this plane flies me home under 
southern skies 
it’s hot here 
and i don’t just mean the air 
this plane flies me home under
skies of heat lightning 
like laestrygonian fireflies 
up there in a meteorological battle 
above us 
but it’s just hot here 
and when this plane flying me home lands
i will find regular fireflies 
in an ordinary battle 
of living 
in southern skies 

My coffee is black until the artificially sweetened cream hits it and turns it lighter, while my own skin seems to get darker and darker and darker, sometimes redder, always a little bit sore. It’ll pass when summer’s over, but it’s only just now May, and for all I know my health insurance doesn’t cover the bill to see if I’ve got skin cancer—

I stop, staring at the pale cup of coffee in my hand. I don’t have health insurance. My eyes linger on the already faded birthday cards propped up in my window. The cartoon birthday cake is shaped like the number 26.

My phone alarm goes—the standard alarm sound I always swear I’ll change—and I know I’m gonna be late. I throw the rest of my stuff in my worn duffle bag, the one I used for football practice in high school when my mom bought my socks and deodorant. Out the door, I click my keys five times before it unlocks my truck, and I’m off on the still-dark flat stretch of highway barricaded by spindly pines and golf cart paths.

When I first moved to Florida, I imagined myself in an old fishing cabin, with rusty door hinges and torn mosquito netting on the front porch and a yard with more sand than grass. I imagined it would be cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but the honey faux wood paneling and yellow carpet would feel like home, and I’d have a coal burning grill.

Instead, I live in a grayscale apartment complex with thin walls and missing outlet covers and polyester carpet. Sometimes I think the studs on the inside of the brittle drywall are the only wooden parts of the whole building; or are those aluminum these days? Good thing Florida doesn’t get very many tornadoes; just hurricanes. I told myself that’s why we have evacuation routes, that it won’t come so fast that we can’t get out.

But then, who would put out the chairs for the tourists who don’t wanna leave during an emergency?

I am racing the rising sun down Highway 98.

The man with his coffee is already at the top of the wooden stairs, gazing over the white, pristine morning sand—untouched by toddlers and towels and tents—like a medieval king looking over his kingdom. He breathes in the salty air, something he misses when he’s in his suburban middle Tennessee neighborhood home surrounded by the same vacation-hungry Range Rovers littering I-65 this time of year like a zealots on a holy pilgrimage.

I park a mile away in a lot more sand than gravel, and slap slap slap my flip flops along the street, dodging sprinkler heads and manicured grass and early morning runners.

The sun is properly in the sky now, though the morning still feels misty and foggy and fresh. The sky is the color of pastel motel art. A row of plebeians already have their personal chairs up at the water’s edge, those thrifty few who refuse to pay the exorbitant chair and umbrella rental prices.

I skim my feet down, down the stairs, hand absently brushing against the sea oats, already kicking my flip flops off before my feet even hit the sand.

With deft hands that have done this a thousand times, I unlock the forever rusted lock on the white-painted wooden boxes scattered for miles in either direction. Ours are numbered with faded blue painted strokes, though I don’t think anyone remembers what the numbers identify. The number of chairs and umbrellas and little tables inside the boxes get passed down as oral wisdom to the various sunburnt 20-something year old men who pass through these parts every couple years. When I was trained, I had to measure out where each set of chairs and umbrellas would fit to maximize the space and rental capacity—but I’ve been doing this for a very long time, and it has grown into the same instinct as how much toothpaste to squeeze out or how close to empty I can get in my truck before needing to push it to the nearest gas station.

It is still breezy and crisp by the time I finish setting up the umbrellas, my hand flexing without the weight of the modified drill. Time for chairs. Bracing my still-aching lower back, I begin building a wall of folded chairs around me. Sometimes I wonder if I could barricade myself in here forever and block out the angry voices and children’s screams and blistering sun, and stay hidden and cool in the shade and disappear completely into some kind of silence. But I don’t do that, and instead I lift the barricade up off the ground and trudge forward and forward toward the waterline. The sand sinks under the added weight, and my ankles strain in protest like they do every morning. But I don’t listen and keep going, slowly lessening the weight with each set of chairs planted firmly on the ground.

I feel like a farmer planting a harvest in the dirt, and I wonder what would have happened if I had chosen another career path. One where I built things that mattered, where I still got up early before the sunrise and still stayed outside under the beating sun; but instead of spending my day watching people vacation in the shadow of multimillion dollar stucco, I looked out over a field of corn or strawberries or cattle. Would I feel satisfaction?

The chairs are all set out, evenly spaced but close enough to irritate the first family man who didn’t come here to share the beach with someone else’s rowdy kid.

Why are these chairs so damn close?

You need to tell them to move out of our space.

I paid a lot of money to be here, buddy.

And I listen and listen and nod and wait for the mirage to waver away so I can keep counting down the minutes in my day.

The waves are big today; not as big as the ones I saw on the Atlantic coast once, on some stretch of sand in North Carolina; and definitely not as big as the ones on TV showing off Hawaii or Malibu. But nevertheless, I imagine myself on a broad surfboard skimming the surface of a clean barrel wave, floating along and along and along. There are rays following me, moving in that smooth way rubber torpedo toys moved when I was a child bravely opening my eyes in chlorinated pool water. When I look at the beach, no one is there and there are no homes and no resorts and only the raw, tangly forest that seems so prehistoric. Palm trees, pine trees, sharp and spiky bushes, tall grass, short grass, sandy soil and deer and bears and cranes and seagulls. The sky is blue. The sun is hazy, both before me and behind me and above me. It is neither morning nor evening nor midday; it is just a perfect day and I surf on a board and am followed by rays. Nothing more, and nothing less.

A frisbee lands at my feet, spraying fluffy white sand everywhere, and my daydream disappears like mist on a hot day. I pick up the frisbee and glance around, seeing a group of kids looking like still little stalks of corn, unsure if I’m going to throw it back or berate them. I toss it toward them but I do not smile. They scramble to grab it, and bound away.

It is now midday—an exodus of families with young kids trudge like soldiers marching onward after a long battle. Women carry toddlers, men carry wagons, kids drag sandy towels and cry when the hot sand burns their feet. But they march on and on, and the beach breathes and exhales for a moment before it inhales with the next crowd, the late risers. They trot down for an afternoon of drinking and tanning and listening to radio country music on waterproof speakers.

It is about this time that I begin to watch the clock, which is really just a cheap digital watch I got after giving up on owning an Apple Watch after they kept breaking from sand and water and heat abuse.

2:15 p.m. 3:47 p.m. 4:02 p.m.

The afternoon passes quickly, like sped up gameplay on a video game, until something happens that makes my brain feel like it’s stuck on a level I can’t get through.

“Did you hear me?” the man said, hands on his hips.

I blink and look down at him. His arms are pale, pale, pale, and then red, red, red, and it reminds me of a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich bar; and now I am hungry. Did I eat lunch? I don’t remember. I really wish I could smoke. Maybe I’d like my job more if I could smoke my way through the day. Maybe the heat from the sun wouldn’t be as bad if I was buzzed, and the smoke could darken my lungs the way the sun darkened my skin.

“Sorry?” I say, too belatedly and too monotonously.

“I said, our rentals are on the second row. But I don’t want to be on the second row, I want to be on the first row.”

“What’s your name?” I ask him, snatching up my clipboard.

“John Baker.”

I glance through our sheet and decipher my messy handwriting, seeing a vague B surname and determine that Mr. Baker, in fact, paid for a second row rental. I tell him this. He does not care.

“I want to be on the front row, and I can see plenty open!”

“But sir, those are reserved by people who may come back down. And they paid more for their spots. It wouldn’t be fair to-”

“Fair? I am paying a ridiculous amount of money to be here, don’t you understand that? And I’m asking for some decent customer service, and you’re choosing to make this difficult. “

“I’m sorry, sir-”

“No, I don’t want to hear excuses, I want to hear solutions to my problem.”

“Your chair and umbrella that you reserved on our website…” I glance at my clipboard. “Three months ago, are right over here. I can show you-”

“No, you aren’t listening,” the man says, getting closer into my personal space. “I’m not hearing a solution, I’m hearing a lazy hourly worker trying to tell me how to spend a vacation I worked hard for.”

Worked hard. I stop trying to speak.

“I specifically remember reserving a front row seat.”

I zone out, eye contact veering to the side as my attention latches onto a seagull flying through the very blue sky, gaze hidden by reflective sunglasses. The seagull circles a little boy with brown hair as he runs around clutching a bag of chips in one hand, laughing with joy a the bird flutters gently around his head. The bird dives and grabs a chip from his hand and the boy shrieks and is overcome with giggles. He is happy, happy for the bird to take his chips; he offers up more to the animal. He smiles and laughs and runs and does not think about anything else.

“Hello? Hello?” The man is waving his hands in front of my face. “Do they not teach you basic communication skills in beach chair school?”

And I finally look back at him, at this small, pudgy, sunburnt man. He wears expensive sunglasses and pastel swim trunks and a gold watch. I recognize some of the brands and some I don’t, and I notice the car keys in his beach bag pocket.

My hourly salary is the chump change that lines the inside of his Tesla’s tires.

I imagine myself hitting the man, knocking off his stupid sunglasses and punching him until his twisted, sneering snout crumples into something other than resentment; perhaps fear or regret or guilt. I imagine being escorted off the beach in handcuffs, with bruised knuckles and suddenly my lower back doesn’t hurt anymore and I can call my mom and tell her I’m coming home. I imagine smoking a cigarette and watching the white smoke float up, up and absorb into a backdrop of pristine white walls. But it doesn’t matter because I’m under a blue sky and there is no ceiling stopping me from looking up. I am taller than the buildings, I am taller than them all; only the palm trees are taller than I am, and that’s okay.

But I do none of those things. I simply say one word—

“Sorry.”

—and call my boss to try and work out a solution to this problem I did not create but am responsible for. And the clock only shows me 4:12 p.m. But I feel like a lifetime has passed, and I check my watch again so many times I begin to wonder if it is broken.

It is not broken, I am just slowed down by some weight I don’t really want to understand. The tide is going out, out, out. The people are beginning to leave and the shadows stretch out so far the beach becomes striped like a zebra. And I am still here; and so is that man.

He only stays at his front row chair setup for one hour and 47 minutes, and his is the last pair of chairs I have to put away. He does not speak to me or look my way, and I wonder if he even sees me. Maybe I have become invisible. Maybe my body is see-through like the water on days when it is so still every fish and ripple of san is visible. If my skin becomes invisible and my insides visible like the ocean floor, what would you see? I don’t know.

The sun is setting by the time I lock the last white wooden box. The sky is a brilliant orange, and it seems to bring me back into feeling my body again. Even though I’m back to feeling the pain on my skin and in my back and somewhere deep in my chest, it’s better than feeling invisible, I suppose. I walk a few steps down the beach, and then some more, and some more, and end up past the line of beach access for the resort; I am now on private property. But it’s okay, because these people are never home; the looming white buildings stand like mausoleums, housing the ghosts of vacationers that only haunt these shores for one week a year. The rest of the time, people like me haunt along the way; and if I squint and stand turned halfway toward the water, I can pretend like the houses aren’t there and that my back is watched by an old line of trees and brush.

I am glad I did not hit that man. I am glad I get to stand here, alone and unwatched by other people. I am glad I get to see the ocean and catch the glint of a dolphin’s shiny gray skin and the feathery cream of those little seabirds that walk too fast. I used to imagine the old fishing shack I would live in, and found that dream wanting. I used to dream about loving my job, and the endless sun, but not the unending sting. I used to dream about this view, but I find that that dream did come true, I guess. So I pull out my pack of cigarettes and do the thing I have thought about since I woke up this morning.

Without taking my eyes off the vibrant sunset and the impossibly sparkling ocean, I light up; the yellow orange burst matches the colors in my eyes. I breathe in, puff, breathe in again. And I sigh and relax and stand still. The buzz is okay, and the day cools off, and the view is good.

And I know that I will see this again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I started this short story at the beach by scribbling the line “My hourly salary is the chump change that lines the inside of his Tesla’s tires” in my notes app, and built the story around that. Hope you enjoyed it.

At the end of the movie, when Agnes is watching the actor playing Hamlet kneel down to die, she reaches out to touch him—and we know, we know she is reaching out to touch the memory of her son. We know she is thinking of every smile, every scraped knee, every bright and childlike laugh. We know she is thinking about his first cries as an infant. We know she is thinking about the way his little fingers curved around a play sword. We know she is thinking about the way his eyes would flit up to the sky to catch a glimpse of a bird.

But then the audience reaches out, too. They want to touch Hamlet, to touch a piece of something immortal and yet finite and yet familiar and yet new. And we don’t know what they think about. Or who. Agnes looks around in wonder at the emotion on their faces, at the tremble in their outstretched hands, even those that are much too far to even reach past the edge of the stage. We see the wonder on the actor’s face, too.

