Supporting characters

Okay, here's a question: have you ever felt like you're a supporting character in the story of your life? And no, I don't mean the cute Christian ideal of "He must become greater, I must become less." I mean in the story you live out, do you act as "the best friend," or "the manservant/guard/whatever other role tends to be a supporting one?"

Sometimes I feel like I live that way. And I know it may seem silly. I'm the one living my life, yet all I'm doing is trying to fade into the background. In fact, that's often the place I'm most comfortable. Seriously. Let me be the servant, the unseen help, the one no one else usually notices, and I'm happy. Try to bring me into the spotlight, I'll fight tooth and nail. Especially if friends try to bring me out. If my professors praise me in class, I'll admit I like that. And I like birthday gifts. But try to point me out and praise me as a friend and equal, and I'll try to brush it off, put it on someone else's shoulders, spin it back to the praiser ( I'm not even sure that's a word, but it is now), or just reject it outright.

And I easily fade into the background. Just ask my friends. I can disappear in an instant. Sometimes, I like it that way. I consider it "bowing out gracefully," for surely that the heavenly realms have better things to watch than me. And surely my friends will have more fun without me. I know this sounds really ridiculous to you who read this, but it's true. This is what goes through my head, and it does seem true. Now, sometimes this feels rather positive. I don't mean that my friends would be better off without me, a la "It's a Wonderful Life," but rather that my part is done, my lines are finished, and it is my cue to exit center stage. Exit stage, period.

But afterwards, I feel rather terrible, like I'm depriving myself of joy or fun I could have had. But then again, I still wonder if I should have it or whether it is best for me simply to leave. Maybe my sacrifice will be better to be made rather than to hoard something like manna, only to have to decay before my eyes.

And I guess, if I'm honest, I live like a supporting character out of fear. I can be a real brat when I'm in the spotlight. I know it. I have been it and then absolutely hated myself afterward. Just ask my parents about the last real birthday party I had. We went bowling for the first time. I was stupid on so many different levels I shudder to remember myself. And no, not stupid in a cute-kid way, more like a spoiled-brat-who-should-know-better way. The last thing I ever want to do is act that way again.

Then there's the fear of being lifted up. After all, you know what they say. "What goes up must come down." That really scares me. I don't want to be lifted up only to come crashing again to the earth like the wreckage from the space shuttle Columbia. I've done the crash and burn thing, I don't want to go there again. And so, I figure, if I'm never lifted up, I can't be brought down.

Like one professor of mine says, "No pain...no pain!" (As opposed to "No pain, no gain.") If I keep from getting empowered or brought into the spotlight, I'll never have to deal with being humiliated or yanked off the stage. Or have rotten fruit and vegetables or pies thrown at me.

Because of those two factors I hate being thrown into the center of attention, especially if I haven't done anything worthy of it. And I mean I have to do something great to be thrown into the center. Score an interview that's impossible to get, publish something big/break into a market I hadn't gotten into before, or, back in high school, do well on certain tests or projects. Publishing something small or doing, yet another book review gets to be old hat. Or even worse, being thrown into attention for something I didn't really do. One excellent example from this year was the TU Creep. Also known as the bane of my existence!

Now, that may seem harsh, but I have my reasons. I had worked hard that week to write two articles for the Echo, one a news piece for the Taylor University, the other an interview with a big-name band in Christian music for the Arts & Entertainment section. The first was easy, but the second had a lot of drama attached to it. The interview ended up falling through and I had to scramble to write an article for the newspaper because my editor still needed something. I got free tickets to a local concert as a consolation prize from the group and my article still ran in the paper. Friday came around, the paper was published with both of my articles in it and what's the first words I hear directed at me as a claim to fame?

"Dude! You're on the TU Creep!"

The TU Creep, for those who don't know, is a blog site that some idiot set up to take random pictures of people all across campus. I had been on it before, so hearing I was there was no big deal. But then I found out they had put me on a second time. This was a new picture taken of me that the guys at my table were wigging out about. I didn't get praise for being in the Echo TWICE. I didn't receive praise for writing an article involving a big name band. I got praised because a stalker that has no taste, too much time on their hands and a lack of propriety decided to put up my picture twice in the same blog for no discernible reason.

I was steamed. (For my non-American readers, that means I was furious.)

Now, my close friends who knew I had done those articles told me I had done a good job. But the fact that I was famous at my floor table in the DC for being creeped on made a bitter impression on me. Needless to say, when the site for the TU Creep was accidentally blocked for a few hours, and caused massive uproar across campus, I was not sad in the slightest to see it go. In fact, I had to restrain myself from breaking the LTC and doing a jig in my room.

And now, one of my friends likes to point out that failed interview as something impressive I have done, and so pull me into the spotlight around his friends and our fellow Pro-Writing majors. I get reeeeeeaally annoyed at that. Call me a bit conservative, but a failure to land an interview and cobbling together an article from scratch within twenty-four hours to cover for it does not count as a success in my book. it still counts as a massive failure. Nor does it count as the mark of a professional (something else this friend likes to tell me but really strikes me as incredibly wrong in every sense of the word). It counts as the mark of someone who needs to get his act together. At least, it is in my opinion.

 To top off the problem, I like living there because sometimes it brings me the greatest satisfaction. Knowing my sacrifice has helped someone else enjoy something is worth it in my eyes. Whether that's doing dishes, cooking food, or giving someone else the last of the Wodfamchocsod and having none myself. And I like to do it alone. It's easier to make sacrifices if I'm the only one who notices it. And I like it that way. I don't want to be lauded when I sacrifice something. I'd even rather keep it secret. Again, possibly because I grew up thinking that it's better to be that way. After all, Jesus talked about storing up treasures in heaven and giving not being something done for someone else to praise, like the Pharisees did. Which then makes me question whether I do it out of a pure heart or to be praised anyway for a "humble" spirit.

Whoever knew humility could be so tough?

So, how do I quit living as a supporting character in my own life story? Seriously?

I wish I had answers but, if I did, I wouldn't be writing this blog. Rather I'm trying to explain myself, but..... I'm also trying to find answers. Not as easy as I wish it was. Figuring out what the meow is wrong with me? That's easy. Finding a solution? Not so much.

I hope someday to find it. God will become greater in my life and I hope that I will finally figure out how to live as a protagonist and a supporting character. But it's hard right now. So, those of you who read this blog, I will ask for some prayers.

