotype. Their lives are perfect, their picket fence is a pristine egg shell white, and every new day is full of abundant blessings. In Christian movie world, the only struggles that exist involve trust issues with God. I hate to break it to you and possibly ruin the big surprise, but <i>none</i> of that is realistic. </div>
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Granted, God <i>does</i> bless His people, and Christians <i>do</i> struggle with their faith, but our lives are very much still entwined in earthly matters, and as much as we would like everyone at church to believe life is all rainbows and puppies, that's simply not the case. Believers are not immediately placed in a reality-nullifying bubble upon accepting Christ into our hearts. We aren't granted immunity from human nature and society and this imperfect world we live in.</div>
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The internal battle for those movie characters may end in a passionate prayer while gripping a cross necklace, heads bowed at the altar. But the harsh truth is that, when <i>real</i> Christians are on their knees, we're just calling for backup. Because in the <i>real</i> world, the altar is just one of many places where the battle rages on.</div>
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The church you see pictured on the big screen is full of smiling faces with "amen"s and "hallelujahs" echoing up into the rafters and triumphantly bursting forth from steeple, but what the cinematographers fail to get in the shot is all the pain in those pews. They can't film every instance where those men and women have been looked down upon because of their faith or judged because some radicals ruined their nation's predisposition about them, despised for every drawn breath and subsequent exhalation of Jesus' name. </div>
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They'll never be able to capture the ache etched in the bones of God's battered children who long for home, their real and eternal home.</div>
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"Christian" has become a label synonymous with "virgin," with "sober" and "drug-free," with "happily married," with "innocent," with "holy." I cannot express how very misguided the notion that Christians are somehow better than anyone else is. We are not exempt from iniquity or the suffering that goes along with it. We are just as unpardonably sinful, just as irreparably broken, and just as inexcusably human as everyone else on this earth.</div>
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But the difference? The thing that sets us apart? The reigning truth that makes it all worthwhile?</div>
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We have a perfect lamb to pardon us, a master healer to repair us, and a loving God to forgive our imperfections.</div>
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Perhaps, that's why Hollywood just can't get it right. Because there's no drama or documentary or actor or writer or speaker who could ever fully explain what makes believers different. Why, you ask? Because no drama or documentary or actor or writer or speaker will <i>ever</i> be able to fully explain the awesomeness of our God.</div>
David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-23557262600642127412014-04-13T13:56:00.000-07:002014-04-14T20:51:10.382-07:00A mile in someone else's slip-resistant shoesI hate to be so wrapped up in the going-viral bandwagon lately. But if you truly and thoughtfully consider the things that people are making a fuss over, you too would sit for hours on end in your car listening to "We Didn't Start the Fire" whilst violently weeping for the future of humanity. Burn on, Mr. Joel. Burn on.<br />
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Apparently, crap like the fact that Jessica Simpson's weight has fluctuated for the eight-hundred and twelfth time this week takes precedence over advances in medicine, local development, the status of our country's economy, and...well, any form of actual news. Fortunately or unfortunately, I don't have the patience to hash out my feelings over the skewed agenda of television-based news, so naturally, I'll turn my focus to Facebook, the love child of bad grammar and unnecessary drama.<br />
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Recently, an almost two-year-old blog entitled "<a href="http://cfa-confessions.blogspot.com/2012/11/8-things-not-to-do-as-chick-fil-guest.html?m=1">Confessions of a Chick-fil-A Employee</a>" surfaced on the interwebs and began being "shared" like a fever. As a hard-working employee of the Chick, the title quickly caught my attention and, before long, I found myself reading one of the most honest and hilarious rants that I have ever had the pleasure of coming across. Should you ever find yourself contemplating life on the other side of that mysterious, crackling speaker box, that blog will bring you up to speed.<br />
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I was elated to see the comments section filled with current team members and CFA alumni from all across the country chiming in with their own, equally comical experiences. Truthfully, my excitement stemmed from the sheer fact that I wasn't the only one who'd been perplexed by the request for a milkshake to be placed in a bag or frustrated by the father of a Brady Bunch-sized family passing out food to all 17 of his children before exiting the drive-thru.<br />