That’s what Hamnet and Hamlet are all about. A story about love and loss and grief. A story about watching your grief be mirrored in art. The audience, Agnes realizes, has their own memories they attach to Hamlet’s body as it collapses to the ground. They think about their own loss and pain and love, just like I did.

Writing Hamlet did not erase Shakespeare’s pain; watching it did not cure Agnes’ grief. But it did allow him to cry; and it did allow her to say goodbye. And we don’t know what it did for the audience watching, or the one I sat among in the theater; but I know it made me think of the time my little brother almost died. And just as the audience reached out to the actor playing the memory of a little boy, artists will keep reaching out to Hamlet to perform it again and again and again.

I had the pleasure of writing this for a project by Natalie Cross! I enjoyed having an excuse to explore why this movie impacted me so much, and ended up being my favorite new movie of 2025 and my top choice at the Oscars (OBAA, you will rue the day!).

I sit in the church building
and stare up at the rafters
white like ribs
like a ribcage
and I am in the belly
in the belly of the church
or is it the lungs?

I am in the ribcage
of Christ's body
the church;
but I breathe his air
from within
never without.

*I’ve never written a poem before, much less shared it. I probably broke rules for poetry I don’t know about. Oh well.

And I don’t have a full answer to that, not definitively and not without nuance, and I don’t really think anybody does. In the wide gulf between what happens and why it happens is a lot of mystery. But I think often of the Matthew 6 passage: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”

These words are good and true and beautiful, and often bring me comfort; but I still wonder why, when I believe in the truth of these words, there is still so much poverty and crime and loss. Children starve. Women are trafficked. Men are killed in war. Famine and broken economies and rampant crime wreaks havoc on billions of people all over the world, and it never seems to stop; not ever, and especially not now. When the glow of our little blue screens tells us lie, lie, lie in the face of the truth of those words, how can we reconcile this conflict?

Don’t hear me say this is the definitive, all-encompassing, theologically sound answer to this question: I am neither good enough to be a god nor lofty enough to be a theologian.

But, if the truth is some sort of many-faceted diamond, then I think this is one side of it.

God uses the example of birds and flowers, citizens of a natural world which we were, I think, cleaved from in the garden, as evidence of his provision and established order. The natural world follows natural laws, in everything from food chains to pollination to seasonal patterns. When the natural world is not disrupted by mankind or disaster, it operates in the way God intended in the beginning. Birds find food, flowers are pollinated.

And God elevates us above the birds and the flowers, promising to take care of us and value us even more than his natural world creations. But why do kids not have food, even in a privileged a country like the United States? Is it because God doesn’t actually take care of us the way he promises to?

I don’t think that can be the answer.

I believe, just as God set up the order of natural law, he intended for order to come from the laws he designed and designated specially for us: to love God and love each other; to be honest, humble, kind, full of integrity, just, courageous, wise, and selfless. To pursue purity and persevere through trial. To welcome strangers, feed the poor, take care of the widows, and house orphans. We wait for God to do the things he already calls us to do. Then we get mad when these things don’t happen.

There are enough clothes on planet earth for every person to be clothed; there is enough food for every person to be fed; there are enough Christian families to adopt every orphan. And yet, despite the fact that our efforts can’t create a perfect world on their own, it would objectively eliminate so much need. People would be fed, people would be clothed, children would be taken care of. Obedience isn’t about creating perfection, it’s about creating a better world for ourselves and for others.

And yes, God blesses us whether or not we’re following these commandments and laws; God is beyond natural law, moral law, or religious law, and that is our saving grace. A friend of mine challenged the idea behind this essay by asking me, “but Leighton, are you saying we have to earn our blessings from God through obedience? And does this also not make God seem far away from our problems?” And she has a point. Nothing we do or don’t do can get in the way of God’s care for us. But, that doesn’t absolve us of responsibility for how our own ecosystem crumbles when we are disobedient and selfish. There are also many people who are “taken care of” by unearned privilege, luck, or succeeding at the expense of others; they are neither holier than someone in poverty, nor more spiritually blessed. But the truth remains that we do have agency, we do have responsibility, and we ought to follow God’s laws obediently; and when we do, life is better.

Instead of laboring for the outcomes of obedience, we ought to labor in obedience, whether we see the outcomes in our personal lives or not. And this is hard because it’s innately mutual and innately individual. We have individual responsibility over our actions and can’t control others, and yet often our personal blessings and ordered life does rely on the mutual obedience of others. The flowers must rely on the obedience of birds; birds must rely on the obedience of trees; trees must rely on the obedience of the sun; and the sun must remain obedient unto God.

Therefore, when we do live the ordered Christian life—a life of honesty, justice, humility, selflessness, courage, righteousness, faithfulness—together, these needs are met: children are adopted into loving homes, nonprofits rescue women and men and children from slavery, and the poor are fed and housed. God’s promises become fulfilled through the action and obedience of his children, just as his promise of deliverance was fulfilled by Moses in the Old Testament. And, obviously, God could do all this without us—that’s not the point—the point is that he invites us and calls us to operate our part of this ecology, because he desires for us to choose goodness, truth, and beauty.

This is nothing new; but it became a reframing for me, when I think about my disappointment in the world we know to be violent and oppressive and unfair.

Maybe this is just a longwinded way of saying, “if you just obeyed God, the world would be a better place.” But I think it’s more than that. It isn’t obedience for the sake of obedience (which is not a bad thing, I guess), but it’s obedience and appreciating the order God has for us. God doesn’t promise us perfect understanding, but he does give us wisdom and knowledge and common sense to see why we ought to be obedient. And that’s something we shouldn’t overlook.

Ultimately, this is just a part of the equation of understanding our fallen world. So much of the reality we never see will remain clouded from us in this life. But, because God loves us and wants us to understand him, we get to see the wisdom in his law; and because God loves us, we get to see his mercy when we, inevitably, fail to follow his law; or when others abuse it.

Will you take part in the ecosystem of God’s law—to love him and others and your community well? It’s simple, even if it isn’t easy. It’s fulfilling, even if it isn’t always gratifying. It reaps more than we will ever know, and most of what we will never see. But when we work as if it’s still worth it, we literally change the world. And maybe we were told too much as kids we could change the world—but they didn’t say it had to be a big change to mean something.

NOTE: Again, I am not making some grand theological statement about providence or whatever. Just that a lot of our problems wouldn’t be problems if we were good people and obedient to God’s guidance in our lives. And I do believe in personal and communal responsibility to care for others, and that God uses his people to answer prayers and promises.

When I moved to Nashville, it was on my own. I was twenty-five, single, and I didn’t really know anyone in the city. I found Facebook roommates and started a job in a relatively new field. It was on the heels of a difficult season, marked by the dark night of the soul and a professional crashout and a lot of insecurity. In fact, I wrote about that season in my first essay published by Inkwell in 2023, called “How We Roll in the Dark Night of the Soul”; it’s a riot.

Although this may be another story for another day, it’s important to note that I didn’t just come to Nashville because I thought it would be fun and cool. God really told me to do it, and I came kicking and screaming; there were countless moments I almost got cold feet and ditched the intervention I’d so desperately prayed for. But I did believe that once I got here, all my problems would disappear and I’d be happy and content and have boatloads of new friends. Because, that’s what the Gospel says, right? When we’re obedient to God, things go swimmingly for us.

No, things did not go swimmingly.

My first house in Nashville was one of those tall, skinny cheaply built homes on a split lot. The driveway in the back edged up to a small access road and a church yard. I can still feel the way the chainlink fence burrowed into my forearms as I stood there, looking at the grass on a Friday evening. I cried there; moths circled the tall street lamp above me, flitting around with more sense of belonging than I’d felt in a long time. I stood there when it snowed; I stood there when crickets, unseen but not unheard, chirped in unison.

The work week wasn’t so bad. I liked my job, I excelled at it, and filled my social cup around chatty coworkers.

But when the weekend rolled around, and I had no plans to match those of my friends back home, any sense of peace and happiness would plummet.

I don’t really think I can find an eloquent way to say that I was lonely and felt like a loser.

For a year, I fought those feelings and insecurities. The year was punctuated by genuine friendships I can’t take for granted, and those were probably the only things that kept me in Tennessee. But I didn’t have real community yet. And that made me angry and bitter and frustrated. I was so tired of going to places by myself.

Why would God send me here only to make me feel so isolated? Why did I watch many other people seem to flourish in this city of transplants? I felt like an interloper standing on the edge of everyone’s established lives, cursed to exist in the purgatory of acquaintanceship. (Was that eloquent enough?). To be fair, I was living with a big, fat one-foot-in-one-foot-out attitude. I really wanted an excuse to run home. But my guilt and fear of failure were just a bit stronger than my discomfort.

One day, I was at North Wind Manor, a coveted “third space” and home to the Rabbit Room press. Actually, I’m there right now as I write this.

I ran into a couple girls I was acquainted with, girls I knew had access to the vibrant community I was really hopeful for. After hanging out most of the morning, we walked back to our cars together; the gravel underfoot crunched and crackled. I think I had insinuated that I’d love to hang out sometime and to just text me. I felt like a guy begging for a second date.

But before we separated, I came to a conclusion; pride be damned.

“I really need friends,” I blurted out, not eloquent at all. “I’ve really struggled to establish a community here. I need you to adopt me into your friend group.”

And my friend Christina, bless her, listened to me.

Christina began to invite me rock climbing, to her bible study, to dinner—mutluple times in one weekend. She invited me on a camping trip. She invited me into a community of believers that met together, ate together, cared for one another. It led to weekend retreats, free bagels in a westside apartment, close friendships I cherish today.

To be honest, it changed my life. Even now, it feels vulnerable and sensitive to admit that.

Around the same time, I had the opportunity to attend and speak at an Inkwell Evening here in Nashville. I knew one was in the works, and had been for some time. I knew I would go, and I even hoped for the chance to submit some work to read. But I didn’t expect to be outright asked to read something, and that something was the essay I’d published with them years prior. It was one of the coolest and most nerve-wracking moments of my life; I spent most of dinner beforehand wondering if I was going to throw up.

These moments in time seemed to begin to close this loop I had of asking God why he sent me to Nashville.

It wasn’t instantaneous; but even a small degree shift made a big difference.

Now, on Wednesday nights, my forearms rest on someone’s well-worn table or balance a bowl of stew, squished on a couch with four other people. Now, on Thursday nights, I stand shoulder to shoulder with people as we pass out food to our neighbors. Now, I have the tools I’ve always looked for to build a life of artistic excellence and the pursuit of something more, something real. Now, I sit at North Wind Manor and greet various people I see every week; now, I prepare to help host an Inkwell mixer tomorrow night. My oven will soon be stuffed with pigs in a blanket.

It’s two days later; a sunny but cold Sunday morning. I’m sitting at one of my favorite coffee shops in the city, across from a warehouse brewery on a one-way street. The ceilings here are low and the velvet couches are comfy and well-worn. I’m drinking a mug of lukewarm brewed coffee with whole milk. I take a sip. My days in Nashville are winding down, before I travel home for Christmas. I’m tired, but I’m content. Last night, I helped host the Nashville Inkwell mixer. I met a lot of really kind people, and listened to a lot of beautiful words in a warmly-lit home, wearing a cowboy hat. Tonight, my friends and I will gather again for a Little Women themed Christmas party; such is December. I’m going to make paper crowns for everyone.

Life feels so different than it did in 2023. I wonder if I’d be where I was right now if I hadn’t asked for friendship; if I hadn’t shared my writing; if I hadn’t moved here. I’m struck by the balance required of me to get here. The balance of submission, loosening control, of following—and alternatively the courage to ask, to cultivate, to build this life that no one else was going to build for me. Somehow, both are true. I needed to let go of my own pathological control in order to follow God’s purposes for me; I also needed to put in the work to make friends, build community, show up, and share.

This isn’t a brilliant essay. There is no research, no punchline, not many quips. It’s just sorta a simple reflection on how important it is to just ask and work hard and let go and live life. So, if you do take anything away from this, dear reader, take this: a lot of life happens in between two years, and time really does change most things. Maybe the essay you want to submit right now will still be rippling through your life two years from now. Maybe the person you ask to hang out now will multiply into a whole community within a year. Maybe the moment you ask God to send you somewhere, you’ll find yourself in a whole new city within a month. I don’t know, and neither do you, and in that there is joyful anticipation, if you choose to accept it.

This may be my last essay of 2025, and if so, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and see you in 2026!

“You must repeat after me.”

“Alright.”

“There are some things I cannot heal,” Alba said rhythmically.

“There are some things you cannot heal,” the little boy repeated, fidgeting.

“I must accept my fate, whatever the outcome.”