Pray that I would find the balance I seek. Pray that God would show me how to magnify Him without short-selling myself somehow. And, on a practical level, pray that everything goes well for Finals Week this week.

To God be the praise, for He is ever worthy.

Turkeys and Thanksgiving

Today, a floor from my dorm decided to create a new Thanksgiving tradition: The Turkey Hunt. A poor, unfortunate freshman is chosen, through processes most secret (and possibly diabolical), to dress up as a turkey. The rest of the floor pretends to be Pilgrims and Indians and hunts down and tackles the turkey for the entire day. The only safe places are buildings. When he travels between buildings, he has to make noise like a turkey, announcing his panicking presence. At the end of the day, the Great Hunt begins and the poor freshman is tacked in the forest outside the Dining Commons mercilessly. After which the floor decides to have a party and open the floor to the entire campus.

Now, before my friends on said floor start thinking I'm going to bash their tradition, I'm not. If anything, I'd like to say thank you to those people. I actually thought of something rather profound.

I tend to act like a turkey. Spiritually, that is. And in other ways too. I'll be man enough to acknowledge both meanings of calling myself a turkey. But let me explain.

The battle field looks rather innocuous. The field's name is Life. I peek out of my hiding place, trying to hide my garish get-up and survive without being tackled by my personal demons. However, when the time comes for me to go from one place to the next, I run to the next safe place screaming, "GOBBLE!GOBBLE!GOBBLE!"

Of course, I make a fool out of myself, and I get taken down very quickly. I live in fear of the next attack, and just try to survive moment by moment. And when I am attacked, I don't fight back. I just give a frightened yelp of "Gobble!" and fall to my attacker's blows. Nathan for dinner!

Seriously, though, it is pathetic. If I used a few wrestling moves in this proverbial battles, I would be able to escape my attackers and run in freedom from building to building. I mean, I'm not a bad wrestler in real life, though I have yet to face my best friend in battle and legitimately beat him (sometimes he cheats after I beat him, and thus claims to win, but I'd rather not go into that). If only physical prowess converted easily to spiritual strength. But it doesn't. However, if I take the time to think about it, I do have a way out of being tackled endlessly in spiritual battles and becoming a demon's dinner.

Continuing the "battle" analogy, I have a Father and Big Brother waiting for me to call out "HELP!" My Brother takes on the garb of the turkey, drawing off my attackers, while my Father leads me to safety. After beating my attackers to a pulp and demolishing their strongholds in my life, my Brother comes back and continues to walk with me, His watchful eyes constantly prowling to spot enemies.

Now, I can walk through life with my head held high, knowing my Father and Big brother have my back. I don't have to be a turkey, even though it can be fun to be dressed up as a defenseless, flightless bird. I have a protector by my side, who loves me forever. He won't let me be attacked as long as I stay near him. But if I push him away and tell him, "I've got it," I'm fair game again until I ask for help again.

So, I guess I'm thankful for the lesson of the Turkey Hunt. And I'm thankful to God for being my Father and Jesus, for saving me from the demonic hunters hungry for my foolish flesh. Without Him, I know I would still be forced to run screaming and flapping my wings uselessly, trying to not wind up as someone's meal. And I'm thankful for turkeys. Without them, I would have no food for Thanksgiving! Just kidding. I'm thankful because they have inspired me to reflect on my blessings as a spiritual "turkey."

Praise be to our most Holy God, for He alone is worthy.

Healing Anger

Okay, I'm still working on being on time with my posts here again. But I am getting better. Of course, now the problem is putting something amazing into a few words.And then writing it down. not so easy sophomore year as it was during freshman year.

And I know that I've severely fallen behind. But, you know what they say: Life is what happens while you're making plans. Most often in my case, life is what happens when you're making plans, and then you realize a school assignment is due tomorrow morning before 8 AM. So, I guess I'm still working on time management this year. Last year I was great at remembering to post. But I'll get there, eventually.

Yes, I can hear you now: "Nathan, shut up about not posting on time and get to the good stuff!" And so I shall.... Try to, that is.

I'll admit, this issue is somewhat personal. I doubt very many people who read this could empathize with it. This last week, I struggled dealing with anger. Anger at God specifically.

Yes, I know, "Why on earth would I be angry at God? Hasn't he been good to me?" Just look at the rest of my blog posts, and you'll see that answer is yes. But my anger wasn't completely for myself. It was also for my mom.

My mother struggles with many Auto-immune Disorders. This is pretty much where the body attacks itself and causes itself not to work properly. There's no real cure or treatment for it. And it's not like cancer, which quickly becomes life-threatening while many forms have treatments or surgeries to cure them. It's harder, and it takes longer.

Now, this is not at all to belittle cancer. Cancer is the nastiest thing on the planet, and I know people who have had it. It is not small in the slightest. But it is different than what my mom has to go through. And in some ways, it is a little better.

There is not cure or treatment for Multiple Sclerosis or Fibromyalgia. There is no cure for Diabetes. There is no cure for Celiac's Disease. Instead, my mom has to diligently watch her diet. She has to check her blood sugars many times a day and adjust her insulin supply because her body will not regulate itself. And the pain from Multiple Sclerosis (where the immune system gradually attacks and eats away at the nervous system, little by little) and Fibromyalgia (which I'm still working to understand) is constant for her. Some days the pain is minor and she can be a very active person and love people the way I've always known her to. But other days, she can't even get out of bed because the nerve pain in her legs and body is so terrible.

But here at Taylor University, there are ministries for healing. People are supernaturally healed often. A woman is afflicted with migraines and then people pray over her and she gets better. A man injures his liver badly playing football, and then people pray and he's healed as well. I see and hear about this happening and  my heart hurts. Not my soul or spirit (though they hurt too), but my heart. At one point this last week, a friend was sharing about how God had healed him, and while my face never changed, I felt a sharp tear in my chest, as though something ripped inside. And I thought of my mother back in Colorado, who lives with pain every day.

After a year and a half of struggling to push away the nagging thought about the injustice of it all, I just gave up. I withdrew from my friends, convinced they would find out how bad a Christian I was. "Good Christians don't get angry at God," I told myself. And I didn't want people to see me and my pain. I didn't want to be a burden to them, because I was struggling to deal with these problems. I quit talking to God because I didn't think he would answer me. And I tried to pray about others, but at the same time, I still had my mother's pain and anger lurking and sulking in the back of my mind. I couldn't make logical sense of why my powerful God could heal all these people at my school in Indiana, yet seemed like He refused to heal my mother in Colorado.

