I wrote a story this week to convey what’s been going on internally over the last month, and to preface, I’ve been having a really difficult time dealing with anger. I’m terrible at it, and all the angry situations have led me to quickly realize that I don’t take any of it to God. Don’t get me wrong, I do want heavenly answers, but my heart doesn’t really believe that He’ll be there when I bring the questions. Because of that, I tend to put my heart as far away from spiritual things as possible, and as you read, keep that in the back of your mind. I promise that it’ll all make sense soon enough. Hope you enjoy.

There’s a note among a stack of papers here: “In order to find God, go outside.” This sounds good, so I tie my shoes and double loop the laces. I fasten my sleeves and pull my dusty brown hat from an old duffle. I go out, across the lawn, through the field, to the woods. In the woods, there’s a nightclub. I notice because I can hear it, and I try hard to stick my face past the heady limbs and leafy branches, to stare into the glitter-lit cave. It’s a complicated procedure, getting from the woods to the nightclub. But once I’m inside I walk down the hallway, filled with sticky distant beats and white-washed choral music, into the vast, oval-shaped interior of the mountain. The walls are shiny white. The underside of the peaks – where it’s all snow and ice, outdoors – have been painted gold. There are disco-balls. The dance-floor isn’t very busy. Some heavenly painters, a couple of harp players, a bunch of 19-year-old rowdy angels drinking Jack-and-Cokes at the bar. The beats haven’t gotten any louder now that I’m here, standing in the center. But I get them. I get their distance. My heart’s somewhere else. My mind’s here, but my heart? Only God really knows.

- Brandon

I need a few days to mull over what happened this week, especially after yesterday’s teaching, so I thought I’d write a story from a six-year-old point of view instead. Hope you like it. – B

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Jesus and I -

We’ll be together one day, you know. That’s what I overheard the old folks saying anyway. I also heard Uncle Jim tell Momma last week that the beatin’ Jesus took was a formality, something he felt Jesus had to do for our sins (although I’m not sure about Aunt Cathy) and I reckon that’s why everyone brings their wrinkly serious faces to church on Sunday. Not me though. My sister Sarah told me once that I’d best put a smile on my face if I knew what was good for me, because as she put it, “I’d hate to have Jesus all riding up on a white steed looking grand and majestic and such and there I am just a’frowning away.” Can you imagine that?

I got to thinking about that nasty beatin’ too. One time when I was six, Daddy gave it to me pretty bad after he caught me peeking at one of his magazines (don’t tell him but it was worth it though,) and when I think about how long I held my breath to keep that old pain away, I figure Jesus must have been a Navy Seal to hold his breath through all that mess. I think He’s awesome, y’know? Yeah, Momma says He and I’ll be together one day and maybe then I can ask him what his record is. Mine’s 2:09. Even had my sister time it with a stopwatch. What’s yours?

Feeling: Sentimental, sad, absurd, vulgar, generous, narrative and shot through with smiles. Fresh like clean laundry and full of promise, kind of like the few seconds in between taking a polaroid and watching it develop.

Hearing: Chanted heaven-ish vocals, kickdrums, snares, heave-hos, and a sort of constant glib piano-line that plays as we trade Monday for Tuesday and Tuesday for Wednesday and so on.

Liking: Woodmen Valley Chapel, Standing outside REI at 7:45 with no coffee and scoring a ten-dollar Mountain Hardwear vest that was marked down from 100 while said kickdrums are kicking and drumming to the tune of 300 rabid shoppers pawing over used goods like chests of silver and gold.

Not liking: Work tomorrow. We finished demolition on a building last Friday and now it's a new job site.

Writing my entry like this because: Cory suggested it be a reflection of our week, and despite my ability to write paragraphs, sensory and "I like" sections seemed so much more fun. Cory, this is for you. ♥

- Brandon

If you've ever listened to Mary Martin's "My Favorite Things," or saw the Sound of Music, you undoubtedly know what her favorites are, because she repeats them every fifteen seconds. That really was an awful song, but if I had the chance to rewrite it, number one would most absolutely be music.

I mean, it's pretty evident if you've ever met me. I eat, sleep and drive music. I never stop listening and when I'm talking about it, I get so excited it's like I'm spouting off musical ingredients from a Campbell's soup-y "Indie Rock" can. And if God didn't bless you with an Ipod, you can bet that if I were riding with you, I'd be switching between stations, searching, searching, and then shouting as you pushed hard into a left turn because Lykke Li's "Little Bit" just came on.

Over this last week, I started thinking about how child-like my excitement for music is, and how adult my time with Jesus feels. I think that's why I've always put music first, and why my time with God looks more like Sunday Mornings with Rigor and Mortis than the Jump-Up-And-Down-Because-Jesus-Is-Here party it should be.

I want that party and this week I'm asking JC to leave stiffness off the guest list and bring over some of that Living Water I hear so much about. I'll share more next week.

- Brandon