her key didn't fit the lock

Here I am 5:04 in the morning. This is part of the day I usually don't see because I am doing something we call sleeping. Every human does it and normally around this time. About thirty or so minutes ago I woke up to the sound of someone inserting a key in to the lock of my door and trying to open it. This immediately caught my attention. Could it possibly be a courteous robber. One that attempts the lock before breaking the window? How nice of them. At first I thought it was possibly a roommate trying to get in. But then to my surprise it was a young, pretty twenty something girl trying to make her way in to my bedroom. This doesn't happen very often. A girl trying really hard with keys that don't fit the lock to get in to MY bedroom. I mean if anything she has earned the right. But not tonight. I ask her what she wants. She responds, "Are you kidding me? Let me in." She is really persistent about getting in (all the while she is still trying to open the door with keys that don't fit). I ask her name, "Nicole, Nicole... now let me in." At this point I am freaked out at this pretty girl that is trying to make entry in to my house. I tell her, "this is not your house." And still she wants in.

So what do I do? Tony to the rescue. I wake Tony up. We sit on the couch for a couple of minutes. My suggestion is to let the cops take care of this. It is to weird for me. Tony gets the guts to turn all the lights on and go outside on the porch and talk to her. He opens the door. And immediately she tries to come in the house. "I want to come in. And lay down." Tony responds by saying, "Yes, but on the couch outside. You can't come in." That a boy Tony. Yah! what my boy Tony said. So we talked to our new found friend Nicole. Who smelled appropriately for someone that had been drinking all night. But the weird thing is that she seemed coherent enough to talk. But she didn't know why she was on our front porch trying to get in.

I am proposing someone slipped something in to her drink. And that is just bad news. Her house is three blocks from our house. She is clearly frustrated. She doesn't know why she is on our porch. She doesn't know how she got here. So Tony and I drove her home. I thought her house might look similar to our house. At least the front porch would look similar. Turns out she lives in a huge white house with a small side porch. I guess if your drunk and oblivious you could mistake the two.

I am now pretty freaked out still. I want the sun to come up. Cause for some reason I feel safer when the sun is up. Now I have another excuse why I pay cheaper rent at this house. No other roommates can complain about random, drunk hot girls trying to insert their key in to my lock just so they can get in to a house they don't even know. Hi Yah!

"sticks and stones may break my bones...

but words will never hurt me." Whoever came up with these words is an ignorant, godless coward. How one could come to such a conclusion about life is beyond me. And people that normally hold this kind of thinking are usually the people that feel like they can say anything and get away with it.

This isn't a new thought for me. But I am beginning to come to the realization that what we say matters. Whether it is a sarcastic remark to a friend, or it is an encouraging word to a downtrodden friend. Words simply change the reality around us.

I am reading this book by Eugene Peterson and he states this very point. Jesus' words change everything. Everything that we call creation. The sky, the universe, the yellow flower blooming outside my window, the people that surround me were all spoken in to being by a word. A word spoken from the mouth of God. Jesus spoke words in to the lives of people that healed them. Words that changed communities. All beginning with words. Jesus calls me "his beloved." Words that change things for me.

Here is the challenging part. The part that is dichotomous in so many ways. I have a story. I have a history. It shapes who I am. It shapes how I act. It shapes even how I say words. Jesus has a story. He has a story that is all encompassed by one word: gospel. And somehow his story wants something to do with my story. His words wants something to do with my words.

But there is also a story in this world that is about bringing people down. Exploiting the weaknesses of others. Feeding the arrogance and the competive nature of our culture.

Everything involving words. Words that some how establish our place here on this earth. Yet there is tension between this world culture (whatever that means) and the words that Jesus speaks. One is life giving for all OUR stories while in contrast this world culture adheres to this idea of using a vocabulary that does not change people for the good but instead makes them feel smaller.

The tension for me is whether I want to be a conduit for the words of Jesus. Words that change people for the better. Words that don't lower peoples heads but lift them up. Words that heal. Because I know what it is to receive words that do not give life. I know what it is like to have my soul feel weighted just because of words. And why would I want to become the very thing I despise. There are enough people in this world that already take the words of Jesus and walk away. And I don't want to be one of those people.