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"This is so funny!" I said.<br />
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"This is so true and relatable!" I said.<br />
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"Everyone will love it!" I said.<br />
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But, as usual, my train of thought was derailed, set ablaze, and its ashes were peed upon by the hoarde of trolls plaguing social media.<br />
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Following the initial sympathetic comments from other employees was an honest to God book of hatred towards both the post and its author. Hardly any of the feedback actually pertained to the post itself. Instead, it was, for the most part, a massive slap to restaurant workers in general, particularly those in fast-food. The consensus, from what I read, is that those of us in fast-food, by society's standards, are an inferior breed of person. Beyond simply insulting our intelligence, some people were downright cruel in their criticism, and in light of this situation, I've decided to address a few of these assumptions, and they are indeed assumptions. And we all know what ass-uming does. *wink*<br />
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<div class="comment-header" id="bc_0_16M" kind="m" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: 20.15999984741211px; margin: 0px 0px 8px;">
<b><i><span style="background-color: white;"><cite class="user"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/15606742143705931611" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">itoldyouso</a></cite><span class="icon user"></span><span class="datetime secondary-text" style="margin-left: 6px;"><a href="http://cfa-confessions.blogspot.com/2012/11/8-things-not-to-do-as-chick-fil-guest.html?showComment=1396798231482&m=1#c8710988418225713992" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">April 6, 2014 at 8:30 AM</a></span></span></i></b></div>
<div class="comment-content" id="bc_0_16MC" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: 20.15999984741211px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: red;">Arguing with someone who works at a fast food place for a living. Congrats. You're all idiots. For the record. You are employed there to cater to my needs. If you don't like the way I, or anyone else orders.... because we don't know what you can or can't do in your system. Find a real job. If you're out of high school and working in fast food.... you deserve to deal with douche customers. I'm just saying....</span></i></b></div>
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Dear itoldyouso,<br />
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Using the correct form of "you're" on two occasions within the same body of text would typically score brownie points with me, but I'm making an exception for this comment. You, like many others, have made the implication that fast-food workers are naturally uneducated. You even go so far as to state, very matter-of-factly might I add, that entry-level restaurant positions should be filled by high school students as if, upon making physical contact with a diploma, students undergo a mental transformation in which they divine their future career path and their closet is suddenly stocked with Versace suits and penny loafers.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately for those of us who don't poop money or have gold-plated resumes, like myself, high school did not leave me appealing enough to land a six-figure salary. The executive committee at Google was sadly not impressed enough with my membership in the French Club or the National Honor Society to offer me a job. You see, some of us have to work to <i>build</i> our futures, to pay for that college education that will actually make us marketable, and yes, while that work may be slaving away to cook food for ungrateful people like you, working at Chick-fil-A is, in fact, a <i>real</i> job...and for having to put up with the likes of you, it's not an easy one.<br />
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white;"><cite class="user"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/05632563468859990121" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">lovelynjlady</a></cite><span class="icon user"></span><span class="datetime secondary-text" style="margin-left: 6px;"><a href="http://cfa-confessions.blogspot.com/2012/11/8-things-not-to-do-as-chick-fil-guest.html?showComment=1396712328405&m=1#c7510911645374481820" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">April 5, 2014 at 8:38 AM</a></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: red;">what else do you expect from people who eat at chic fil hate?</span></i></b></div>
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Dear lovelynjlady,<br />
<br />
LOLROTFLBBQ. "Chic-fil-hate!" So rhyme! Such clever!<br />
<br />
Seriously though? Drop it. It's bad enough that we fast-food workers are talked down to and treated like we're on the bottom rung of humanity's grimy ladder. I get it. You're ticked because Mr. Cathy said he didn't agree with wedding bells ringin' unless it was to hitch up a guy and a gal. You disagree with him. First amendment rights don't matter. Let freedom ring anyway. I understand.<br />