“I must accept my fate, whatever the outcome.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

“But I will try my hardest to heal you,” Alba continued. “I will not let time, distraction, or danger get between me and you.”

“But I will—I mean, you will try your hardest to heal me. You will not let time, distraction, or danger get between you and me.”

“We are bonded now; physician and patient.”

“We are bonded now; patient and physician.”

“Good.” Alba smiled at him, but he was upset and frowned. He always got the words wrong, no matter how many times she had repeated them to him in her calm, steady voice.

Alba just ruffled his hair and stood up, gently pushing him back against the firm doctor’s bed. The room was dim right now; light was only turned on when Alba worked and needed to see. But it was daylight outside, and the old packaging paper pasted to the window let in some of the watery, yellow light. It meant Tim could look at her. He watched the softness of her hair while she collected her supplies and pulled up the little stool she sat on.

“Now,” she began. “Are you going to be okay if I don’t numb it?”

“Alba, you never numb me for stitches.”

“I know, but it makes me feel a little better to ask.” She rubbed his other cheek, the one without a bloody cut, with gentle, nimble fingers. “It always makes me sad to give stitches without anesthetic. Especially to little ones.”

“I’m not little!”

Alba chuckled, and patted his cheek once before drawing back and putting on gloves. His other cheek felt cold, now; the bloody one was still hot.

“Okay,” she said in her physician voice, back straighter and all softness set aside. “Face forward, eyes closed, and do not move, or I will restrain you.”

Tim obeyed.

The second stitch always hurt the most. But Tim did not move, even if he did flinch and tense and curl his toes in his too-big boots.

Alba’s fingers remained gentle, but they did not falter or pause. Tim’s face ached badly and he hated the tugging he felt on his skin. The light she turned towards his face was bright and hot and no matter how much he squeezed his eyes shut, he still saw the light. But he focused on Alba’s orders, and found he could smell her familiar scent of soap and peppermint.

Outside, the train rattled by and shook the room a little bit. When Tim first came here, back when he was little, the sound had scared him. He felt caught. But now, after all these years, he was used to it and knew it did not mean trouble. In fact, Alba said, the train noise was good for privacy. Tim trusted what Alba said and had relaxed instantly.

“Alright, Tim. Good job. I think you were more still than you ever have been.”

“It’s because I’m older. ‘M not a little kid anymore,” he said seriously, puffing up his chest.

Alba smiled at him and brushed his hair back. Tim liked the feeling of her hands in his hair, even though he was probably too old for it. He would let it slide this one time.

“I hope I don’t see you in here anytime soon,” she said sternly, though her tone did not match her smiley face and eyes that looked nice and not angry or like she would punish him. Tim knew that Alba didn’t want to see him hurt; she didn’t want to see any kids get hurt, even though she always helped them when they did. Alba tried to help everyone, but she especially tried to help the kids. She told him that, one time; that she tried—she wished she could help everyone—but she couldn’t; even so, she would always try her hardest to help the kids. Tim knew Alba didn’t get to help all the kids; sometimes they got hurt and went away and never came back. But Tim also knew that Alba was magic and saved a lot of people, including him. It wasn’t her fault that kids got hurt all the time.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, tapping his boots together and leaning back comfortably in the doctor’s chair. He didn’t want to leave yet; he liked the way the light from the shaded windows made Alba look glowy and yellow and like those angels in the colorful glass windows at the cathedral across town. When the sun was setting and got inside through the big holes in the ceiling, it made the glass look like an electric painting. Tim liked that.

“You and I have different ideas of careful,” Alba teased gently, spreading her hands in front of him. Tim took her hands (they were dry and warm) and let her pull him into a sitting position and onto his feet.

“Are your boots too big for your feet, Tim?”

“No. Maybe a little. I’ll grow into them soon.”

“I could try to find you a smaller pair.”

“But I’ll need ‘em one day.”

“You could leave them here, if you’re worried you’ll misplace them.”

She had fancy talk; she said things like misplace instead of lose. And they both knew misplace meant stolen, anyways.

“Well,” he said, thinking about how if his boots were stored here, he would get to see Alba again—without getting hurt first! “Alright, I guess. If ya find any.”

Alba smiled and ruffled his hair again. Tim allowed it, since she was being so nice about the shoes.

“You better run along. Stay out of trouble, Tim.”

“Alright. I promise.”

Part 2: Birth

The pain began a little after 11:00 pm.

Bad things always seemed to happen at night; but today, it was a good thing. Night meant secrets were easier kept.

Marianna paced her small bedroom and breathed out of her nose in little short bursts, like her mother had done. She walked faster when she thought about her mother. Marianna wondered where she was right now; if she would even recognize her own daughter. There were a few times Marianna thought she saw her mother, but in the ten years since the procedure, she wondered if she would even recognize her. She wondered if ten years was enough time to erase a face from memory the natural way; it had only taken a couple hours in the hospital for it to happen to her mother.

She groaned in pain and lowered herself to the floor; it was more comforting than the bed, right now.

Carter stalked into the room and knelt down in front of Marianna.

“Is it time?” His voice was breathy and panicked.

“It’s time.”

“What should I do?”

“Just wait with me. I don’t want to get her too soon; the baby could be hours before it’s ready.”

Carter looked like he wanted to argue, but just nodded. He started to put his hands under her arms to lift her up.

The floor was wet; and then Marianna realized her legs were wet and her feet and Carter’s shoes. His only shoes.

“Oh.”

“Is it time?” He asked again, frozen in his position next to her.

“Maybe.”

“Marianna.”

“I think so.” She didn’t know anything about birth. When her mother gave birth to her sister, she had come quickly after her water broke.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get Alba.”

Carter was silent for a moment; he led her gently over to the bed and pushed her down before she had a chance to protest against getting the sheets wet.

“Marianna,” he began, sitting next to her. “I’ve been saving up some money.”

“No.”

“I’ve been saving and I think it’s enough. I think it will be worth it.”

“No, Carter. I won’t go.”

“But what if something is wrong?”

“That’s exactly what worries me! If something is wrong with the baby, they will take it away. Or worse. I don’t know. I’m afraid.”

“But it may save your life–”

“I don’t want to go. Give the money to Alba.”

Carter sighed. “If Alba agrees with me, you’re going,” he warned; it was an empty threat. Alba would come and deliver the baby and everything would be alright.

Marianna did not speak anymore, only closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing and the little intervals of painlessness.

“Marianna?”

“Hello, Miriam,” she said without opening her eyes. “I need you to go get Alba.”

“I know. Carter told me to.” Her sister sounded concerned.

“It will be okay. But I need you to hurry and be careful. Don’t tell anyone what’s going on. Only talk to Alba. Can you do that?” Marianna opened her eyes and looked at her eleven-year-old sister.

“Yes. I can do that.” She fidgeted.

“Go on.” Marianna tried for a calming smile, though she knew her face was slick with sweat and flushed.

Miriam fled the room and thundered down the stairs and out into the cold night.

There was no moon, so it was dark in this part of the city, except for the occasional street light and glowy yellow apartment window. Miriam saw a group of men getting off work, dirty and tired-looking, and she crossed to the other side of the street.

It was dark, but Miriam knew the way. This was her job, and it was very important.

She ducked into a boarded-up alleyway and dodged the stacked plastic crates and trash cans. A skinny cat darted past her foot, and Miriam almost screamed. She put her hand over her mouth as her racing heart slowed down, but slapped it down to her side when she remembered that Alba said not to put dirty hands around your mouth; that’s how people got sick, she said. Miriam didn’t understand, but she didn’t ask questions.

Keeping her hands firmly pressed against her soft blue jeans, Miriam continued back into the alley. There was a little red lightbulb hanging in front of a metal door with no handle; it meant Alba was home. Or, at her doctor’s office. Miriam assumed Alba lived there, but she didn’t know for sure. She glanced behind her before knocking seven times.

The door opened and a smooth hand reached out looking pink under the red light and gently tugged her inside.

“Is it time?”

“Yes. Her water broke.” Miriam didn’t know what that meant. How did you break water?

“Alright. Good job getting to me so quickly. Let me get my things.”

In a few moments, Alba pulled Miriam into the red light again and closed the door. Miriam didn’t know how she would get back inside, but understood when she watched Alba put a funny looking key into a small hole and twist it.

“Let’s go.”

The walk back to the apartment was less scary for Miriam, since Alba was with her; they did not see anyone, and Alba walked fast, keeping close to shadows and away from the lights. Miriam was now glad the moon was dark.

Back inside Miriam’s home, Alba asked her to stay in the kitchen until she heard a baby crying. Miriam obeyed and sat at the kitchen table. She got up, and moved to sit by the door, leaning her head against it so she could hear inside. She could hear Marianna and Carter and Alba talking in quiet voices; sometimes Marianna would grunt or groan or even scream. It was frightening, but Miriam knew Alba was there to make it end and take care of her sister.

“You need to push, now,” Alba said.

“I’m trying!”

“Can’t she take a break?”

“The baby won’t take a break,” Alba said in a firm voice.

Marianna screamed again; Miriam curled up with her knees tucked in her arms and her head down, feeling nervous.

Her head popped up after a moment, realizing that some of the screaming was a new voice. The baby was screaming!

Miriam leapt up and turned the knob, creaking the door open slowly but eagerly. At first, all she could see was Alba and Carter crowded around the bed. But then Alba was placing a blanket bundled up in Carter’s arms. He was crying, and Miriam was afraid something was wrong at first.

“Hello, baby boy,” he said; his voice sounded sticky and low.

Alba was wiping off Marianna’s face when she turned and smiled at Miriam.

“Congratulations, Miriam. You’re an aunt.” She looked happy when she said that, but when Miriam looked at Carter’s happy-sad face and Marianna’s flushed and sleepy smile, Alba looked really tired and pale. Delivering a baby must be hard work for a physician, and it was really late.

“Thank you, Alba. I knew you would make it alright.” She scrambled over to her sister’s bed and patted her head gently, mimicking the way Alba had been rubbing her face. “I’m going to take care of them, too.”

Alba smiled at her again, and then peaked outside the windows, making sure the stuffed towels were tightly in place.

Part 3: Amputate

The pain got worse when he knew it wouldn’t go away anytime soon. Maybe ever. David might be in pain for the rest of his life, which might now be a lot shorter than he anticipated.

David had always wondered what the inside of the hospital looked like; he had thought he would know tonight. The brightly lit, white building looked like a big glowing wedding cake in the middle of dark buildings and warehouses. There were tall fences on the outside covered in spiky barbed wire, and David remembered a time when he thought that being stuck on barbed wire was painful. Now, it seemed like touching velvet compared to the pain in his leg right now.

Marco and Lee adjusted their grip on his legs and back as they stood there. Nobody spoke or moved or had any idea of what to do next.

“We need to find her,” Marco said finally.

When David didn’t respond—when David forgot how to move his mouth for a moment and get his thoughts out of his throat— Marco tapped his forehead against David’s head to get his attention.

“You still with me?”

“Yeah.” Did David say that? His mouth had moved but he didn’t feel anything.

“She moved her office last month,” Lee said, struggling more than Marco with his smaller frame. “I don’t know how to find her.”

“We have to find her.”

David felt his head dip down, his chin against his sternum and he watched with fascination as a little puddle of blood formed under his body. Every time a drop landed in the puddle, it created little circles. The moon was out tonight and it reflected in the little puddle of blood.

The next time he opened his eyes, the puddle of blood was gone and the ground was moving under him. He was moving. The air was moving. David wasn’t sure. The train rumbled above them and it was really loud. David realized it was also raining, and that’s why they were walking under the train. He realized he was already wet, and Lee’s hair was plastered to his forehead and getting stuck in his eyelashes. David reached around his friend’s face and pushed his hair back to help. Lee looked at him and smiled, and even though they were shielded from the rain, a few drops fell down his pale cheeks.

“How long ago did this happen?”

David opened his eyes again and found himself still, out of the arms of his friends, and laying on a firm, wooden table. Hands were tugging on the fabric of his pants, and the sound of rusty scissors cutting filled his ears. The scissors, metal on metal, reminded him of work and he felt like he might throw up.

“An hour ago. We took him to the hospital—I know, but we thought he was about to die and we collected as much cash from everyone on shift that we thought, I don’t know, we thought it would maybe be enough.”

“It wasn’t,” said an angrier, deeper voice. “We didn’t even make it over the threshold.”

The scissor sound stopped and David felt drafty, and he shivered. A soft, warm hand pressed against his forehead and rubbed his hair back. It reminded him of his mother. He began to cry.

“He lost a lot of blood, and I don’t have his type on file. A blood transfusion might be necessary, but it could kill him.”

“Does he have many options?”

The silence was her answer.