Now, before you read further, let me tell you something RIGHT NOW: I have no answers. God didn't come down and tell me why He hasn't healed my mother. He didn't tell me His will for her life or the purpose of her suffering. And, since I'm 99.9999999999999999...% (Which in mathematical terms is the same as 100%) sure if my mother had been healed my family would have told me (which they have not), God has not healed my mother.

So what changed? What made a difference? The realization I was not alone. There are people here on campus who do struggle with that same issue. People who even participate in healing ministries have relatives who have similar medical problems. And the best encouragement was hearing their stories.

The conclusion? There is none. I don't have answers. And I know this may sound hollow, but the only thing that keeps me going right now is faith. Faith that God has a purpose to my mother's suffering. Faith that she will be healed, whether or not I get to witness it here on earth. Faith that God is good.

And I now know I'm not alone with this pain, the pain of having my mother live in pain. Yes, I know the rest of my family feels it too, but it doesn't help when they're twenty driving hours and two time zones away. And their pain would be different than mine. Thus hearing other people's stories help me find reason and faith in my anger.

This is not over, not by a long shot. But the anger has abated. And I think this has brought me closer to God. I have to rely on Him, and believe in His purpose, unknown though it be. Of course, the only other option for me is chaos, which is not viable. God is good. I will continue to proclaim it as long as I have breath in my body.

Holy is He and worthy of my praise.

Hope and Longing

Hope.

Hope is defined by the dictionary as a "desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment." Sounds so simple, doesn't it? Yet in this small, four-letter word lies so much more meaning than what the dictionary dares answer. It provokes, leads, compels. It drives us to do extraordinary things, some of them, especially in my own case, rather stupid. Nevertheless, we all have, we all need hope. And even though I'll admit I've denied it, I need hope too.

I know this sounds strange. Of course we need hope. Why wouldn't we? Some people might say hope is what makes us human. It's vital. Thus you need it too, Nathan.

But it is also a hard task-master. Disappointed hopes deeply hurt. They drive us to find fulfillment. And if we can’t fulfill them, we are forced to endure the torture of watching them die.

I know this all too well. I have seen hope perish as quickly as it was born, and I have watched it die slow, agonizing deaths. Often just in my own life. Because of this, I've been forced to wander, "What is the point of hope?"

More often than not, I empathize with Éomer from The Two Towers. He tells Aragorn that Aragorn should "not dare to hope [for] it is forsaken in these lands." So often I have felt that way. I have wanted to look at my reflection and tell myself that hoping for something was useless. That hope was for other people. Not for me. Never for me. I know this seems down and stupid, but it’s true. In my weakest moments, I feel as though I have no reason to have hope. And should not expect to find any reason for hope.

Now, before you start thinking that I have serious problems and stop reading, I need to tell you that I have heard this lie subtly from Satan over many years. Unfortunately, after a while, if you hear something long enough, it becomes truth. Rephrase that: it sounds like truth. It mimics truth so closely and so loudly, that the smaller voice that tries to remind me of the truth is drowned out, and I’m unable to discern fact from lie.

But the truth is that I need hope too. I have desires that want to be fulfilled. I have dreams that want to become reality. And I have old visions that now feel like nightmares I never want to happen for real. And trying to kill hope does nothing but kill your own self. I know. I've tried. And every time I tried to kill my hope, I went away depressed. I felt cold and unloved and hope fluttered on the edge of death.

Ironically, it's always when I'm at my worst, when hope has almost died that God steps in and revives it. Revives me. And it's usually through people that I find hope again. Maybe it’s a hug that I needed. Maybe it’s small words of encouragement I never expected. Maybe it’s a visit from a good friend. But God never fails to show me hope. He reminds me of His love, the most powerful reason for hope.

But I have discovered something else too. Sometimes, I can't simply wait for God to hit me with hope. Sometimes, I have to fight for it. Sometimes, I have to desperately search for it. I have to be active when it comes to hope. But I also believe God honors that search. If we seek hope, and more importantly, if we seek Him, we will find both together. God is the ultimate source of hope. It springs from Him and flows back to Him in a never-ending cycle.

So, here I go. Now to pursue God and Hope with all the stubbornness I claim to have.  I know that I can, but I must determine not to be distracted by lies and traps Satan tries to lay for me. But God is faithful. I'll always be able to find Him.

Holy is He and worthy of praise.

Shame and Romans 8:1

Hi again, friends. At least, I'm pretty sure you're all friends. Most, if not all, of the people who read my blog happen to be friends with me on Facebook. So, I guess "friends" is a good greeting.

This was another week of ups and downs for me. I was thinking about today and I've realized that, so far at least, my college years have been themed with issues I struggle with. Last year, I felt like I struggled a lot with Anger. They seemed to follow me and drove me insane while I battled them. No, I haven't completely won. I'm the son of a redhead, and have a temper to match. However, I do my best to conceal it under the guise of a good Christian college student. And I'm good at that. But I digress. The problem that I seem to be facing this year, along with Jealousy, a crossover demon from last year, is Shame. And not just being ashamed of having embarrassing moments of stupidity, or of smelling like a pig when it gets too hot out. I mean true, blue Shame.

I won't go into minute details, partially to protect the innocent and guilty involved (me), and also to avoid gossipers and other people I know who read this blog finding out stuff I'd honestly rather they not know. But I confronted Shame this week. Or rather Shame came and tried to have his way with me.

I was forced, or maybe compelled by the Holy Spirit, to confess to a friend that I had sinned against them. So, I wrote them an email, since I knew I needed to confess and I had no idea if I'd see this person anytime soon. Later that day, they sought me ought. We talked about rather inconsequential things. I could tell they hadn't read the email. But during our conversation, I found myself unable to look into their eyes. I was so ashamed of myself I couldn't bear to look into their face because I knew I had wronged them. I wanted them to leave because I couldn't stand to be in their presence. I felt I didn't deserve to be there.

No, I didn't break down and tell them the truth that I had wronged them. I just asked them to read their email when they left. Yes, I'm a coward. but I'm also a writer. And Everything I said was already perfectly said in that email.

So I ended up sitting in my room waiting for their reply. Shame overwhelmed me. I wanted to crawl inside a very small hole and die. (They were a very good friend.) Let me tell you; Shame, just like anger, can be a tough task-master. I felt hopeless, unworthy to be forgiven.