<br />
What I don't understand is how you intend to demonstrate the superiority of your side of the argument by making insults and passing a blanket judgment over every individual associated with a multi-billion dollar, nationwide restaurant chain because of the statements made by one man. You're attempting to prove how heinous and wrong it is for people to hold unwarranted prejudicial attitudes towards others by holding unwarranted prejudicial attitudes towards others. Makes total sense.<br />
<br />
And before you pull that overused "you don't know how it feels" card, don't think that I don't understand where you're coming from. I know how it feels to be cussed up one side and down the other and your emotions trampled publicly by someone who you've literally never even met because of what my CEO said. I know how it feels to be told by a friend of several years how ashamed they are of you simply because of my place of employment. Don't ever think that I don't know what hate and prejudice feel like.<br />
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white;"><cite class="user"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/06315281551346102976" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">Jack Johnson</a></cite><span class="icon user"></span><span class="datetime secondary-text" style="margin-left: 6px;"><a href="http://cfa-confessions.blogspot.com/2012/11/8-things-not-to-do-as-chick-fil-guest.html?showComment=1396919490727#c9117071408578831588" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">April 7, 2014 at 6:11 PM</a></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: red;">You know what else is annoying? Whiny employees who complain about their jobs on the Internet. Yeah it's annoying, but what's whining over the Internet going to do? And over stupid things like this? "Oh, I'm mad because today at work, someone couldn't pronounce Polynesian sauce." Do you know how ridiculous and petty you sound? This is why people have such little respect for fast food workers, because you have no idea what real problems at work are, but you complain about the petty things.</span></i></b></div>
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Dear Jack Johnson,<br />
<br />
Love your music, man. I made banana pancakes for breakfast for, like, a year straight after your album came out. And your work on the Curious George soundtrack? Pure lyrical brilliance.<br />
<br />
In all seriousness though, thank you for proving just how mentally inept you and the other interweb trolls are for bashing this girl's blog. "What's whining over the internet going to do?" Well, Mr. Johnson, you seem to have stumbled across the question of the day...in the midst of your blind retaliatory rage no less. Kinda puts a damper on the whole, "Chick-fil-A business is going to suffer from this" argument. Because that totally affected sales when the traditional marriage stuff surfaced too, right? Oh, wait...no, they topped 5 billion in sales that year. My bad.<br />
<br />
Also, to say that fast-food workers have "no idea what real problems are" is incredibly ignorant because I would bet all the ice dream in my store that it is far more mentally and physically demanding to serve people like you with a good attitude than any obstacle faced within the walls of a cubicle.<br />
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white;"><cite class="user"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/04328353151459379352" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">holly woodrum</a></cite><span class="icon user"></span><span class="datetime secondary-text" style="margin-left: 6px;"><a href="http://cfa-confessions.blogspot.com/2012/11/8-things-not-to-do-as-chick-fil-guest.html?showComment=1397238939215#c5499329946725159467" rel="nofollow" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">April 11, 2014 at 10:55 AM</a></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: red;">some of these are just outright rude... Uneducated for not recognizing the difference between a meal and an entree? Some would argue that working at a fast food restaurant would mean you're uneducated but that would be rather presumptuous wouldn't it...</span></i></b></div>
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Dear holly woodrum,<br />
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No, sadly, that wouldn't be presumptuous in the slightest by the typical customer's standards. I feel that lacking the ability to read an aesthetically pleasing, exhaustive food menu that is itemized based on order number and enlarged for the elderly DOES indicate a lack of education...but I keep these thoughts to myself because they're "outright rude."<br />
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Then again, Miss Rum, look around you at all the hate. Look at all these comments, like your own, that attack our intelligence. You call us unmotivated and uneducated and words that I don't feel comfortable using and yet, we're still there waiting for you the next day. We're still smiling and saying "my pleasure" in response to your every whim even when life sucks and we're failing school and we don't know how we're going to afford rent next month.<br />