Dear Mema,

Dear Mema,

I have sat down to write this letter a couple of times. And really have not felt that my words expressed the beauty that you deserve. You are amazing to me. You have the hands of a potter. You have had the ability to shape and change the trajectory of peoples lives through your influence. And I know this by the tears of my father. I know this by the many things that I love to do because they began with you.

The good and the bad I look back with fond appreciation and maybe with some laughter. I maybe did not grow up the hard life that my dad, aunts, and uncles had to endure working on a farm but I experienced the punishment aspect. I know what a switch means. I know what picking my own switch means. And I know also how much more a switch hurts than a belt. I was born with red hair. And I think your switch helped keep me tame.

One thing that you taught me that sticks with me everyday is cooking. I love it! There is nothing that completes a day more than cooking. You were famous for cooking chocolate pies. They were the best! I still have not been able to master them, but one day I hope too. And when I was a little boy you always cooked me cabbage. I don’t know how much butter you put in it, but boy was it good. Then there was breakfast. One of my favorite meals to cook. You would scramble my eggs and make them a little runny with lots of pepper. That is my favorite way to have eggs. There are so many things that I do that I go, “I learned that from Mema.”

Then there was this other side of you that I only got to peak in at times. It was your love for Jesus. You were confident in where you were going. You knew Jesus loved you. And you were fully aware of it. I knew there were days as a kid that I would come in to your room after you had gone to bed and you would be praying. Rarely did I get to see what stood at the center of your life. But the moments that I did inspire me to this day.

One question you asked me often was “did I have a girlfriend.” And with hesitancy I always said no. Then I replied with asking you “did you have a boyfriend.” You would reply “shhhhhuh.” As you were laying in your bed on your final day on this earth I wanted to tell you something so badly. I wanted to say that I found someone I liked and I wanted to tell you her name. I can only have faith that you heard my words.

Here we are today. I can hear you say, “Baby, your Mema loves you.” When I saw you in that casket I didn’t think you looked like the Mema I knew. Because the Mema I know is alive in so many of my moments in my life. When I cook for my family you are there. One day when I pray with my kids you are there. And when I tell them that they matter you are there. In the eyes of my father you are there. Your memory is alive as can be.

I love you!

Jason

where to go from here.

I don't know who reads this. If anyone. I am probably just a lone ranger out in cyber space. But that is okay I suppose. Or you just possibly have nothing better to do with your time and you decide to read these words. Or gracefully skim them for juicy tidbits.

I am at a crossroads in my life. I am finished with Seminary. And now I have to choose what direction I should go from here. All the options in front of me look desirable. The problem is that each option takes sacrifice. And the other problem is that I don't want to be forced in to one. My options are to stay in Orlando and find a decent job that will suffice for a couple of years. I want to stay in Orlando so I can play in a band. But to play in the band I have to make money some how. My second option is to go be a pastor. The only problem is that I would have to leave the band. And most likely move to another city. The good news is for a pastor is that I would have a job.

I keep beating myself up over what is the best decision to make.

I can just see myself years down the road asking myself why I never pursued the band. Or even months from now wishing I could play in a band.

What I usually do in this scenario is go looking for jobs on the internet. Every one asks for 5 years of experience, which I don't have. They ask for certain degrees. Degrees that I don't have. What it seems is that what I have worked really hard for is to get a job at McDonald's. Or a church that is not anywhere near Orlando. I am stuck. I feel pressure from all sides. In the end this event will only be like a blimp on the radar screen. But it is pushing me to make conscious, logical, and PRAYERFUL decisions on what the next steps should be in my life. Nothing off the cuff.

in his silence he speaks

I was running quite smoothly today. My breath perfectly orchestrated like seconds ticking on a clock. Until my body forcefully found itself flying through the air. A conglomerate number of movements began to unfold. My arms battled with gravity to assume the push up position while both my knees collided with the nonresistant cement. Extremely nonresistant.

I did not tell my arms to save me. I did not tell my knees to take the bulk of the injury. I can only assume my arms and knees were trying to protect this cute skull of mine or the matter inside. There are complex realities in my very self that I can not wrap my mind around. Yet when they happen I am absolutely perplexed. This is God’s silence for me. Subtle. I don’t recognize it is there. But it is. It is in the words He does not say that I find absolutely amazing. Some equate silence with nothing. But silence is something. It is of greater substance than others might give it credit. It most assuredly is not nothing. It is the subtle things in this world that I find the freshness of God beneath the surface. Flowing like a river. A river that has been there. And will be there. Forever.