And I know this all seems extremely mellow-dramatic, but if there's one thing you readers must understand about me is that I value my friends extremely highly. I become fiercely protective of them, and if anyone dares trespass against them, I get very, very angry. Sometimes that's a good thing. Sometimes I just a) scare my friends, or b) end up embarrassed I couldn't keep a better control of my own emotions, since I apparently blew up over something rather small and inconsequential. Often they both happen. But that's beside the point. So, now you know how angry I get over other people harming my friends, imagine how terrible I felt that the culprit who had sinned against my friend was none other than myself.

My friend was more than willing to forgive me, and I, for once, accepted it without argument. (I'm really good at arguing against myself and trying to prove how unforgivable I am. At least, I try to be good. So far, I haven't succeeded in persuading someone not to forgive me. Ironic, huh?)

But shame wasn't (and isn't) through with me. I still struggle with it. Those of you who have read many of my blogs might have discovered that a good, Christian boy I am not.While I have never done drugs, smoked or had sex outside of marriage, I have smaller, hidden sins. Sins no one would know or even think about if they were to look at me. Or spend a little time with me, mostly because I don't open up to individuals easily. Funny enough, it's easier for me to confess my problems to a computer screen or audience than it is to talk with someone one-on-one about how I'm doing.

But those aforementioned sins have left their marks, some of them physical. And the shame still lasts. Still, still lasts. But there's something different about this year. it's almost like God is specifically trying to tell me to forget the shame. Easier said than done, let me assure you. But throughout the last two months Romans 8 keeps showing up. First, I have a small Bible study with friends at the beginning of the school year. The passage: Romans 8. We didn't finish it though. Then, during "Spiritual Renewal Week," the speaker decides to unpack Romans chapter 8. Now, after Parent's Weekend, when I decided I would try to help a friend by starting the bidding on some artwork of theirs, I own a piece of photography titled "Romans 8:1." (I lost the gamble that other people would bid on it.)

However, here's a bit of a conundrum. I know that Romans 8:1 says that there is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus, but when I sit here, steeping in shame over the past and how my past has affected me, the words ring hollow. I struggle to know them as true for me, not just as true for the average Christian.

I want to know the truth that, not only am I forgiven, but that I don't have to be ashamed of what I've done. I don't have to be burdened because I sinned. And I'll admit the main problem is that while I know this intellectually, while I know this is true in my head, my heart, the seat of my emotions and thoughts, my soul does not recognize the truth. I pray God heals my heart and shows it the light. For now, I struggle to keep it out of the darkness Shame hides behind.

One day I will be free of Shame. One day, I know I will know the truth and I won't question it. I hope that that day comes very soon. Shame is a heavy burden to bear.

But holy is the Lord, who holds my heart, and my destiny in His hands. And even in my shame I will praise His name.

God, Give Me Strength

Okay, I guess I owe all you readers another apology. I haven't been posting regularly like I promised myself I would. I know, that's not a real big thing. I mean, it's not like I have a huge fan-base waiting with bated breath just for my next blog post. But I know that many blogs are started, but not regularly kept, and often just abandoned. I don't want to do that, but be faithful and do what I know I should.

So, I do owe you an apology. I guess I also owe one to myself. I made the promise to myself and broke it. And I know this seems all too personal and silly. After all, as long as I post who cares what resolutions I break or so on and so fifth. (I know it's supposed to be "forth", but it's my own small joke. Inflation goes up still, so why not use it in words, where number hide all the time?)

But one of the reasons I don't post very often I guess is because I'm not sure what to say. I don't know what you, my readers, need or want to hear, so I simply keep my mouth shut. That and dealing with homework tends to keep me on my toes, like it or not. I know, I signed up for this. Worse, I'm paying for it. But hey, I will persevere, somehow.

I guess one thing I will share with you all is my ongoing struggle with identity. Specifically, my identity in Christ.

Since I'm in college, I've been taking time to somewhat reinvent myself, try new things and figure out what is me and what is just me posing as someone else. I try to determine what I like, as opposed to copying what my friends like or what my family enjoys. And along with that, I'm trying to figure out who I am when my family's not looking over my shoulder. I'm trying to sort out all the baggage that came with me, both physical and emotional,(I'll admit, I moved in the end of August, and I still have a mess lurking in my closet because I haven't sorted and organized everything, though I know what all I brought) and figure out who I am besides just how I feel. I'm trying to look beyond what I feel to know what's true, regardless of emotion.

In that process, as friends have reminded me time and time again, I have to remember who Christ says I am. I can't say how grateful I am to my friends for their patience with me in this matter. Amazing I know. Born and raised in the church, having read the entire Bible through a couple times, and having gone to both a private Christian school and College, I still wrestle with knowing who God says I am and making that an integral part of my identity.

All too often I have this painful tendency to believe lies that have embedded themselves in my ID, like a parasite or a computer virus. It's almost as though whenever I'm faced with a challenge or become scared, I retreat to my old false self, the one that quivers in a corner, afraid of being discovered. Afraid of everything.

And living in fear hurts. Running and hiding hurts. I don't know how many times I have missed things that would have been fun and amazing because I decided "it would be best for everyone if I disappeared." Because I thought I needed to exit out of people's lives like an actor in a theater. And while doing that, I made myself lonely. I made myself be alone.

And one of the things I'll admit I fear desperately is being alone, living without friends or family. A picture comes to my mind of living in a large wood house, having every material thing I ever wanted, yet looking out the window of a dark library room to see dark clouds and driving rain outside. Inside the house is only one living soul: me. Only me. And that's how it always is. That's how it always will be.

That scares me because I can't stand the thought of living alone, my life wasting away because I deemed it "my lot" to be alone. Or worse, I found a way to drive off all of my friends and am alone because of my own foolish actions.

You want to know something ironic? That same house and solitude used to be a dream I adored. I thought all I wanted was peace and solitude to write. All I thought I needed was an office, a library and a large house and I would be happy. People? Who needs them? They'll only get in my way.

Now I see that such a life is empty, truly empty. If I gain all I thought would make me happy yet have no one to share it with, what have I accomplished?

Nada. Nothing.

And yes, I have gone off on a tangent, but I'm good at that. Really good. But to get back to my point, I struggle with not retreating back to the man I used to be. I try to remember the new man God created me to become. I don't exactly know who this man is. I know that I want to be him though. I hope that God will give me the strength to persevere to become that man He created me to be.