The hand left his forehead and David wanted to protest it. He lifted an arm, but someone pinned it down and began rubbing a cold liquid on it. The smell of alcohol filled his senses and he blacked out again.

The next time he woke up, David knew he was dying.

He was back at work, and someone was using the saw. Except it was slow and not electric and the saw was inside his head. Every movement reverberated in his brain and he was screaming and he wished he was dead.

The next time he woke up, David felt light and floaty and the hand was back on his forehead. It was shaking and sweaty; but he concentrated on that feeling and not the pain in his leg. His eyes were crusty and stuck; a warm wash cloth met his face and wiped and then he could see.

Above him stood a woman covered in red and sweat and David didn’t want to think about why she looked like that. He just wanted to smile at the woman, like he was a man in a bar and not a cadaver on a table.

“Hi,” he mumbled, barely feeling his lips move.

“There are some things I cannot heal,” she whispered.

David saw black again, and could only focus on the sound of her voice.

“I must accept my fate, whatever the outcome.

But I will try my hardest to heal you. I will not let time, distraction, or danger get between me and you.

We are bonded now; physician and patient.”

The next time David woke up, his head felt clearer even though the pain was still there.

“...once the swelling goes down, he can try it on. It will take time to learn to use it well. But he’s smart and will do fine.”

“Good,” said one lighter voice. “It’s a miracle.”

“He will need a hundred more miracles,” came another, deeper voice. It sounded angry.

“Marco.”

“He can’t wear that at work, even if he did get his job back. Which he won’t. He will heal only to starve to death.”

The last time David woke up on the wooden table, he looked around and saw a woman with her back to him. She was putting away some supplies, and a little boy was lingering at her side, watching her hands move.

“You need to head on home, now,” the woman said softly; she probably thought David was still sleeping.

“I should probably break them in, to make sure they fit first.”

“You can break them in on your walk back home.”

“You promise you won’t lose my boots?”

There was a silence followed by the little boy sighing and shrugging. “Yeah, yeah. Alright. I’ll go.”

He knelt down and patted a pair of boots on the floor like they were a pet, and turned around. He made eye contact with David and his eyes drifted to the other end of the table, where David’s feet rested. The boy scampered away.

The woman turned around and realized David was awake.

“Hello, David. How are you feeling?”

He frowned and shrugged, which sent a spike of pain through his waist and legs.

She was staring at him like she expected him to make a commotion, like he might erupt; he didn’t know why.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the physician,” he said, his voice croaky and dry. “You’re Alba.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“I don’t know if it’s nice to meet you,” he blurted, and then scrunched his face up; that wasn’t what he meant to say. But she laughed and sat down next to him.

“It’s never nice to need me,” she interpreted.

David really looked at her this time, surprised by how young she was. The urban legend of Alba the physician would make someone believe in angels and superheroes and magicians; not just a girl with brown hair and green eyes and a crummy apartment kitchen. But David was alive and that was a miracle, he supposed. Why was it a miracle? He couldn’t remember.

But when his eyes focused behind her, to the prosthetic leg on the counter, he understood. David wept and Alba held his hand and brushed his hair back. He felt stupid for being in her presence; he was only part of a man now and she was a beautiful woman who made miracles happen. Somehow that made it all worse.

“Can you repeat something for me?” she said after a long moment; he thought he might have seen tears on her face.

“Okay.”

“There are some things I cannot heal.”

Part 4: The Mind

“You can’t help me.”

“I can. I will.”

“There is no time, Alba.”

“We will be secret, and safe.”

“There are some things you cannot heal.”

“I know that.” She sounded angry. “Don’t you know that’s all I know.”

“Alba. Not this time. I let them take me somewhere once, and I won’t let it happen again. There is no time. It’s okay.”

“Please let me help you.” The tears on her face were like little tracks in a dirt road.

“I’m going to die still a man. I need you to let me.”

“No, not when I can make you live. I can make you get better.”

He paused; the sound of cars had paused, and he knew they were parked outside the alley.

“If they get their hands on me, I’ll lose my mind; my soul. I don’t want that.”

“I can hide you.”

“You can barely hide yourself.”

She was crying now, silently and full of tremors.

“Alba. I won’t get better. Every thunderstorm, every train, every engine backfire. The gunshots. I can’t run from it anymore. It didn’t work. I left a part of my soul over there, and I’ll die with what I have left.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I know. Let me go, now. Let me lead them away from you.”

“I won’t be okay.”

“Yes, you will. You did good, kid.”

“I love you, dad.”

“I love you.”

He stood up and walked out of the alley, first with his hands up and then he broke into a run in the opposite direction; they followed, and he made it far. But not far enough that Alba did not hear it.

Part 5: After

Alba experienced intense disassociation every time a car backfired; and in this neighborhood, it was often and loud. She robotically cycled through the centering exercises she gave her patients, but it was like reading words on a page in a foreign language. Her hands still moved, though, and she never stopped working. The needle and thread appeared in her hands and she sat on the stool and put on her gloves and bent down.

“Alba?”

The voice broke through the fog.

“Huh?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Alba sat up straighter and looked down at her hands. She had on gloves. The needle was threaded. She had not disinfected the needle yet.

Alba sat up quickly and tossed aside the needle and thread with shaky hands. What was she doing? How could she forget something like that? With a shaky breath, Alba tugged off the gloves and began pacing the room, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset! You just—you forgot to make me repeat the oath! You’ve never forgotten before, but that’s okay. I forget things all the time. It doesn’t mean nothin’. Please don’t be upset.” Tim looked close to tears.

Alba realized she was losing it in front of her most consistent patient. She calmed herself by force, focusing on his little face and the little tremble in his chin and how he seemed to be trying to be brave.

“It’s okay, you didn’t make me upset. I just got distracted and it’s not okay for me to be distracted. But I’m alright now, and we can repeat the oath together.” She sat back down and took his hands in her own.

Tim’s cut was not that bad, barely needing stitches; but he was an active kid, and she knew a bandage wouldn’t last on his leg as he ran around the neighborhood. He had scuffed up knees and had a bruise on his cheek, though he wouldn’t tell her how he got it. Sometimes Alba didn’t want to know certain things.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she said quietly, rubbing his hands between hers. Right now they were small between her palms, but Alba knew that one day soon they would outgrow hers; and something about that made her sad. He got a little bigger every time she saw him, she thought; though that was only half true. Kids didn’t grow that fast. But he had grown a lot since Alba had first treated him for a dislocated arm when he was a toddler.

“You didn’t scare me,” he said, having calmed down almost immediately. “I’m pretty brave. I just didn’t want you to be scared is all.” He tugged a hand out from hers and patted her on the cheek.

Alba laughed even though she felt like crying.

“Thanks, kiddo. You’re doing a good job taking care of me. Maybe you can be a physician one day.”

“Really?” His eyes were saucers.

“Yeah. I can teach you one day.”

“Okay.” He smiled really big and Alba wondered if his front tooth would ever come in.

“Can I try on my boots again?”

“You can after I stitch you up.”

“Okay. I’ll wait,” he said decisively, settling back down. “I’m glad my stitches are on my leg this time. It hurts the least.”

“Good,” she said, getting up to wash her hands and properly disinfect everything.

“I bet they’re gonna fit this time,” he said confidently.

“You think?” Alba turned to smile at the little boy. “I don’t know if feet grow much in one week.”

“Mine do.”

“Okay, kiddo.”

Alba sat back down and took a deep breath; she barely noticed the train rumbling by.

“You must repeat after me.”

“Alright.”

Author’s Note: I wanted this to feel very minimalistic and not heavily expository. It’s a futuristic / alternative setting; I was kinda inspired by the show Severance and other recent commentaries on how technology and corporations influence society. Anyways, I’m not typically good at writing short stories and keeping them short, but I’m also not good at finishing novels. Catch-22. So maybe this will be a start to doing short stories better. Who knows.

“Should I Stay or Should I Go” by The Clash started playing; I turned it up. It was chilly and gray and gloomy, and the asphalt was slick from misty rain; not the downpour common in a southern storm. I was wearing a gray wool sweater, and rubber boots. I don’t remember what my sister was wearing; probably a dress and a coat. She was 13, I think; I was 22.

Should I stay, or should I go now?

Should I stay, or should I go now?

If I go, there will be trouble

And if I stay, it will be double

So come on and let me know1

In the South, winter is easily my least favorite season. Not for the cold, not even for the darkness, but for the gray, bland, leafless trees everywhere. I hate looking over a hill and seeing death in the absence of things: leaves, flowers, grass, even the choking vines of kudzu. They leave only skeletal mounds behind, like unlit funeral pyres. But I know, I know, I know—there is beauty in death, a reminder of the preciousness of life.

all come from dust,

and to dust all return.2

What else serves as a reminder of death and life? A lot of things, I know, but one of them is being hit by two tons of metal at 40 miles per hour.

It’s not that he didn’t see the stop sign; it was one of those stops where you didn’t need a sign to know to stop. He was pulling out from a side road onto a main road, where the speed limit is still 55 and people go fast. And there were no trees or curves blocking his view, only open, gray lawns of dead grass and spaced out houses and powerlines.

Should I stay, or should I go now?

Should I stay, or should I go now?

I saw him not to stop; I had enough time to throw out an arm over my sister. And then it was black and then it was green and dusty and then it was black again.

I don’t remember feeling the airbags, I only remember the dust and steam and glass everywhere. Everything was so green and hazy. My car door opened and my seatbelt came off. My sister began to panic; her seatbelt wouldn’t come off, so I had to help.

And then we were out of the car. Man, my back hurt. Whiplash. Where was my phone? Need to call someone. Bend down, watch out for glass on my knees, find my phone; it’s in the glass shards on the floor of the car. Get back up. Call my parents. Should I call the cops? Someone already did, I think.

“Oh my god, that was my fault,” the other driver said; man, brown hair, white, middle-aged.

“Uh, yeah, you think?” I said something like that. I didn’t see him again.

My back really hurt. Sore muscles.

If I go, there will be trouble

And if I stay, it will be double

There was a gray van, a family from church; I didn’t know them, but my sister did. She was inside the van with them. The mother kindly asked me to get out of the rain and sit in the van with them.

She gave me a water bottle; my hands were shaking. Or maybe my whole body was shaking? She reached back and held my hand. I can’t remember her face.

The police came and my parents came. I took a photo of my car; I never saw it again.

I don’t remember answering any questions, but I’m sure I did. My sister was alright, but my back was hurting. “Probably really sore muscles,” I said confidently to my parents. They discussed whether or not to take me to the hospital; we decided to go. It hurt to ride in the car; whiplash will do that to you.

At the hospital, I couldn’t sit still. I kept walking around the empty waiting room, fidgety and in pain and probably hopped up on adrenaline. Some old neighbors, really an unofficial aunt and uncle to me, came over and brought coffee; they sat with us. It was kind and comforting. I’ll always remember them.

The doctor finally brought me back to get x-rayed—really, it was a pulled muscle, but I know they have to check those kinds of things—and I sat on those paper-covered cold seats in a fine mood. My dad was there; my mom had gone outside or to the vending machine or something.

So come on and let me know

The doctor came out and said something; I only remember two words:

Fractured. Spine.

You know in books where they say “the blood drained from her face”? That happened to me, and then I threw up. I have a history of back problems, so this really freaked me out; and later, now, I know my back was never and will never be the same.

all come from dust,

and to dust all return.

The next thing I do remember clearly: I got a shot of morphine in my ass thigh.

Boy, was I flying high! I felt so warm and comfortable and okay, like a Hotty Toddy coursing through my veins. And then it was all bravado and ice packs and extra strength Iburofen. I thrived on just how nonchalant I could be about it, probably for the attention; sue me, I broke my spine.

(And later on, months going by, when I would get numbness creeping over my thigh like vines of kudzu and up my back and my face; when I’m pulling over into a gas station on an inky black early morning commuting to downtown Atlanta, panicking that the side effects will never go away, I was not very nonchalant and I’m really never very nonchalant at all.)

Should I stay, or should I go now?

Should I stay, or should I go now?

If I go, there will be trouble

And if I stay, it will be double

So come on and let me know

I haven’t had very many near-death experiences; in fact, this may be the only one to qualify (it’s a bit more dignified than that one incident on a moped, after all). But I think it taught me something unique:

Dying is easy and fast and horrible and certain. Living with the fear of dying is much worse. But living knowing you’re going to die, knowing there’s nothing you can do about it, and going on living anyway is kind of nice and freeing.

If I go, there will be trouble

And if I stay, it will be double

I have been afraid of a great many things; I didn’t have enough time to be afraid before that car hit me. A great many things have never happened to me; but how much time have I wasted worrying about them?

all come from dust,

and to dust all return.

I am waiting for the wisdom to go unafraid; maybe I will find it someday. I hate seeing death in the absence of things. I see death in the absence of certainty, in the absence of control. But you know a funny thing? The deer in the field by my house use the kudzu mounds like little viney caves to hide in during winter. There is life there, if you notice it.