A story of an insignificant feeling son and a compassionate Father tells of such experiences: The son said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! ...Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” The Father totally gazes past the avowal of His son. His silence enfolds these words. The confession is merely an afterthought of things already said or perhaps done. I am awed that in my confession the Father does not condemn me or give me a litany of things I did wrong but instead celebrates me. Perplexing.

I need to go clean up some. And speak with normal words.

dear Helmut,

Dear Helmut,
I just heard moments ago that you have breathed your last. And I am sitting in my room trying so hard to find something to fulfill this deep void within me. Trying to escape the reality of not so much your death but that you died in a lonely hospital room all by yourself.

When I came to visit you the last time I was sort of nervous. You were my great uncle Helmut who didn’t speak any English. And I was your great nephew that didn’t speak any German. I will never forget walking in to your small, quaint apartment. You engulfed me with this smile bigger than the ocean between our two countries and embraced me as if I was your long lost brother. We had something much deeper than language. We had blood. Although we were worlds apart I still felt close because of the stuff that flows through our veins.

You probably notice during that trip that I don’t do well with time change. I enjoyed our time together in the late hours of the night just sitting together and having an occasional cigarette. We had a conversation one of those nights that I actually understood. You are a teacher. I see it in your eyes. And some how through our broken communication we managed to have a conversation. It was beautiful.

The silver plate outside your apartment says “Hohl.” But the person that lived behind that plate was very much a mystery. I know little about you. And you died in obscurity. This was not fair to you and it is a tragedy. There was not any money available to buy you a decent coffin so that you might rest in dignity. And nobody around to come to your funeral. It is one thing to be lonely. And it is quite another to die lonely.

In the midst of this I am confused with what I want to do with my life. I know Helmut that I want to be a pastor. I find myself tempted to be the person that is seen. But I hope that instead I could be the kind of pastor that grips the hands of people that have nobody but themselves as they breathe their last. Because no one should die alone. Not one.

May the almighty and merciful God bless and protect us the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit

Ihr großer neffe,
Jason

dear brycen,

dear brycen,

If I had the opportunity to stop time and to bask in the presence of a single moment it would be with you. You are my four year old nephew and a wonderful picture of grace. I did nothing to deserve such a gift but every moment I spend with you is just that. Times moves to fast. And that saddens me some.

I love spending the day with you. Always. And the other day was such a splendid day. You and I seeking adventure in this big world. First stop goofy golf or what some might call in the rest of the world “putt putt.” You beat me fair and square. And when you got that hole in one to see your face light up like the sun coming out of the clouds on a cold day. It was absolutely wonderful. I can be sometimes melancholy but you bring joy out of what can be sometimes a weighted soul.

Then after that we ventured to the pier. This has become a regular place for us to go. I only go to the pier with you. Every time we go I tell you not to chase after the birds. But you still do. I am pretty sure I just tell you “no” because I envy the freedom to chase after the birds. But because you are a kid you are allotted that freedom. I on the other hand would be yelled at.

When we got to the pier we both got out of the car and I grabbed your hand as we proceeded to walk to the pier. At one point you stopped. You looked at me. And said three words that I never hear often enough but have a desire to hear more often even more to feel. You said, “I love you.” This was not something you haven't said to me before. This moment was different. Words that I find so difficult to say. You just said them. No wall to keep them away. You felt it. You meant it.

This world has not been nice to me. My childhood was not one I look back with great joy. But instead with great hesitancy. I walked through most of life looking for someone to prove myself to. Looking for someone to say to me, “You are valued, This world needs You, You make a Difference.” Whatever the phrase may be I have looked in the wrong places. Tried to prove myself to people that at the end of the day would forget my name and my existence. This leads me to a place of despair. This place where I feel like nothing.

Keeping my head up is not easy. I am good at faking it. To good.

But with you Brycen things are different. The world is still brand new to you. And words that are so challenging for me to find and for me to say you say them with a freedom and innocence that I could only hope to have.

Brycen if you ever get to a place in life where the world seems heavy. A place to where you think that your existence is minuscule. Please know that your melancholy Uncle. Who knows the word depression far much better than he sometimes knows the word “love”. Know this: you made him happy. You gave him great joy when it was hard to grab hold of.

You changed things for him.

I love you,
uncle j j