I wonder who his identity is. Or rather in Whom is his identity. Okay, maybe I don't wonder. I know. But I really desperately hope he's better at remembering his true identity that I am. I hope I become him. I hope God says, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

I admit that's what I want most. To hear God says he's proud of me.

Hopefully, I'll hear that someday.

Holy is the Lord, and most worthy of praise.

Doubt

No, this is not about the play or the movie, though they do deal with this topic extremely well. This one will end up being a bit more writer-ly focused. Mostly because the subject I want to talk about has a lot to do with me as a writer. However, maybe the rest of you readers can identify with my struggles.

Doubts plague me. They gnaw at my heels, lunge at my hands, and attack my shoulders. They whisper in my ears, shroud my eyes, and claw at my heart. I fight them, but the sheer numbers makes me want to give up the fight. Alongside doubt is Fear, goading and giving Doubt voice. They tell me things I wish I couldn't hear. But hear them I do. And though I wrestle against them, I cannot help but wonder, what if they're right?

I see the people around me, look at the writers I call my friends. All of them are so accomplished. They fit everything a writer should be. They're successful, organized, lauded, influential. I'm anything but. I am the least among my peers. I do not have success. I do not influence. I am certainly not organized. And praise comes from my friends and family, which shows how little effect I've had on the world at large.

Of course, what should I expect? The most I've published is a single, shoddy short story, a few book reviews, and a small devotion. Not the writings of a successful author. Yet I see the people around me, the ones praised highly by my professors, and who succeed at everything they do. I, on the other hand, seem only barely able to break even. I try hard, but my efforts aren't quite good enough.

I want to be like them, but I wonder if that's even possible. I wonder if I'm good enough to be a writer. The problem is that writing is the only thing I know, the only thing I enjoy. The only profession I could use my skills in and make any type of living. And the only job I could truly and wholeheartedly love. I feel like it's what I am supposed to do, but how can I do it and glorify God when my works seems like nothing? As though what I try to do is never going to meet the standards set for me? Can God use a barely successful person like me for His purpose?

It all just keeps circling in my head and one question repeats like a refrain in my head: Am I good enough?

And still the battle rages. Some voices trying to encourage me, others reminding me that I have failed to be who I wish I could be. And it seems that if the bad writers get "weeded out" from the good in the degree program I'm in, how long until I am tossed into the trash among the weeds? But other voices argue that I am a good writer and give me reasons why this is true. And the battle rages on.

How I wish someone would come to me and say, "I believe in you." if I decide to be honest to myself, I wish a specific person would tell me that.  And I wish I could hear God say it to me.

I wish I could just defeat these doubts. I wish I had confidence. But doubts are my constant companion.

God How can this small voice praise you? How can I give You glory when there is no one to listen? Show me how.

Holy is thy name and worthy of so much praise more that I could ever say.

Desires

Well, this year seems to have it's own set of challenges. Many of them. And I'll admit, most of them aren't having to do with classes or homework loads. The challenges are mostly me.

Let me clarify though. Last year was an amazing first year of college.I made lots of friends, learned about how difficult college is, which isn't too bad when you come from a college-prep private school. However, I think if I could do it over I would change some things. I let too much stuff slide, was not as good a student or writer as I could have been, and just generally should have done better.

 This year, I want to be better. I want to take my health more seriously than I have in the past. I want to revitalize my relationship with my Savior. I want to be a better roommate and friend. I want not to be a stranger in my new dorm. I want to make good friendships with the guys I live with. I especially want to be a better writer. It's rather ridiculous when you're a Professional Writing major and in a very competitive field, yet you feel as though you haven't achieved much and you're at the bottom of your class, regardless of GPA.

I want to do something, affect someone. I want to know that I have made a difference in people's lives. I want to know that I'm a good writer, not because my friends and family say so, but because it is true. Honestly I want to somehow land a writing contract. I want to have more than a few dozen people read my writing and then get letters telling me that what I wrote made some sort of difference. Well, I'm being brutally honest, I guess.

I want to land a job! I want to go out and get a job based on my merit, and not based on whose son I am. While it worked wonderfully at camp, it doesn't work in the real world. I want to be independent.

And since I'm on the brutal honesty track, I'll go ahead and just say it: I want to please my dad. I want him to be proud of me. Instead of hearing him remind me that I need to be better and work harder, I want to hear him tell me that he's proud of what I've done. And I want to be found worthy to him.

Don't get me wrong. My dad is a wonderful man. He loves me greatly. He supports me. I love him almost more than anything! God obviously has to come first, but it still remains. He is an awesome man I'm proud to call my father.

But last year I didn't do very well, and my dad has reminded me many times that we still struggle financially just for me to go to Taylor University. (Curse my idiotic ambition.) I want to make him proud this year, to hear him tell me that I've done well. I don't want to disappoint him.

However, finding out that you weren't selected for one of two available jobs you applied for really puts a cramp in those wishes. Dad and I both know how much I need a job, and how much I want to avoid working in the Dining Commons.And I haven't heard anything at all about the second job, leaving me intensely fearful about my chances.


So right now, I'm looking to God, telling Him about these desires. I want to please Him too, and well, I feel like I might not be doing well at that. I want to honor Him and my earthly father, but I'm not sure how well I will. I am really afraid I'll fail.


I have to remember to ask God for strength. Though I can't seem to get it through my logical mind, I know in my soul that if I try to make these changes, be this "better" person I hope to be all on my own, I'll fail. I will trip in the race of life and give the ground a very dirty, bloody hug. (Also known as a "face-plant".) Somehow, someway, if I will just trust God, His plan in me will be fulfilled. I pray that I live up to His plan.


Holy is He and worthy of praise.

Joyful Souls

Hey all. I know I haven't written in a while. Lousy internet can mess with you like that. That and trying to pack and get ready for College: Year Two.

It's been a little bumpy trying to get ready and be ready this year. This year I have a few more pressures I have to deal with. I am financially forced to get a job this semester. Where I will work I don't know, but I need to work somewhere. I have to make sure I get many scholarships so I can come back next year. I am starting a few new courses of study, in which I do not know any of my classmates. I have to find classes, balance life, school, and work. I have to find balance in my social life, and jump start my spiritual life again, which has unfortunately started falling behind everything else.