That car accident was bad and it hurt and was frightening; but I think the days I give over to worry when I shouldn’t are worse.

So come on and let me know

Should I stay, or should I go now?

3

3

My search history for this impromptu essay was, as follows: lyrics to “Should I Stay Or Should I Go” by The Clash; Ecclesiastes, NIV; how many tons does the average car weigh?; funeral pires pyres; hotty totty toddy; what quote is “dying is easy” from?" (it’s Hamilton).

---

Author’s Note: as a formerly homeschooled evangelical woman from the South, the anxiety of adding the word “ass” to this prolonged my publishing for a hot minute. I decided to be brave and keep it. Also, not to brag, but I really exceeded my own expectations with this car I drew in Procreate as the cover image. I feel like it’s kinda sick.

It was an ordinary day in mid-September; cooling off in the mornings, a hint of fall chill to tease us, while the day only grew gradually hotter. I had planned ahead enough to have a friend pick me up from the auto shop in the morning before my day of remote work started; we had breakfast together. I knew this friend from my Wednesday night small group called Emmaus, and we happened to be paired up this week as prayer buddies. So, it was serendipitously ordained that she would both help me out with a ride and we would knock out our prayer time together.

When she had to leave, I was still at the coffee shop in a Nashville neighborhood, waiting on the call from the mechanic. I figured I would have to call an Uber to reach my car, only a few miles away, but a good half-hour walk in a not-so-walkable part of the city.

The day sprawled on, and I was productive in the coffee shop and saw a few people I knew. It was a good day.

Until I realized that, by having to use my iPhone hotspot thanks to the shop’s spotty WiFi, my phone was suddenly at 15% by midday. My charger was snuggly plugged into the cigarette lighter in my car at the moment, and I had none in my work bag; and thanks to the delightful decision by Apple to change up charging ports every few years, my phone could not be charged by the same charger my laptop took. I was cooked.

Using the final dregs of my phone’s battery, I frantically googled any nearby convenient stores where I could buy a cheap charger; none.

If my phone died, I couldn’t receive the call from the mechanic; I also wouldn’t be able to call an Uber to get there, or a friend for help.

I decided to do the only thing that could save me: ask the barista for help.

I shamefully loitered at the bar, not to buy another coffee, but to mooch of what I hoped would be their mercy and grace. One of the girls looked around behind the bar for a bit, coming up with nothing. So then I shamefully asked if she knew of any nearby shops that may sell one, knowing already my search had come up empty.

“No,” she said, “I don’t.”

That’s okay, I probably said casually, shrugging it off. No problem.

Before I could leave and try to tug on the heartstrings of another coffee shop barista down the street, she stopped me.

“Let me get the charger from my car,” she said. “Just a moment!”

Blessedly, she returned with the exact charger I needed, and a block too.

I obviously gushed my gratitude as I quickly searched the room for an outlet, and plugged my phone in. Watching the battery slowly tick up-up-up, I relaxed a bit. Crisis averted.

It was not lost on me that I was entirely indebted to both my friend for picking me up from the auto shop this morning and to this barista for letting me use the charger from her car.

Not long after this, around lunchtime, I got the call—my car was ready!

I dropped off the charger at the bar and thanked the barista again before hurrying outside to call an Uber; my friend had been stuck behind a train between meetings, and was not able to give me a lift again. But as I watched the little Toyota Tacoma inch along Nashville streets towards me, I saw him come to a stop…and he remained stopped. Zooming in on the app’s map, I realized he was also stuck by the train tracks notorious in this part of the city for holding up traffic for so long.

I was running out of time; I needed to pick up my car and get home. So, I did what any person in a rush would do—I decided to walk to the shop myself.

1.4 miles; a thirty or so minute walk; 87 degrees and sunny. No problem.

Carrying my Lands End canvas tote bag with my work laptop, I set off.

The most direct way was a street called Nolensville Pike. If you know anything about Nashville, this isn’t exactly the most walkable street in America. So I decided to take some residential side streets, hoping for less crumbly sidewalks. As I walked under the beating Southern sun, I began to question this impatient decision. Should I just call another Uber? Suck it up and keep going? I mean, 1.4 miles isn’t a long way, really; and Apple Maps must assume we walk awfully slow for it to be thirty minutes, right?

As I decided to switch my route down those residential streets, I suddenly heard someone shouting my name.

“Leighton! Leighton! Get in!”

It was my friend.

I didn’t question this divine intervention and ran across the street to her passenger seat. The train had held her up for her meeting, and since she was already going to be late, she offered to drop me off at the auto shop anyway. But she had not necessarily been looking for me, probably assuming I’d already Ubered there. So her spotting me hiking for it was entirely a surprise, and a pleasant one for me.

My blessed friend, again, dropped me off where I needed to be, and I picked up my car.

$360 later, I was on the road again, headed home.

I stopped to get gas, though, and when the time came to finally end my saga, my engine wouldn’t start.

Finally letting panic get the better of me, I called the mechanic and frantically explained the issue to him. I knew I’d need to call a tow truck next, but I was praying—and asking others to pray for me—that there would be some way it would start up on its own.

The mechanic, dumbstruck by this new issue, immediately gave me his cell phone number and instructed me to send him a video of what my car was doing when I tried to start it up.

I obeyed, and he called back, walking me through what he hoped the issue was.

Mechanic-car-lingo, explanation, instructions, blah blah blah.

“Do this,” he said, “put your key inside your car door and unlock it three times. And then recite: Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.”

Okay, he didn’t tell me to do that last thing; but the unlocking thing, it actually worked.

I put my keys back in the ignition after the incantation—in threes, no less—and my car started.

More mechanic-car-lingo later, he assured me my car was now fine!

Heart rate up, optimism high, and engine purring; I made it home.

It was here that I began reflecting on how crazy my day felt. But also how it had worked out so well entirely thanks to the kindness of friends and strangers.

In three, no less.

My friend giving me one ride I asked for, and one ride I didn’t expect.

The barista letting me use the phone charger from her car.

The mechanic giving me his cell phone number to help me fix my car, again.

Americans are an independent people. We generally drive ourselves everywhere, especially in the South, rather than be bunched up on public transportation together. We don’t like asking for help, or borrowing things we need, or giving people the chance to show us charity. And lately, the world as a whole sees so much selfishness and anger and war. We can feel isolated by the uncertainty of what to believe, who to trust, and where we belong.

But this simple day, impeded by the privileged but irritating problem of car trouble, gave me an opportunity to experience the kindness of friends and strangers; to rely on it, even submit my independence to it. In three, no less. A trinity of help and kindness and going above and beyond, even just a little bit. I don’t know if the lesson here is to be the kind of person who helps when it would be easier not to, or to allow help when pride would tell you to handle it alone; perhaps both. But in the end, I think receiving and giving kindness to others is just a source of joy and humanity, and you ought to try it for that alone in the very least.

There were some houses and docks, like ours, but they were more like guests in the natural landscapes, surrounded by an authority of trees and bushes and cliffsides and logs jutting out of the water like fingers. On the logs were always black-shelled turtles and blue herons, and I don’t remember seeing any litter.

What shoreline there was, when the water was low and reserved, was dominated by smooth river rocks. As a kid, they reminded me of giant bird eggs or maybe dinosaur eggs, and we stumbled uneasily along on them, careful for snakes and deep mud.

Back then, we didn’t go to the river to eat at restaurants or go shopping or visit a water park. I guess those things aren’t really bad, but we came to the river to be there. We were guests, and the river welcomed us familiarly each time. We weren’t always perfect guests; we lit off fireworks at the rivers edge each year, and once my dad got arrested for fishing without a fishing license. But it wasn’t just real estate to us.

There was a long, splintery but sturdy dock. It had a pergola and a built-in bench, and in the summer the wood was always hot and dry. I can feel it under my feet even now. In the winter, we stood on the dock to look at the river; in the summer we jumped off the dock into the river; and all year ‘round ate the fish we caught off it.

To get to the house from the dock, you had to master the steep, stone stairway. My grandpa built it himself, slow and steady and with a precision I think will die out with that generation. He picked out each large slab of stone and embedded it into the earth, one at a time. I can remember how those rocks felt on my feet, too. Eventually, they became coated in moss and acorns and the blood of little stubbed toes.

The top of the stairs opened up to a patio with a well-used grill, the pool deck, and a back porch. The porch was unique in that it had a tree growing right in the middle of it, perfect for climbing. It is likely I spent more time in that tree than in any of the white PVC-pipe furniture on the deck. Inside the glass sliding doors was the dining room; we hardly ate in there at all, and never in the summertime.

I haven’t been to that house since I was nine years old. And yet, even now, I remember the grain in the wood paneling. I remember the river rock fireplace. I remember the dated kitchen, and the garages-turned-bedrooms to fit more family during the holidays. I remember the spiral staircase and TV room loft with a TV that rarely worked. I remember the bunk room and Japanese maple right outside the front door. I remember the rough door mat that seemed to hurt worse in the mornings right after I woke up.

I remember the way it smelled, like cedar and dead leaves and the river.

Sometimes, the well out back didn’t work too good and we had to take water jugs a few houses down and fill them up at a neighbor’s spicket. I never went to a grocery store there, or any store besides the cinderblock bait shop down the road. I can’t remember what it was called.

The house was beautiful because our memories there made it beautiful.

Every Fourth of July, every Thanksgiving, and many New Years Eves. Every bed would be filled at night after a day of water sports and bonfires and swimming. Every morning the kitchen would be full of smoke and bacon grease and coffee spilt on the counters. In the evenings, every chair would be filled during a poker game. I was never old enough to play, so I watched and listened and believed I’d grow old there, too.

When they sold it, and I guess they had to, I didn’t realize it would feel like losing a family member. Or maybe I did; I felt the gravity of it as a nine-year-old, and that gravity has not left my soul since, nearly twenty years later.

My life as a kid was measured in time at that river; I just didn’t realize the time there would slip away just as fast as the current did. As a kid it seemed slow from on land; but when we would try in vain to swim across its wide berth, we realized how fast it really was.

In time, just like the trees along the water’s edge, my memories have become a reflection of the time we spent there, a twin to the experience of it. I know I will never really forget it, but I also know that reflections are now all I get to see and feel and write about. But it is better than nothing.

One day, Abraham called his servant—the chief servant of his household, more of a manager or chief operating officer perhaps—to come to him and make him a promise, an oath. Abraham told him to put his hand on his thigh, a mysterious, intimate form of oath-making. He said,

“Swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and God of the earth…”

To not do something that would have been easier, cheaper, more practical,

“you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites, among whom I dwell…”

Instead, Abraham asked the servant to go to his homeland and find a wife for Isaac among his brethren, among his people, far away and distant from the world in which they lived and did business and planned to die in.

But Abraham didn’t just send the servant with a plan, a proposal, a deal; he sent him under the assumption that God would honor this decision and faithfully answer his prayer, his hope. Abraham, I think, trusted not only in his own faith in the Lord, but, perhaps, in the faith of his servant, too.

It is easier to trust in our own language of prayers; it is much harder to trust in the foreign language of another’s prayers, motives, cares. It is even harder to dedicate time, money, expectations, and hopes to a prayer in one hand and in the other to hold it loosely and know that God may say ‘no.’ Abraham knew that God might not provide guidance to the right bride, or that the bride may not want to come. He said,

“If the woman is not willing to follow you, then you will be free from this oath of mine.”

The servant made the oath, swearing to do as he was asked: to find a bride, yes, but also to trust in God’s guidance. Which one is harder?

The servant gathered up camels and gold and food for his 500 or so mile journey; several of days of traveling and praying and wondering and doubting. I imagine the servant lying on a mat in the desert, rocky land, staring up at the stars yet unblocked by light pollution and hoping to see a promise there, too; a reassurance his mission would end in success. But nights are hard and promises seem dimmer when the sun is down and everything is dark and cold and hopeless.

But in the light of day, making progress in their sojourning, under bright blue skies—each mile counting as an accomplishment—maybe the servant felt solid and sturdy and focused. He had seen the Lord’s faithfulness to his master before; he would see it again before he passed into the soil to join his deceased ancestors.

Sure, this was his job; his life, in many ways, belonged to Abraham. He was not simply doing a favor for a friend. But anyone who has ever had a job before knows what it is like to do it well because you want to do it well, and doing it poorly because you do not care. The servant could have gone to this city; he could have arrived, asked around about unmarried women; maybe he would have found a woman, maybe not; he might have simply asked the first potential bride he found if she would follow him hundreds of miles away to a strange land of people foreign to her to marry a man she had never met, and possibly never see her family again; and she might have said no, freeing him from his oath and sending him back with an emptiness of simply doing what one is told.