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And you know what else? We still have actual, working emotions meaning we still get frustrated, God forbid. And you know what else, else? We're still<i> human freaking beings </i>and deserve to be treated in the same manner we treat you when you enter those doors.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's been a pleasure,<br />
<br />
A Chick-fil-A EmployeeDavid.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-87354710224194148072014-03-27T20:46:00.000-07:002014-03-27T20:50:19.305-07:00MirrorsI've always second-guessed myself when pointing out the mistakes of others. Because, I mean, who am I to criticize? Who am I, this flawed and uninfluential individual, to draw attention to the shortcomings of a fellow, flawed human?<br />
<br />
It seems obvious to me, yet I feel so isolated on my little island of respect for others.<br />
<br />
People certainly don't hesitate to criticize one another, to exploit and magnify weaknesses. They seek out fractures in the beautifully imperfect beings that we are and drive their judgmental stakes in deep, creating painful chasms within us. I know they do because I see it every single day at school, at work, and sadly, at church too.<br />
<br />
Naturally, conflict arises. Conflict founded on disapproval in others, founded on the notion that some characteristic or behavior or detail about an individual is fundamentally wrong. We <i>should</i> engage in conflict because there are, indeed, times when the differences between us are so inexcusably prominent that they scream to be resolved or, at least, positioned in such a way that it no longer trespasses on who we are. Iron sharpens iron, as it was meant to be.<br />
<br />
But people just don't participate in constructive conflict anymore. They fight, quite simply, to bring harm to others. They compulsively judge, chipping away at the already fragile composures of people just like themselves. They pervert the very nature of conversation and collaboration by injecting elements of discord into the lives of those around them, and the cycle continues.<br />
<br />
When did we, as God's self-sustaining creations, lose the right to form our own opinions? When in the exact chronological moment in the existence of everything did it suddenly become unacceptable to be different?<br />
<br />
"Society" is a joke. We've allowed ourselves to rally behind relentless, idealist bigots, accepting everything they say and crucifying those who disagree. Republicans, democrats, homosexuals, heterosexuals, whites, blacks, <b><u>everyone</u></b> is guilty of this new paradigm. There's an invisible exemplar in society today that tells each new generation to follow existing trends and every new pattern of thought for the sake of popularity. Everyone is striving to find the path of least resistance and shaming the ones who try to break the mold.<br />
<br />
If people embraced their insecurities and, just for a moment, start treating their fellow man like something other than a failure in progress, maybe then they could find happiness we all so long for. Maybe if people started trying, simply trying to see each other like Jesus sees them, maybe then there would be peace.David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-29469347711345591122014-03-10T22:01:00.000-07:002014-03-10T22:14:12.390-07:00Growing PainsGrowing up sucks harder than a dehydrated preschooler with a half-empty Capri Sun pouch.<br />
<br />
And based on the conversations I've had recently about this realization, the fact that growing up sucks is apparently understood and simultaneously unspoken by everyone over the age of 25. Thanks for warning us guys. As if belonging to the lethargic masses of Gen Y wasn't already difficult enough.<br />
<br />
I guess, rather than brooding, I could explain where all this angst is coming from. Recently, Molly and I began searching for our first home together. We naively assumed that we could acquire a beautiful, move-in ready starter home for about fifty-thousand dollars less than what informed, rational, educated adult people already knew we would need to spend but failed to mention to either of us.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, our initial search was quite terrifying.<br />
<br />
We started looking with the first agent that listed his number on a hand-written realty sign (red flag #1) in the yard of a property which we now refer to as the "fight club" house. The smell inside the home was so toxic that I'm fairly certain it would disintegrate a Febreeze can on contact. Without a doubt, the fetid odors leaking from that house are responsible for the growing hole in the ozone layer and should be dealt with by the U.S. government accordingly.<br />
<br />
There were rotting wooden boards nailed haphazardly to random walls throughout the house, and the doorways were latched with rusty locks, most likely to keep out (or in) whatever animal had previously lived there. The carpet was stained in what appeared to be some combination of blood and stomach bile, and the sheetrock had deep, Freddy Krueger-like claw markings from floor to ceiling. We didn't even make it past the living room before abandoning hope and fleeing the house to prevent further lung damage.<br />
<br />
The best part of the story? Our so-called realtor, after it was all said and done, informed us in an almost hopeful tone, "It might need a little work." A <i>little</i> work. The house that could cause cancer if viewed in direct sunlight and has no living plant life around it in a half-mile radius "<i>might"</i> need a <i>"little" </i>work. Really.<br />