And, having moved to a different dorm, I have many new people I need to meet, get to know, and, well, get used to. I have to adjust to the loss of some of my graduated friends while figuring out who the new freshmen are. Not easy for an introvert. Not only that, I have to figure out the new group dynamics and try to adapt the the changes I'll inevitably find in my friendships and friends. 

Now, there was a reason I just listed all of that stuff. I felt (and still feel a little) pressured. I was scared coming back to Taylor University. So scared I was almost sick. I forced myself to stomach food--and to make sure I didn't see it again. I felt small and puny leaving home.

But, as I grew closer to school, closer to TU, the more excited I became. It got to the point where the car couldn't go fast enough to get me there (thankfully, I wasn't driving). And finally when I got here, I found friends all over. Friends who rushed to see me, who were delighted to find me, and who made me feel extremely loved. And this was mostly at the all-campus communion. I went back to my dorm room, and I ran for joy, even clicked my heels a few times. It was so overwhelming I barely restrained myself from screaming just to let it out.

And as the joy settled in, the fear loosened it's grip. Joy is more powerful than fear, just like Light is infinitely more powerful than darkness.So, for now, while the year is still daunting, I can face it with joy, knowing how loved I am.

While I was running,though, I thought, "Is this something like heaven?" What can I say, I'm a Christian, and I can't help thinking about these things. But it does seem like it. I was so filled with joy,. I saw friends I knew and people I knew had yet to meet. And we came together to worship the King, the reason for our fellowship. So I couldn't really help making the comparison.

Even better, I was reminded of God's faithfulness. He has seen me through so far, and He will never let me go. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, Phillipians 4:13. (NKJV?)

Holy is the Lord, and I will praise Him for His wonderful works and loving kindness.

Images and Reality

Hey all. I know I’m late again. This time I have a small excuse. I had to work the last few days, so writing my blog slipped my mind. And my mother’s birthday caught me unprepared, so I was scrambling for that too. Now, I bet it might not seem very important to most of you readers whether or not I post by a certain time, but it’s important to me. I started this blog as a writing discipline, so I need to work on being more disciplined.

However, I did not come to write about that. I did come to write about life. And I’ll admit, I’m writing about my life. So far, it’s the best tool for finding writing material I’ve found. So here goes….

These days, I’ve really been missing my friends from college. And as much as I try to control it, it seems at times to get only worse. It’s been driving me nuts as I try to figure out why I can’t control it. Usually, I’m better at keeping my emotions under control, but these won’t be tamed. And it’s taken me a while of simply talking with myself to figure some of the problem out. Yes Talking with yourself can be a good thing, because the longer you talk to yourself and express what you wouldn’t dare say in front of anyone else, you dig down and discover the problem.

So the problem is that I miss experiencing the reality of my friends. I know, that seems like a no-brainer. I already said I miss my friends. But it’s more than just missing them. I can interact with them on Facebook, email, and Skype. I can text them to share funny things with them. But that doesn’t give me any fulfillment. I miss the reality of them.

I miss seeing their faces. I miss hearing their voices. I miss the smells, the laughs, the fun.  I miss having ridiculous conversations full of inside jokes. I miss hearing stories about things both serious and humorous. I miss staying up late watching movies or praying with people I love, and who, for some unfathomable reason, love me too.

(Now, warning, I might get a little preachy here.)

Facebook can’t and won’t replace real relationships, despite what so many people fear. The fact is that it isn’t real enough to replace people. And that is what I miss.

Right now, all I have inside are images of my friends. I say “images” kind of borrowing from C.S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed. He talks about how all he seems to have left of his wife is his image of her. But that image is inferior to the real her. And I have to say the same about my own images, my own memories.

What I think and what I remember is a pale reflection of the real people I long for. Memories and images don’t work in reality. I can manipulate the images, move them however I want, warp my view of a person until they become who I want them to be. Memories I can speed up, slow down, fast forward and reverse, like a video. Again I can manipulate that.

I can’t manipulate people the way I do images. They don’t fit into the holes I create for them. They aren’t the shiny or sooty things I warp the images to be. I have to deal with people as they are. Their fallacies, their desires, their humor, their joys. I can’t create that in my mind. I can only remember. I can change my memory, but it doesn’t match reality. Reality has to be superior. Not because reality supersedes imagination, but because it is deeper, richer, and more vibrant than my paltry imagination can conceive.

So no matter how advanced computers become, they can’t replace people. No matter how good of an imagination I have, I cannot imagine reality. I guess that’s another reason God is so amazing. He can create reality from His imagination. He can conceive all our layers, our depth. He knows us intimately and doesn’t have to worry about dealing with images that don’t match the real person.  He made the real one.

Thankfully He gave me people I actually miss, and who I know care about me. For now I must wait and long for them until we meet again. But God is good. He loves me, and will sustain me.

Holy is He; my soul praises is holy Name.

True Strength

We all talk about strong people. We look up to them. We thank them for their service, for their willingness to be strong for others. We honor them, write books about them, and admire them, both up close as friends and far away as fans.

But here’s a question for you, one that keeps plaguing my mind: is it truly strength when being strong is the only choice you have?

When being strong for the people you love is your only option because anything else is unthinkable, is that something to be admired?

I ask this as I sit in the waiting room of the ER. My grandmother’s blood pressure is far too high, and won’t respond to medication. We brought her to the ER on doctor’s orders. “We” being my mother and I.

I hate being in the hospital, especially the one here in Salida, the closest hospital to my house. Bad memories and what I call “ghosts” live here. The nurses and doctors are nice enough, but they can’t change my past.

A few years ago, my mom’s health took a turn for the worst. She was in and out of the hospital for months. Specifically, this hospital. The doctors tried but couldn’t figure out what was wrong. They took out her gallbladder, ran various tests, tried changing her diet, anything and everything they could think of. Every time, it would seem to work, only for her to go back the next weekend.

I did most of my hours required for my driver’s permit driving to and from visiting my mother in the hospital. Even now, the road has bad memories which haunt me, hurt me, wrack my brain with pain. Though my mom couldn’t tell from the backseat, I was fighting tears on the drive here because I didn’t want to come back. Ever.

But I had no choice. Dad is working hard and can’t come home to make the half-hour-long drive to the hospital. My sister has Bronchitis and is in no shape to drive.

Thus I ask the question. Can I be considered “strong’ when I have no other choice? When breaking down and crying in anger and anguish is not an option?