But he did not do this.

The servant arrived at the gates of the city and prayed his own prayer:

“O Lord, God of my master Abraham, please grant me success today and show steadfast love to my master Abraham.”

The servant was specific, direct; he prayed a prayer that would make us sweat; was he testing God?

The servant asked the Lord for a very specific sign that he had found the right woman; a sign that could not be misconstrued or misunderstood or ambiguous enough to be comfortable.

Again, this was not for himself or his own life. Yes, he had a responsibility to serve Abraham well. He might have even loved Abraham; I like to think he did. But the servant prayed a bold, daring, specific prayer for another person. He, in some ways perhaps, put his faith on the line so that his master’s son might find a good wife. It was important to the servant, but it was far more important to Abraham, and even more important to Isaac and Rebekah.

Did Isaac know his life was in the hands of his father’s servant? Possibly.

Did Rebekah know her life was in the hands of this servant? No; not at first, anyways.

Before the servant even finished his prayer God had already answered it.

The sign was given, Rebekah was found, and she chose to return with the servant. His oath was not broken, not forfeited, but fulfilled. And the man,

“Bowed his head and worshiped the Lord.”

The servant recognized, immediately, God’s faithfulness and steadfast love for his master; he recognized how God lead him on the right path, to the right person. The sun was out and the night would come, but full of warmth and good news and restful sleep, in the company of an answered prayer and a community of good people.

We don’t know exactly what Abraham’s reaction was to this answered prayer; we don’t know if he was surprised or assured, grateful for his servant’s personal faith or ignorant of it. We know Isaac felt blessed and comforted by his new marriage; he loved Rebekah.

The servant returned to being a servant, to managing his responsibilities in Abraham’s household; perhaps he coordinated the wedding, perhaps he coordinated Abraham’s funeral. Perhaps he died of old age soon after. Whether his life was marked by many or few bold prayers is left as mysterious as the stars in a desert night sky; but we do know his one bold prayer was answered, and ricocheted throughout history and a lineage of power and prophecy unlike any other.

We are left wondering much, knowing little; but what we do know is, I think, most important: praying for others is powerful and affects great change in the lives of those around us.

I want to be a friend like Abraham’s servant; a friend of duty and obligation and responsibility and care and love. I want my prayers for others to reverberate throughout their lives in powerful ways. I want to weep and worship the Lord when my friend’s and family’s prayers are answered. I want to have the trust Abraham had in his servant; I want to have the wisdom Rebekah had in recognizing the Lord’s hand in unexpected life events; I want to be the blissfully uninvolved recipient of bold prayers like Isaac. I want to see God answer my prayers before I even get the words out of my mouth.

Someone said recently that a city is just a place to see more of the Images of God. Wouldn’t our problems go away if we looked at everyone, regardless of background or status, as billions of Images of God?

Anyways, what’s your favorite photo?

The End.

She felt at a loss for words to properly articulate what made her stomach drop so nauseatingly. Was this dread, or simple fear?

“Were you so eager for this life to end that you needed a new one?” The man asked in a friendly sort of way.

“I didn’t really view this life as a life…I mean, it couldn’t go on like this. I have nothing, I am nobody. This was a hallway. This wasn’t for forever. Something had to change, and that’s when I knew real life would begin.”

“Ah.” The kind man lifted his chin to stare out the window. His posture was relaxed but present, and he thought over her words over. “I see what you mean. Yes, life always changes. It’s never good to want to stay the same forever. But it’s also never good to only think about future lives when you’re living one now.”

“I know,” she said in a small voice. “But I couldn’t stand to stay where I was. I have no purpose here. There’s no way this is what I’m meant to live. I can’t do this.”

“You aren’t meant to do this forever. None of this, as a matter of fact. It all ends, sooner or later.” The man smiled through the morbidity of his comment, somehow still seeming uplifting, liberating. He was right, after all.

“But now things are changing,” she continued, eager to pull answers or wisdom or anything from him. “Now I have this choice before me. Or, well, it doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like I have to go through with it. But now, suddenly, I don’t want to. Why? I don’t understand. I should be leaping for joy. I thought I’d cry in relief of being here! Of seeing change unfolding!”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I just told you, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. I suddenly feel scared and sad to change my life. But I was so miserable before!”

“What’s wrong with this path?”

She paused, trying to think through her confusing emotions. “It doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. It seemed so adventurous and exciting and a good story to tell. At first, it consumed me with pride and excitement and anticipation! But now those feelings have gone away, and I’m left sort of alone.” She sighed. “And alone is all I’ve felt lately. I thought I was escaping that feeling by leaving, by going down this path.”

“Do you still feel alone, even now?”

She frowned. “Not as much,” she admitted. “Ever since I told people about this new path, people I had previously been fine to leave behind, now I feel like I’ll miss them. I’ll miss their lives. I’ll miss my family, my friends. My home here. I suppose that’s normal.”

The man nodded. “Sometimes our best paths do take us away from the people we love. And sometimes being away from them is what reminds us how much we love them.”

“I know,” she said in agony, having hoped for a different answer. “So that means my feelings are normal and it isn’t a sign I’m making the wrong choice.”

The man smiled at her. “What else will you miss?”

“Everything! I’ll miss my home, my city, my pets…I didn’t think it would be this hard. I didn’t think I would miss everything this much. It’s like I didn’t think about it before. I prayed for this, but now I’m praying to stay.”

“Ah.” The man interlaced his fingers and lowered his chin to his chest. “And that’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And you wish I would tell you what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

“Yes. I have to know if I’m supposed to go down this path.”

“And how would you feel if you don’t get to go down this path?”

She paused for a moment to collect her most honest thoughts. “I would feel relief. Maybe a little crestfallen over having to start over with what’s next…but now I have hope for my place here. I don’t have to move far away to feel like I matter. I have peace over building a life here. Some things do have to change, but not everything.”

“How would you feel if the path does unfold and you can walk down it?”

“I’d feel obligated to try,” she responded, wringing her hands. “I don’t want to stay back in fear. And I guess, deep down, I know I could build a life somewhere else. Meet new people. Have a purpose there. I think it could be good, even if I’m scared and lonely. But I don’t think moving away will fix everything I feel. I still have to work on that.”

The man nodded knowingly. “Those are good answers.” He sighed and looked up at the sky through the window. “The truth is, I’m not here to tell you what’s going to happen to you. That’s against the rules. But I am here to help you see that, sometimes, life doesn’t really fit into one perfect story… at least, not in our little minds. There are many stories ready to unfold at any minute—keeping up with the possibilities and changes and decisions is far above my pay grade—“ he winked, still looking up at the sky. “But while we get distracted looking at the paths before us, we miss out on what’s really important.” He looked at her now.

“Yes?” She asked expectantly.

“Any path is the wrong path when you walk it with the wrong heart.” He smiled. “But many paths may be the right one when you walk it with the right heart.”

She took it in, mulling over his words. “Okay. I think I understand. So it isn’t about what path I get sent down…it’s about my attitude?”

“Among other things. It’s about your hope, your fear, your obedience; lessening your grip. It’s about being free to walk without worrying over tripping.”

She sighed, slumping back. “You’re right, I suppose.” She glanced at him from the side. “I still think it would be easier if I could just know.”

The man laughed, throwing his head back. “Perhaps easier for a moment! But a lot harder in the long run, I promise. You know deep down this truth. I can see it.”

“You’re right,” she said again. “Is that it, then? I just have to wait and see what happens? And have a good attitude in the meantime?”

“Pretty much. But don’t you feel a little better? A little freer? You aren’t on the cusp of making the wrong decision; just on the cusp of spoiling a right one,” he said in a good natured, soothing tone.

“I suppose so.” She settled back again and sighed. “It’s a little freer of a feeling. But not much easier.”

“Easiness was never an option,” he said with a wink. “And I promise it’s better that way.”

Thankfully, without health insurance, I didn’t have to bother with going to a hospital and could dedicate the rest of the day to the home of my literary hero.

The day after my birthday in 2022 was September 23rd; that means my birthday is September 22nd, which is also Bilbo and Frodo Baggins’ birthdays if you care. My friends and I were flying to Miami from Hartsfield-Jackson, where we would then rent a car and drive the four-or-so hours of bridges and island roads to Key West, the southernmost tip of the United States of America. If you’re wondering why I didn’t fly straight there, it’s because I didn’t make enough money to have health insurance, much less a direct flight to Key West.

Anyway, it was September 23rd and the drive down was beautiful. Not a hurricane in sight (yet), just blue skies and bluer seas; back then, it was called the Gulf of Mexico. The first day and a half were spent pleasantly with seafood and snorkeling and sightseeing. But on the following day, I would get to see Ernest Hemingway’s house. If you know me well or at all, you probably know that I have a strong fascination with him. And not just his writing, but his life and general aesthetic. The fishing and adventure and Paris and Cuba. There was a largeness to the way he lived life, and although it was cut short and ended very darkly, I still find the abundance of it intoxicating. And, in truth, I’ve been a bit conditioned to feel this way.

Growing up, my grandparents owned and still own a beachside condo in Florida; the master bedroom was Hemingway-themed. There was an old typewriter next to the window and a stack of his books and biographies and a portrait of him on the wall. So, from a young age, being interested in literature, I became attached to the mysticism of him. He truly was the Old Man by the Sea. I felt drawn to the salty air, the Gulf, the idea of being a writer, to the romanticization of Paris (I would later minor in French; I cannot speak French). I have seldom written a word in the English language without thinking of his art of brevity. He would probably tell me I’ve written too much already, but I’m not trying to be great, only funny and hopefully a bit profound.

His house in Key West was something of a Mecca for me; it was much easier to get to than the one in Cuba, anyway.

Did any of my friends care about this at all? Of course not. But they would humor me nonetheless.

We were there to have a fun girls' weekend; I was there, too, to see his house and hope that perhaps some of his genius would be absorbed in me. At the very least, I would have a souvenir from the gift shop and bragging rights.

The morning of our second full day, we decided to rent mopeds; I had never before driven a moped, but I’d grown up around four-wheelers and the likes, so how different could it be? One of us paid and signed the papers and we all swore we had experience and did not need to be taught.

You know in the Bible when they say, “Pride goeth before the fall”? That was made manifest in me that day.

I was nervous about driving the moped. It wasn’t like the little Vespas you see in Roman Holiday or that Lizzie Maguire movie in Italy. It looked more like a motorcycle; large, bulky, heavy.

But I’d be damned before admitting this to my friends; for if I could not drive a moped, who was I? What were those years growing up on land for? If any of us should be able to do this, it should be me. I now apologize to my friends for this thinking; it was truly reflective of myself rather than them.

For it was I who got on it despite my reservations, and it was I who drove it and myself and my friend into the back of a parked car while turning left at an intersection.

My first concern was of spinal fracture (if you know me, you know why). My second concern was that I’d maimed my friend. My third concern, though I’m not certain, was probably what everyone would think of me. When it was apparent neither of us were seriously injured—thank the Lord—my next focus was on addressing the sudden appearance of a local policeman. I watched him collect my lone Birkenstock from the middle of the street and bring it to me. He asked how we were, and he asked if we needed to go to the hospital; it went something like this:

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“What hurts?”

“My wrist and my ankle, but it’s not too bad.” Desperate nodding.

“I think you should go to urgent care, just to be safe.”

“No, please sir, we don’t have health insurance. I think we’ll be fine.” Desperate head-shaking.

My friend, in tears: “Is she going to have to pay for this?”

Pathetic.

“Can I see your license?”

It was in the other moped.

We called our two friends, who neatly drove their still-operational moped to us and I retrieved my license.

And here, my friend, is the only time in my life I’ve questioned the theological likelihood of a guardian angel; and if he was not that, perhaps he was a regular angel and I know those are in the Bible in disguise all over the place.

Tyler the cop was so kind. He did not arrest me for crashing a moped into a parked car without a license on my person. He did not write me a ticket. He even gave us a ride to our parked car. The car seats in the back of a police cruiser are made of hard plastic, by the way, and are divided by plexiglass. Tyler was compassionate and caring and not condescending. In truth, the whole thing seemed kind of funny just then. We were able to laugh about it and recognize the situation as a great future anecdote or story to tell at a party. Or, perhaps, write about on Substack.

But in that moment, being able to recognize unnecessary kindness in another person and attribute that to a transcendental Christian virtue was a sweet thing. Is it a testament to man’s sin that to find unexpected kindness in another seems angelic, or is it a testament to man’s ability to transcend sin and become like an angel—good, true, righteous, considerate? I don’t know.

I later googled him and found out he’s not an angel. However, his wife’s Facebook posts make him seem like the generous and nice man he was to us. If you ever read this, Tyler, thank you for being a good person!