<br />
But hey, at least things could've only gotten better from there, right? Sadly, no.<br />
<br />
The next showing was a pile of ashes. The house had literally been burned down shortly before we arrived. Embers glowing. Wet smoke billowing from an empty lot. God made it clear to us that it was time to change tactics. That or He <i>really</i> didn't want us buying a house.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, He had a plan. We ditched the dunce and hired a wonderful Christian friend I've known and loved for years. With her assistance and a few weeks of pleasantly odored showings (for the most part), we found "the one," the house we wanted to start our lives together in. Before we knew it, we were sitting crosslegged in the floor of our soon-to-be living room signing paperwork.<br />
<br />
Agreements, offers, disclosures, some stuff I wasn't even sure what it meant (don't kill me, Mrs. Shoffner). Every piece of paper I initialed, I mistakenly thought, got us closer to the romanticized outcome in my head where Molly and I would soon be picking paint colors and placing furniture in this flawless house of our dreams.<br />
<br />
Instead, here we are a week and a half later, and I'm still signing paperwork, negotiating terms, and asking for repairs on a house I assumed was perfect. I'm filled with uncertainty not knowing what will turn up in each new inspection, not knowing if the next repair will wind up being the straw that breaks the camel's back (or the seller's wallet, in this case).<br />
<br />
I can't pretend that I'm not overwhelmed or scared making one massive decision after another. I won't act like I don't miss the days when my most difficult decision was Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops. New expenses are popping up every day, chipping away at my bank account and absolutely <i>terrifying </i>me. Even now, I find myself just as worried as I was leaving the fight club house almost three months ago.<br />
<br />
But in the end, my gratitude outweighs my burden. I'm so thankful God has brought us so far from where we were. I'm thankful that we're weeks from closing on a wonderful home. I'm thankful I have the ability to purchase and afford a home at all. I'm thankful that Molly, for whatever reason, still wants to marry me after all this.<br />
<br />
And most of all, I'm thankful that I'm growing up...even if it really, REALLY sucks sometimes.David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-59531496373026569002014-03-03T16:35:00.000-08:002014-03-04T19:10:46.207-08:00Pink ShirtsI don't want to get started off on the wrong foot by posting a melodrama revolving around "engaged life" (as my female peers fondly refer to it) and have everyone who reads this thinking they've stumbled across yet another website for a starry-eyed young couple to gush incessantly over their budding romance. You'll very rarely see me use the term "soul-mate," and if you do, just realize I'm probably being held at gunpoint.<br />
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That being said, however, a good friend once told me to never apologize for writing about things I wanted to write about because, if I wanted to write about them, then they must be worth writing about. At the moment? I actually do want to talk about my relationship. Sorry 'bout it.<br />
<br />
I'd be lying if I pretended that my relationship with Molly was the perfect paradise of sunshine and mutual, unyielding affection towards one another. Rarely a day goes by that we don't argue about <i>something</i>. It doesn't have to be important, and most of the time, it wouldn't even make "The Top 100 Arguable Topics Pertinent to Molly and David's Life" list, assuming that list actually existed.<br />
<br />
Take for instance our conversation the other day at Molly's happy place, known as Target by those who don't know her.<br />
<br />
Molly, holding up two blouses: <i>"Babe, do you like this one or this one better?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"You already have enough pink shirts. Why don't you pick out something in a different color?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"So, you're saying I don't look good in pink?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"That's not what I'm saying! I'm saying you always wear the same color."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"So, you're not happy with the way I dress?"</i><br />
<br />
That's just one of many examples where a discussion over something completely benign resulted in me losing the right to ride in the front seat of the car. Now, I could go into some spiel about how communication is essential to the health of a relationship, but I'm gonna be straight up.<br />
<br />
I <i>love </i>arguing with Molly. Absolutely, 100% love it.<br />
<br />
Before every woman reading this, including my own, grabs the nearest appliance to throw at my clearly chauvinistic head, hear me out.<br />
<br />
Arguing with my fiance, to me, means stability. It means that we've got a good thing going on. It's the equivalent of her looking me in the eye and saying, "I don't agree with you right now. I even don't like you right now. But I sure as heck love you right now." You're still thinking I must be crazy, right? I don't necessarily think so.<br />