I know only that God is here for me. God is the one who gives me any strength. I want to trust in Him, but at the same time these memories threaten to overwhelm me.

God, give me true strength.

Holy is He and most worthy of praise.

UPDATE: My grandmother is out of the hospital.

Never a Failure

Hey all! Sorry! Those of you who actually read my blog on a regular basis might have noticed that I am officially a week late. I completely forgot to blog last week, and for that I must apologize.

Anyway….

I have to admit at times I feel like a failure. A completely and utterly pathetic excuse for a Christian. Usually this happens right after I fall into sin. It’s almost like an instinct. I screw up and then promptly start beating myself up for it. More than once, I’ve wondered about the marketability of inventing a self-kicking butt.

Being vulnerable to depression doesn’t help my problem, I bet. The fact remains. I’m good at screwing up and making sure I remember what I did. However, I have to fight against doing something even worse than beating myself up. I fight to keep my self-condemnation from becoming a part of my identity.

It’s an easy trap for me to fall into. After making the same mistake a few times, I start to believe that what I do defines who I am. If I make the same mistake and fall into the same sin over and over again, then I start to think that behavior is a part of me, a part of who I am. And since it’s wrong, I think that I’m a “failure”. That I’ll never become any better and that I’m doomed always to fail.

I’m so familiar with this fault, this trap, that it’s almost a habit. I give in to the lie so easily. I’ve heard it enough times that it starts to sound like truth.

Often, it takes hearing the real truth from a close friend to break me out of these “funks”, these attitudes. I can’t hear the truth from myself, so God has to bring in someone else to remind me of what is real. Thank God for friends, huh? 

The truth is, I am not a failure. I am God’s son (note the little s!). God is working in me. He wants me to be more like his Son (big S) and I know that He is not finished with me. Not by a long shot.  Even better, He won’t ever give up on me! Never! Even though sometimes I really can’t understand why He still loves me, why he hasn’t left me in the dust where I belong, the truth remains that He loves me. I am His beloved son. 

And that will never change, no matter how many times I fail.

Holy is the Lord, and most worthy of praise.

Reaching out

Okay, it's official. I think God enjoys throwing curve-balls at me. Really, I think He does.

One example, the main one really, is something happening right now. There's a guy here on camp who's rather lonely, or at least acts like it. My dad has mentioned it to me, and I have noticed his loneliness too. It comes out in the way he holds himself, the nervousness...a lot of things. So I have started, prayerfully, to reach out to the guy.


This isn't easy for me. I'm terrible at reaching out to others. Extending my hand in friendship has not worked out for me very often. Often that "hand" is ignored, pushed aside, or occasionally spit upon. A few times, I've had it wrenched and twisted behind my back.

Most of my good friends reached out their hand to me first  and I accepted it, gladly.

So maybe I'm making a mountain of a molehill (though moles are bad enough in and of themselves), but I feel extremely nervous about trying to be a friend to someone, someone who, according to my dad, is a lot like me. I'm not sure how accurate he is with his appraisal but we'll see.

I know loneliness can hurt. College will teach this quicker than anything else. I even told my friends once, "Loneliness is rarely nice enough to simply hit; more often, it full-on body-slams you into the ground."

And, since I know how painful loneliness can be, I want to reach out to help. I am weird that way I guess; I hate seeing others dealing with a similar pain, one that I know well.

Friendship is really important. I know that these days. I used to suffer under the illusion that I could live without friends, that I would be a happy hermit, content to be friendless. God and college-life conspired to rip that illusion away quite nicely, giving me a warm blanket to cover myself, instead of the rags I used to cling to.

Now it's my turn to extend a portion of the blanket; it's my turn to reach out and give someone the hand of friendship. It does have me scared. But I know that I can trust God to give me the tools and strength I need to do His will. I just need to follow the example He gave me, reaching out His hands that I might live.But prayers for guidance are always appreciated.

To God be the glory and praise, for He alone is holy and worthy of it.

Freedom

Let Freedom Ring. No Taxation Without Representation. These and more were the rallying cries of our nation almost 250 years ago. Today, Independence Day, marks the beginning of the American fight to overcome British tyranny. Before then, William Wallace, known from the movie Braveheart as the Scottish man who lived and died to make his people free, is known to have fought long and hard for freedom.

Fitting, then, that today I come to write and celebrate my own freedom, though mine is freedom of a different kind. Yes, I am likely going to preach and become personal. So those who enjoyed the breather I gave last week will now have to deal with my return to the satus quo. Oh well.

Today, while reflecting on Independence Day and all it entails, I realized that I have found a new freedom, one I have desired for a long, long time. And let me tell you, freedom, once found and realized by one who was once a slave, is delicious.

No, I am not talking about Freedom In Christ and the general stuff that goes with it that pastors preach about all the time. I am talking about genuine, honest-to-goodness, freedom from my own form of slavery.

I have been a slve to anger. Anger and hatred. And though you may notice that I rail against them and speak so often about not giving in to them, it's because I know what it's like to be a slave to them. Rather like the Talking Horse Bree from The Horse and His Boy (Chronicles of Narnia),I know what those masters are like, and I want to be free of them. Well, today I found out undeniably that in one area of my life Sinful Anger and Hatred have lost their grip on me. (There is such a thing as Righteous Anger, but one is never a slave to that.)

A long time ago, a person very close to me hurt me in ways that are extremely hard to describe. I felt betrayed and anger grew in my like a flame over the years, consuming me. it demanded so much of me. I felt drained, alone, and, at times, helpless against it. Over the last year, I have sought help to deal with my anger. Oh, how my friends helped me. I think sometimes that I would npt still be here if it hadn't been for the wonderful people God put in my life. With their help, I found freedom. I forgave the person for their wrongs against me.

But it still hurt to think about them for a long time. Again, friends became extremely important to me. I cannot stress how important good friendships are. Even if you can find only one good friend, someone you can trust implicitly, you have an invaluable resource, something important that must be guarded and cherished.

Sorry, went off on a tangent. Anyway. Recently I met that person again. And now I realize that absolutely no hatred or anger remains. I am finally free!

I feel like dancing and hollering. Maybe Gollum had the right idea after the second personality left in The Two Towers: "Free! Free! Smeagol is free!" he shouted, dancing around the modest camp the Hobbits had set up.