Once we were all patched up with CVS brand bright blue bandages, we were ready to take on the town again; and I was ready to visit The Hemingway Home and Museum.

It was a hot September day, and the house was situated in a jungle oasis in the middle of the bustling island. Tall palm trees and leafy plants and winding paths were a mote between the house and the street. Dotted lazily among it all, both inside and out, were six-toed cats. The anomaly felt a bit random, but then so had the whole day so far, so it seemed right.

His writing room was filled with bookshelves and comfortable furniture and taxidermy and French doors. There was an essence of real life in getting a peak into the atmosphere of a great writer; it’s something I think is lost in the attempt of this through social media and modern-day writers.

The home was beautiful and old and eccentric and well lived in. There was luxury in the pool, humility in the small tiled bathrooms, and otherworldliness in the memorabilia and artifacts and polydactyl cats. It was evidence that Hemingway was both the myth and just the man, somehow at the same time. He had a gift and a career I would only dream of having; and yet, his life ended in emptiness and tragedy. Perhaps there’s a lesson there on discontentment or looking for abundance in the wrong places, but the truth is that sometimes life is hard and people do things we can’t and won’t understand, and dark mysteries remain in the shadows.

The gift shop, naturally, was filled with his books and t-shirts, and other paraphernalia. And no matter how strange this modern world is about the commodification of a life—I still bought a souvenir. What can I say? I needed the special edition of the Old Man and the Sea.

That evening, having seen what I came to see and survived the violence of a moped accident, I felt satisfied. My friends and I were walking to dinner I think, or just roaming around, where I received a call.

$900. That’s how much a moped accident costs you when you don’t sign the $10 insurance policy they offer.

If I have not foreshadowed this enough, I was not in a great place in my career. I had savings, sure, but I was in the middle of what would become a failed attempt at entrepreneurship. I was desperately trying to get a small business off the ground, but my income had remained, for a long time, inconsistent and unstable. I felt lost in my life; God didn’t seem to be answering any of my prayers and things that I thought would work out, doors I thought would open, remained firmly shut; or not there at all. Perhaps there had been a build-up until this point; perhaps the passing of my 25th birthday added to it; and perhaps that $900 was enough to tip me over the edge.

I paid the bill and sat, alone, at the marina staring at my reflection, despairing of life itself.

It wasn’t about the money. It was that, somehow, the event and the failure to recognize my own inability to drive a moped (I am being very serious, please do not laugh) represented my perceived failure in real life. And that vibe is a real harsh bummer to carry on vacation; just ask my friends.

The vacation ended with a hurricane-drenched drive back to Miami, running through the airport on a couple of sprained ankles, and an even pricier bill from the other car’s insurance company (another story for another day).

But as I reflect on that weekend now, I find it to be a formative part of my life. Representative, sure, of a dark time that lasted longer than I’d care to admit; but also full of inspiration and life and goodness.

Later that year, I would go on to—in the unfortunate free time and flexibility of a fledging business—write my first serious piece of writing: an Advent series called Giver of Gifts. This would be the first time I began to share my writing with people.

The following summer, I wrote an essay on the dark time that began on this trip. That essay would end up being my first published piece of writing. It was also the season in which my business finally failed, and I moved to Nashville, Tennessee following a prayer and the job I have now. Here in Nashville, I was able to read said essay at an event, also a first. And at that event, another kind person paid me a compliment on my writing and referenced, yes, Hemingway.

Life has a funny way of turning out.

But I think this taught me two things:

First, bad times are real and long and hard. God cultivates good out of the bad parts of our lives, yes, but we often don’t see that until much later, if at all.

Second, good things can happen amid hard times. God can bring about a glimmer of hope even in a rotten situation; or maybe send an angel; or maybe send a very nice man.

For the past few years, I’ve told my friends we need to go back to Key West and redeem it. But now, as I write this, I wonder if it has been redeemed in its own way.

I’ll still go back though, and I will never get on a moped for as long as I live.

It is impossible to escape the function of clothing and the grip it has on our society, especially this modern one inundated with retail marketing and endless options. Clothing is a multi-billion dollar industry. Clothing is the first thing you buy for your new baby. Clothing is rapidly filling our landfills. Clothing is the wedding dress you cry over, the jersey you can’t throw away. Clothing becomes a paradox of greed and joy, form and function.

Personally, I love clothes. It’s not a very deep, theological thing to admit, but being dishonest would be worse, I think. I love the way clothes can make me feel and express things I care about, like creativity and taste.

But I seldom hear people talk about clothes in any higher form of understanding. The secular world (forgive my generalizations) subjugates clothes to the market, a form of self-expression, or a problem of overconsumption — which aren’t bad or unrealistic things. The Christian world subjugates clothes into a few categories: church clothes as a form of respect, cheap and simple clothes as a form of humility, and modest clothes as a form of righteousness. Again, not inherently wrong.

I just find those all somewhat limited perspectives. I think clothing, being such an integral part of our lives, could warrant a little more contemplation.

Clothing is art. Both in the literal sense—textiles, high fashion, costume design—and in an every day sense; it is a creative expression of the self, whether you intend it to be or not.

I recognize this probably sounds very privileged, elitist, or materialistic; but I would argue it is, in fact, not. That perspective, in my opinion, speaks more to this erroneous idea that art and artistic expression is reserved only for the elite or over-educated, not for the every day man or woman. This is wrong. The expression of a specific identity, whether that be tribal, individual, or something else, through the use of clothes, is a lot older and widespread than the Western, hypermodern mindset you’re—and I’m—processing this in. The primary caveat I’d apply here are communities affected by war or disaster, living through a tragic disruption of life, culture, and community normally enjoyed by all kinds of societies. In the global south, people hold fast to their culture’s idea of appropriate or expressive clothing—from the vibrant tartan of the Maasai people to the brightly dyed sari’s in India. People of all income levels in the US don their team’s jerseys every year. That isn’t to say, of course, that poverty does not drastically undermine humanity in it’s lack of choice, availability, or quality of clothes—but my point is that creative or cultural expression still finds a way, which I think is beautiful and fascinating.

Now, we can continue under the assumption that clothing as art is and ought to be a part of all of our lives, in its appropriate place.

You wear clothes every day. They keep you decent, warm, safe; they signal where you go and what you do. They identify you through uniformity, when needed, and identify you through creativity the rest of the time. Whether or not you intend to, you send a message with what you choose to wear each day.

Maybe you only dress in t-shirts and sweats; for better or worse, that sends a message (and by the way, I’m not here to tell you what to wear—only to argue that it matters). Maybe you wear heels everywhere you go; maybe you choose to dress modestly. Maybe you keep wearing a pair of jeans you hate, not for any reason other than convenience.

Geography matters, too. I live in Nashville, Tennessee and I can’t decide who owns more cowboy boots: locals or tourists; I’m thinking the latter, but maybe that’s because it’s a Saturday. Demographics in a city like Nashville vary the most when the day starts with an S.

I live in the Southeast at large, which means everyone owns vineyard vines and Barstool Sports merch and sun dresses and Master’s hats. Part assimilation, part unawareness, part practicability; if you’re not familiar with Southern humidity, you don’t know how utilitarian a breezy sundress can be. At this point, you may be assuredly imagining the de facto uniform of your particular city or state or country.

But then, I want you to imagine a moment in your life, probably as a young teenager, where you first began to recognize clothes you liked, felt good in, and begin steering your mom toward at the department stores. You began gravitating to colors and fabrics and styles. You picked out shoes you wanted to wear on the first day of school, an Easter dress, or a t-shirt you knew would make you feel cooler. And this is not relegated to the ladies. My male cousins and brothers own, by far, more shoes than I ever have; and I say this not to criticize—for I own an absurd amount of coats for a Southerner—but to universalize this idea. Women might lead the fashion industry in options and consumption, but men make up the designers and lead the companies. It’s a human thing.

At some point, however, we lose ourselves into the abyss of, like all things, folly and overconsumption. We buy, not because we need it, but because it’s on sale. We buy, not because we like it, but because someone else looks good in it. We buy, not because we can afford it, but because it becomes a class signaler. We buy and buy and buy to fit in, fill a void, glean a moment of temporary euphoria—some sense, I think, of control over our lives. Cheap clothes become the norm, filling landfills and shipped overseas where a poorly made polyester t-shirt displaces possibility in a foreign economy. Why pay for locally made clothing (or anything) when goodly Americans send you the fruits of their spring cleaning?

We’ve lost the plot.1

While this essay is not on the ethics of the fashion industry, I believe it must be a part of any conversation on how we engage with clothing. Just as ChatGPT is a rampant art-stealer, fast fashion destroys the art of style—and a great many more important things, from the environment to human lives. That alone should be a reason to begin trying to dress healthier, dress better, shop better. This essay is on the art of style, and how we can have a proper philosophy on how we dress; but please keep in mind the atrocities and abysmal quality of fast fashion is, obviously, a far worse issue.

Earlier this year, I began photographing my closet.

The idea began as an attempt to sift through my clothes to “shop my closet” better and shop at stores less. I only got through my coat collection (if you’ll remember, it’s unnecessarily large) before I got bored and gave up.

But when I downloaded the photos from my trusty Nikon D3500 and edited them, I realized it would make a nice art piece. It made me fall a little more in love with my navy trench coat. What a nice jacket, I thought; I’ve worn it a bit more since then. The colors in my plaid barn coat seemed so vibrant and quaint. The vintage 90s leather jacket I stole from my mom a decade ago got a lot cooler. The items I thrifted, I treasured more. The things I found on great sales, I was proud of. It seemed, all at once, more akin to a carefully curated collection than just my closet.

I love art, and I love style. It was no surprise to me that what I had spent years slowly building up was something I found beauty in. But now I have a bit more clarity on how to use style to cultivate even more intentional beauty into my life. In a world of cheapness and ephemeral advertisements, finding one more area to—however slightly—rebel against the small death of modern life, made me happy. And I wonder if it can make other people happy, too.

If you can and if you’re so inclined, conform your closet, slowly and with time, to your values and personality and favorite colors and patterns and styles. Engage in beauty, not just conventionality or practicality. Be bold, be subtle, be intentional, be thoughtful, be thrifty, and be joyful. Notice what other people wear and what you think it says about them. Clothing is art, look at art, wear art, and find beauty in places beyond the obvious.

I will probably write more about this subject, especially exploring more the idea of a theology of style and what the Bible says about clothing; we’ll see. Also, I realize this might be very much a ramble of thoughts rather than a properly structured essay; oh well.

1

I debated not using this Gen-Z slang, as I try to be a Serious Writer, but I realized I don’t care and think it’s a clever phrase.

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We complain and lament about the same heat come August when its oppression has plagued us for several weeks. But, now, in the early days of March as winter wanes on our part of the world first, we long for its companionship. Even in writing about it now, I surrender to the oldest cliché a Southern write can: writing about the heat; bonus points for mentioning humidity, though none of us ever miss that.

But even in our complaints and our resentment, the heat is a part of our identity, I think. And without it, maybe we experience a sense of loss of self. Cold, cloudy, dead—that to me is the worst part, how dead everything is; dead and gray and leafless and sucked up of color. We aren’t lorded over by tall pine trees that never seem to die; as I look out my window even now, green is sparse and only the skeletal branches remain.

Yesterday, when it did become particularly warm, I was at 9am pulling weeds and sawing up invasive plants at a local volunteering opportunity. Work made it warmer; I even shed my sweatshirt for a couple of hours.

I looked at all we had already done, a yea-high pile of sticks and vines and weeds—by yea-high, I mean about chest height of course—and a somewhat cleaner clearing behind the house where we worked. We worked with one-size-fits-all rubber-dipped gloves that we got to keep for volunteering (I left mine behind). The tools we worked with ranged from rusty shovels, deep-toothed saws, and a weed-puller lever-type thing. That particular tool relied on the engineering of weight distribution; ergo, the device exerted more energy than the person. I made that up about weight distribution, though I think I’m right; it sounds right.

The soil was soft and a bit damp, so my jeans had faint brown stains at my knees. But the day was clear and warm and the cool breeze soon died down, so it became pleasant. Soon there was a pile of gray sweatshirts in the grass, and the sun got to soak into our skin, and I felt satisfied.

We sawed at the thick wooden base of invasive honey-suckle plants; it kind of made me sad that honey-suckles are invasive, that they choke out the life from native plants and disrupt the ecosystem. There’s something quaint and reminiscent of childhood when I think of the sweet nectar and the smell and the way it reached out through the chain-linked fence behind my cousin’s house on summer days when school was out and we didn’t think of much beyond playing and swimming and watermelons and popsicles.

The honey-suckle had to go; but no amount of sawing and pulling and chainsawing would ever remove it from my mind and memories. And maybe there’s peace in that.