<br />
If Molly didn't love me and, more importantly,<i> if she didn't think that I loved her</i>, she certainly wouldn't have her hand on her hip giving me one of her infamous laser-guided glares over the color of a $12 shirt. A woman, or a man for that matter, who feels his or her relationship is on thin ice is going to think twice about picking a fight and think twice more about picking a fight over something so frivolous.<br />
<br />
Couples in jeopardy choose their battles wisely. They argue over BIG stuff, and they hold back while they're fighting because neither really knows if the next thing that comes out of their mouth will be the last thing they ever say to the other. Molly and I, we don't have that problem. We don't bite our tongues when the other says something we don't like. When a disagreement arises, big or small, we make it a point to figure out <i>why</i> we disagree. And why wouldn't we? Doesn't it make sense to seize every opportunity we have to get to know more about the thing we love most on this earth? We strive to learn more about each other every single day.<br />
<br />
That's a beautiful thing.<br />
<br />
If we're in the car, fuming at one another, we don't conceal it. We go at it. Molly dreads car rides when we're in the middle of an argument because she knows I will pull over, lock the doors, and refuse to move until we've hashed it out. We've always disagreed with the mentality that splitting up and taking time apart to brood is an acceptable way to deal with problems, despite being advised to do so by many older couples.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking anyone's relationship. Maybe taking time for yourselves to organize your thoughts and come back with a clear, viable argument works for you. For us, organizing our thoughts, formulating our arguments, that's all part of the process. Sometimes, we have no idea what the heck we're thinking.<br />
<br />
And for us, that's okay. Our mentality? "Let's figure it out <i>together</i>."<br />
<br />
So yeah, I love fighting with Molly. I love it when we butt heads. I love it when she rolls her eyes at me, when she shoots me those glances that could knock a vulture off roadkill, and even when she nails me with a laughably girly punch to the arm.<br />
<br />
Because when it's all said and done, she knows I love her more than anyone ever loved another person, regardless of what color shirt she's wearing.</div>
David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1730574684715509431.post-73738360888251226792014-02-27T12:15:00.000-08:002014-04-24T09:15:40.132-07:00New BeginningsStarting a blog is an awkward process. A little disclaimer: I've been through it three times now, and each time, I've failed to avoid turning my introductory post into a Match.com profile. My track record aside, here goes nothing.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
I ditched my <a href="http://davidsordinaryblog.blogspot.com/">old blog</a> for a number of reasons, the primary reason being that 21-year-old me has a difficult time not vomiting from embarrassment whenever I read the ramblings of 17 and 18 and 19-year-old me.<br />
<br />
17-year-old me was incessantly whiny and found ways to exaggerate almost every situation through the gross misuse of the word "literally" and the gross overuse of ellipses after EVERY SENTENCE. 18-year-old me most likely needed therapy and, upon review, definitely needed therapy supplemented with Xanax. Lots of Xanax.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Thankfully, 19-year-old me demonstrated some degree of maturity by frequently acknowledging that 18-year-old me's behavior was inexcusable. But that faint glimmer of manhood faded as 19-year-old me suddenly grew ovaries and went on an estrogen-fueled descent into depression and poorly structured poetry that no amount of Hershey's Special Dark could quell.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Then, before 19-year-old me has time to post any choreography to Sarah McLachlan's greatest hits CD, something strange happens. 20-year-old David begins to write. Really, actually, truly write some things that have some meaning and depth and, dare I say it, thought to them. I wrote with direction, and I wrote when I was moved, and I wrote like someone who'd finally grown up.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Looking back, it's very encouraging to see how I've grown, but as with growing up, you learn to move on. Despite the pride I feel in reviewing the gradually maturing archives of thoughts I've expressed through the years, it was holding me back psychologically and creatively. And that's where this blog comes in, a new place to detach 21-year-old David from all those younger personas and write like man, so to speak. I can feel my mom's eyes rolling already.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm hoping to use this blog as a "Chapter 2" of sorts for the next phase in my life. I'm soon to be married to the love of my life and best friend, Molly, after whom this blog is named. I'm a semester away from graduating college and beginning a career beyond school. There's exciting stuff headed my way, and I'm itching to write all about it.</div>
David.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13397538216171495673noreply@blogger.com0