Now, am I totally free? No, unfortunately not. I know myself and I know that Anger has more strongholds in my life. And I have actually wept at times because I feel trapped. But today, there is hope. I can find freedom. I already have, even.

And none of this would be possible without Christ. I know I call it a Christian Blog, but that's because Jesus is a huge part of my life. And I know He wants to be an even bigger part of it. Without Him, I would never have known the healing I know today. Without Him, I would have no true friends to call my own. Without Him, I would still be hopeless. A wandering idiot still searching for meaning.

As the song goes, "It's all because of Jesus I'm alive,"... in more ways than one.

Holy is He and worthy of praise.

I Know Why the Angels Cry

Okay, this time I decided to write a poem. This concept (mainly the title) has been buzzing in my brain for a little while, and I knew I wanted to write a poem. However, just a warning, I am not a great poet. In fact, you may notice that often the only really poetic thing might be the rhymes, since I decided to toss the idea of having a consistent meter. So don't expect anything great.

This will likely be the only poem I post for a while, if I post any up here at all after this. Hopefully, you enjoy it.

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I Know Why the Angels Cry

Here I sit in church this day,

Listening and watching worshippers sway.

I try to smile and sing like them,

Though doubts and sorrow from my heart do stem.

And while these singers’ hearts do praise,

And sing along with musical clichés,

I know something they do not;

Something they’d rather leave un-thought:

I know why the angels cry.

There sits a girl in an alleyway cold

Enslaved in so many ways untold.

With drugs, reality she tries to ignore.
When she runs out, she sells her body for more.

Though no one looks past how she appears,

Unseen hands hold her unshed tears.

Some use her for cash,

Others see her as trash,

And silently the angels cry.

He sits in his room, the lights all dim

And hopes his parents won’t notice him.

While they slam doors, argue, and fight,

On computer screens he looks for delight.

But what he finds poisons his soul

Until searching for pleasure is his only goal.

Art at its worst;

It can’t quench his thirst.

Mournfully, the angels cry.

A mother sits by a hospital bed,

Clenching her fist at the disease that spreads

Through her child, so young, so small.

She’d do anything to take away it all.

If she listens to what the doctors said,

Very soon her daughter might be dead.

She bows her head, she sobs.

She questions God while her heart throbs.

All unseen, the angels cry.

He lives alone in an empty house,

Ever since he lost his spouse.

To death? Oh no, she did not die.

All she did was say goodbye.

To his job, she said, was he truly married,

And she released him, though it made her heart bleed.

His hard heart now revealed,

Can it become soft and healed?

This question the angels cry.

Now I know I must turn back my eyes

Inward, and puncture my own disguise.

I am a fraud, a hypocrite, a fake,

Building a mask with every lie I make.

Smiling constantly, never showing need,

Yet inside I rage, I burn, I bleed.

This lying tongue, this spinner of tales,

Will it ever tell truth, or is it damned to fail?

I bow my head as the angels cry.

A man there is hanging on a tree.

I know His blood and death is for me.

His agony, His heartfelt cries;

Oh, with each one my own heart dies.

But when he says, “It is finished”,

I find glory undiminished.

And though now I can see

That tears of limitless joy they be,

I know why the angels cry.

 

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Holy is the Lord, and most worthy of praise.

"I'm Still Yours"

Greetings, readers.

I guess I should apologize.

(Sorry.)

Here I have been complaining these past few weeks about the changes in my life instead of trying to meet them. And I write here groaning and moaning, and making a nuisance of myself. I feel so stupid!

Ironically, I was chastised not by any of my readers, or my family and friends, but by a mostly-unknown song. It’s called “I’m Still Yours” by Kutless. It seems silly, but the song asks a few questions that pricked my heart and showed me how wrong I have been.

The chorus asks, “If I lost it all, would my hands stay lifted to the God who gives and takes away?” The rest of the song develops this theme, and it convicted me.

I have had to deal with quite a bit of change these last few weeks, yet (though I might have said otherwise) did I actually go to God and rest in Him?

No.

Instead, I looked to other things. I retreated. I spent my time reading books, or engaging work. I avoided the places where I might be reminded of all the changes. I hid. Worse, all I did was complain to God.

I feel as though listening to this song and some other worship songs told me that, through this change, God wanted me to come to Him, to rest in His permanence, His unchanging-ness (yes, I believe I made up that word, but I don’t care). But I didn't.

Trust me, people, there is a BIG difference between standing before God and complaining to Him, and lying at His feet, begging for comfort, waiting for Him to lift up your chin. There's a difference between looking at Him, crossing your arms and telling Him to fix the problem; and lifting your arms to Him, asking for Him to hold you and give you comfort.

I was in the former camp. But I feel like God has been asking, “Nathan, if I took away what you thought was your home, and your life became unstable, would you look to Me for stability? Would you run to Me for hope? Would you use your words and voice for My Glory?”

Shamefully, I think I have said, “No.”

“No, not until You fix it. After it is fixed, and I have stability again will I praise You, and only then!”

I feel ashamed at myself. I said I would rest in Him, but instead I ran, looking at anything, everything else that I could for normalcy. And yes, I succeeded for a while, but that didn’t change anything. In fact I bet it made it harder on my family. And even worse, I felt far away from God while doing it. Like God wasn’t answering my prayers for deliverance from the pain these changes wrought. But then, I guess when you consider my attitude, it makes sense, huh?

I didn’t praise God or His goodness. I didn’t try to find His Will in my situation.  I sulked. I pouted.

No more!

I refuse to do it longer. I will praise Him! My heart will sing of His goodness and grace. I will go to Him. He is the source of my normalcy, my stability. When all else fails, He is constant. Utterly and completely.  He is always faithful, inviting us to come and talk with Him about anything.

He wanted me to come to him for comfort and to find joy in His stability, not my own. (Yes, I’ve been using the word “stability” a lot. It fits and I like it, so there.)  He wanted to come, comfort me and give me peace, but I refused Him.

Now I won’t. I will raise my hands, and my heart, to the only One who deserves my praise. And I will remember, though everything else I hold dear is stripped away, and everything by which I gave myself identity is gone, I can rest in this: I’m still His. Always and forever, I will always be His. (Romans 8: 38-39.)

And so, I end this entry with an uplifted heart and say,

“Holy is the LORD, and He is worthy of my praise.”

P.S. Here's a link to listen to the song I mentioned. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3fr2Kl4Fcs