The other plant we were after like bounty hunters with handsaws was something called ‘privet.’ I still don’t really know what they are, but I came to recognize them, and felt a lot more okay pulling them out than the honey-suckles. There was a little divot in the top of their leaves that I would look for when I was unsure. And between all that was vines and dead sticks and litter and a strand of forgotten lightbulbs someone neatly arranged in a pile away from the brush that had grown up around it. There were bricks nearby where plants had grown up through the little holes and had to be pulled up from the roots between the bricks and the earth, so the bricks got pulled up, too. It’s interesting to see plants living with and around and in spite of man-made objects.

When our workday came to a close at about noon, the breeze had picked back up and we were standing still, so I had to put my sweatshirt back on. But something new warmed me beyond the sun. The pile was well over my head and looked pretty impressive now. My hands felt taut and my limbs well-used; there’s something different in one’s posture after a good kind of labor, especially out of doors. So after a warm and enjoyable and earthy Saturday morning, I went home.

The rest of the day was colder and gloomier and I missed the warmth of the sun; it was almost like two different days in my mind, separated by entirely different set designs; a sunny and yellow backdrop had been drawn up and a gray and blue one had been let down. But it didn’t matter; the day had been good and fulfilling and true. Working hard outside felt truer than computer work sometimes; seeing a result beyond pixels and to-do lists and emails. An area cleared and a pile made high by many hands. And I think at our core, humans are far closer to creation than we often act like; we are made of the stuff that makes up honey-suckles and privets more than we’re made up of the technologies and metals and plastics and schedules and economies we have come to create.

Today it is much colder; and with Southern eyes, I look out my window and see the patches of sunlight and the green of the weeds in the garden beds and the barely blue sky, and the phantom warmth looks ever real. But it’s not and I must be patient and wait, because once the warmth really does come, it won’t be going anywhere anytime soon and I will eventually be longing for the briskness of Autumn and of bonfires and cool nights with sweaters. The longing for seasons that seem to ingrain itself in all living things—an anticipation for what we know is coming—is such a human thing, and therefore such a creation thing. Or, rather, it’s in reverse: what is a creation thing is therefore a human thing, no matter how wayward we try to be.

Fear and anger.

Fear and anger.

Like a catapult swinging you backwards and forwards, a foundation built on fear and anger brings only disorientation and, ultimately, nausea. That disorientation lines the pockets of men richer than we ever will be, and leaves us confused, unsure of who to trust, yet somehow sure of who we must not trust.

Someone once said to me:

He hates what he fears,

and he fears what he doesn’t understand.

Lately, a kind of curtain has been drawn back; call it maturation, call it conviction, call it revelation. To overly spiritualize it removes some of my own responsibility at not seeing certain things sooner; and yet, I still find this journey rooted deeply in the spiritual, and influenced primarily by my faith.

In the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy pulls back a curtain that demystifies a wizard and makes him just a man. Falsehood is revealed, becoming a sort of sheep-in-wolf’s clothing; not in that the Wizard was innocent, but that he was actually powerless.

What I find now is that the things behind the curtain in our world are not, in fact, powerless. The man actually is a wizard, spinning harm and chaos like a spider spins silk.

And the man is, truthfully, a personification of America’s only real god: money.

It is not my intention to be a bootlicker.

Money, in and of itself, is not really an evil.

Money is the root of all evil.

No, no, that’s not how it goes.

How does it go?

The love of money is the root of all evil.

And in this conversation lies a two-sided coin: a truth, and an absolution.

Money, like any tool, can inflict great pain and create great good. A knife can carve up a meal, and can stab someone in the back; fire brings life, and can burn cities to the ground. I like money. You do, too. Money is just an absorption of resources in order to live, pursue happiness, and even serve others.

And yet, entrenched in our American ideals seems to be a blind spot — a ready defense of money, even an adoration of it that surpasses the bonds of family and friendship. I recently watched a very well-known Christian finance guru with an Instagram presence say something along these lines:

“If you loan money to your friend, he stops being your friend. He becomes your slave. Your relationship is now slave and master, and it will be until he pays you back.”

I’m paraphrasing, but not very much.

And here again lies that tricky, two-sided coin: what he’s saying perhaps has its wisdom. I know loaning people money can become a complicated situation. But at its core, and at my core, I’m wondering how I’d describe that very caveat at the feet of Jesus.

“Jesus, I know you said to give to anyone who needs it and not to expect it back, but won’t that make my friendship awkward?”

“Jesus, I know you said to also give over your tunic to the person who steals your cloak, but what about private property?”

“Jesus, I know you said to give to those who beg from us and not refuse those who ask to borrow money from us, but my financial advisor says that isn’t smart.”

I don’t give to every person I see asking for money at a four-way stop. I’ve never lent a friend an extensive sum of money. And the one time my phone was stolen, I called the police. I’m neither judging these questions nor acting as though I am above them. But what I am doing is contemplating the way we talk and think about and defend money in our current cultural context.

Money becomes that which we prize, that which we protect, and that which stands closer than a brother.

But if money is my father, its protection seems too uncertain; if money is my mother, its comfort is not long lasting; if money is my friend, I only feel its cold, dead presence beside me.

Money, however, has become synonymous with freedom, and I understand why. I feel its deceptive pull, even now. Money buys my health, money clothes me, money feeds me, money makes me happy. And it becomes so much more than the $20 bill in my pocket, so much more than my yearly salary. It becomes something we must legislate on, regulate, give away and take and create and sustain and gamble on and invest in. Money is a tool integral to our world, sometimes for the better, and often for the worse. Please don’t think me naive, though; I’m not attempting to deconstruct the reality of the system, only the people filling up that system; you and me.

That which begins as a simple tool becomes like a smoking gun in the hands of he who wields it with malice.

Do we sacrifice an ecosystem at the alter of money, because loyalty to a belief like that must be ironclad and nonnegotiable? Are we banned from questioning its lordship over our lives, our laws, our relationships? Since when did questioning idol worship become so taboo?

I think, again, the problem isn’t really in the thing we think it is; money isn’t the root of all evil. And maybe the love of money isn’t, either. Maybe, again, when the curtain is pulled back and the man is revealed, maybe the root of all this evil is in this fear and anger all around us.

When we question absolutes, we destabilize very scared people.

And when we put our faith in absolutes, we use up all our strength justifying them and forget why we’re justifying them in the first place.

Do you really believe some of the things your little world stands on?

Do you really believe the multi-billion dollar media industry isn’t making their money off your hatred, your fear, your anger?

And don’t, I beg you, lump your preferred news organization into a category of saints and heroes; it doesn’t belong there.

I hate to get political. But just as the Pharisee looked upon the tax collector and thanked God he was not so bad off as him, I think we hear the same messages over and over again and allow them to miss their marks on our hearts. Because I am not the first nor the last person to cry foul! in the face of greed. And I don’t judge those who are fearful of very real threats, or angry about very real crimes. But instead of pointing fingers at who or what I think the bad guy is, I instead pose the simple question of,

Is your belief system based primarily on fear and anger?

Does your worldview incite fear and anger?

Does who you trust inspire fear and anger?

Fear and anger.

Fear and anger.

Fear and anger.

Like a catapult swinging you backwards and forwards, a foundation built on fear and anger brings only disorientation and, ultimately, nausea. That disorientation lines the pockets of men richer than we ever will be, and leaves us confused, unsure of who to trust, yet somehow sure of who we must not trust.

Someone once said to me:

He hates what he fears,

and he fears what he doesn’t understand.

“The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.”

disclaimer: I have not finished The Picture of Dorian Gray yet, so this is my half-baked interpretation of this quote.

Obviously, this quote encapsulates Dorian Gray’s unreliable and morally confused mindset by the middle of the novel; the past can’t, truly, be annihilated. Sibyl Vane, though dead, isn’t a fantasy for Dorian to romanticize, and I have a feeling her brother will be the one to remind Dorian of that. However, Dorian Gray is not the only one to feel this way about the past, or about the future.

As someone whose religion informs much of my worldview, I naturally interpreted this with that lens. People of the Christian tradition believe that the past cannot define us or chain us; it is a message of freedom and change and hope (or, it should be, even if it isn’t always told that way). I think that freedom from our own mistakes is a beautiful thing. Like Dorian says, the past can be annihilated. Christians also believe that, though Jesus forgives our sins, he still asks us not to sin anymore. But, like many things in life, sin is inevitable.

Are we trapped in the same fear that Dorian is trapped in? That our past mistakes can be wiped clean — like the classic hymns say — but our futures are, nonetheless, doomed as harbingers of more sin, more mistakes, more hurt?

How can we cope with this fear?

I think, like Dorian, we can’t actually annihilate our past when we have not yet learned from it. Dorian, clearly, hasn’t learned that Sibyl’s death is more than a tragic part of his story. Her personhood is independent of him. He’s wrong to forget her or be in denial over whatever part he played in her unhappiness. What happened won’t — I don’t think — let itself be forgotten.

In the same way, when we commit some sin — especially one that hurts other people — we are promised freedom and a cleansing and a future without the weight of our mistakes; but that is never an excuse to leave the past without remorse or healing. I think that part of our future of hope is dependent on making peace with our past, in whatever way we need to; perhaps through repentance or apology or changing one’s ways.

And a future with more sin and more mistakes and more pain is, no matter what, inevitable; but we have to make peace with that, too.

So, I suppose what I’m trying to say is, don’t be like Dorian Gray is at this point in the story. Don’t annihilate your past; learn from it. Don’t fear the future; embrace hope in spite of fear.

Anyways, maybe I’ll make another post once I finish the book.

Note: At the time of writing this, I had not finished The Picture of Dorian Gray; as of now, as I post this thought, I have finished it and find the ending doesn’t alter my perspective; I would only add: definitely don’t be like Dorian Gray.

The entire gospel is about good news and truth, but Jesus does not deliver to us a new patented commentary or guidebook on how to be good and get saved. He does speak, he does deliver truth, but he acts just as much as he talks.

Jesus shares good news by word, and shares healing by faith. Jesus shares good news by word, and dines with undesirable people. Jesus shares good news by word, and lives in community with others. Jesus shares good news by word, and spends time in solitude praying. Jesus shares good news by word, and invites acts of beauty and worship that go beyond utilitarian purposefulness. Jesus shares good news by word, and passionately defends the integrity of the church. Jesus was lowly and compassionate and generous, not lecturing but inviting, not guilt-tripping but encouraging, not justifying sin but proclaiming a better way.

Jesus told people the truth and did not dance around values of Right and Wrong; but fact need not be disembodied from feeling and care and artfulness.

What is our good news worth when we only talk about it and don’t express it through action? How can we tell people their souls matter and they are created in the imagine of God, when we would rather stay in comfortable distance from undesirable people? It would be like going up to a stranger and telling them you love them, when the whole time you’re frowning and refusing to dine with them and telling your kids to stay away from them.

Evangelism is as physical and emotional an act as it is a verbal one.

Evangelism, I think, begins with action and care and devotion, and ends with a very powerful argument not just in fact but in deed for the good news of the gospel. So, let your actions and your empathy and your devotion to justice speak first for the care you have for others’ souls, and then be glad and grateful and joyful when you get to talk about it with someone.

Sometimes, I want to write something very quickly and in the moment, often during my quiet time before work, and my medium of choice is my notes app; so these short, random posts are often less polished, more rambling notes app excerpts.

The panic of shutting down schools leads to days reminiscent of an older time, where kids rush to play outside, explore a transformed natural landscape, and return flushed and pink and contentedly tired; where hot-coco and tomato soup and grilled cheeses become primary food groups; where boogie boards become sleds, and people find out shovels for dirt aren’t quite right for shoveling snow off a driveway. 

A southern snowfall also reveals to us how noisy a southern summer is. Crickets, birds, bat chirps, and cicadas announce with symphonic glory that spring, summer, those warm and alive times, are here to stay for a while. But when a blanket of fresh snow engulfs our trees, grass, and brush, whether in a wood or a suburban neighborhood, the quietness is pervasive. There is a dampening to the noise we subconsciously identify with and disregard. But the rarity of snow insists its presence in the silence just as firmly as in the interruption of our busy schedules. 

As we bow to the heat of summer in our electricity bills and our pilgrimages to any body of water, we now – in a snowy winter storm – must bow to the reality that our only escape out of doors must be on foot, bundled in layers, not too far from home. Despite its inconveniences and even danger, there is a charming novelty and magic to it that even the most hard-hearted realist must concede. And there is likewise a firm reminder that nature, or the hand of God, is very capable of shutting down the certainties cars, roads, jobs, and stores give us. The invisible hand of the market is no match for the invisible hand of an icy, snowy vortex; but I think that is a very good reminder for us. 

If you find yourself snuggly tucked in your home with a blanket of snow keeping you in like a moat around a castle, appreciate it for its rarity, revere it for its authority, and enjoy it for its beauty.