on inadequacy

Ive always felt this way. From the day my mothers womb cursed this land with my disturbed soul and disfigured face. Sorry mom. I’ll leave your womb out of it next time. Before you start feeling sorry for me (or rolling your eyes at me), there is a good, logical reason for me feeling this way, and I’ve tested this hypothesis through rigorous testing.

Mostly, it comes down to the core truth that I’m a terrible, awful human being incapable of attaining ghandi like awesomeness. Thank you, science.

Really, I am. Completely debased and with several screws loose. My man, the Apostle Paul knew what he was talking about when he said, “What a wretched man am I!” I relate to that. If he met me, he’d have changed it to, “I guess I’m alright after meeting that chump.”

Most days, I look out for myself. I could do way more to help those in need, but then I’d have to get off the couch. If you know me, you know I HATE anything that involves standing for prolonged periods. I might have an idea to do something good or useful…but it’s so much easier to just watch ‘Breaking Bad’ for the third go around because it’s really that good. With a few episodes of ‘Community’ thrown in so it doesn’t get too heavy, though. After all, I’m not a monster. PS-can you believe Mike is on this season of Community? OMG (oh my garbanzo beans).

I don’t feel sorry for me. No one else should either. The truth is, I’m rotten. I work to be a godlier, better, smarter, respectful-er, kinder, less smelly, productive member of society. And even on my best days and most fruitful attempts, I still suck at life.

My wife’s too good for me. My kids are way better than anything I should have been able to create. I have a job that’s incredible that I feel completely unqualified for. Don’t tell my bosses. Chances are they already know.

The problem isn’t that this is true.

The problem is how it plays out.

When I realize my brokenness and play into it, I feel all sorts of awful and gross. And if it depends on myself to pull me out of the pit I’ve dug, we might as well call in the fat lady to serenade me because the game is over. Did I mention I’m fat? Maybe I could just sing and save the fat lady a trip.

I have a great life, much more than I deserve in every aspect. I have a good God that I serve half heartedly the majority of the time, full heartedly part of the time and no-heartedly on occasion. Figure out that sentence and you win the booby prize. A picture of my boobies.

Without Gods grace, all this junk would swallow me. I know lots don’t believe in this God I serve, or the grace I believe he gives me. They’d say he’s a crutch, or I’m wasting my time trying to measure up. But some days, this grace is all I have to cling to. And I’d agree, I am wasting my time trying to measure up. God told me that I don’t have to. If only I could believe that…

This would be so much neater if I had a nice bow to wrap around this turd. But I don’t. I just told myself I wanted to write more, and write honestly.

Terry Tempest Williams says, “We are healed by our stories.” So maybe that’s all I’m trying to do here. Get some healing. Put the struggle with feelings of inadequacy out there in hopes that some healing takes place and God’s grace becomes a bit more real. I never trust writers who seem to have it all out together. Figured I’d convince you I’m a chump before you get the wrong impression. For those that know me, yes, I am aware you already knew that.

on why I write
March 28, 2014, 4:15 am
Filed under: Stuff | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Is it really necessary? Another guy with a blog? Because there aren’t enough white, Christians whose voices are heard in North American society…I need to stand up for the little guy. If I don’t, who will? Oh yeah….everyone.

So the question is, why bother?

I’ve been dying to write the past few years, but the words never seem to come the way I want them to, or at least as easy as they used to. so I just quit. Blogging, stories, writing in my n’Sync diary…I just stopped. I got tired of fighting a blank page. But the whole time I stopped, I felt as if there were things I couldn’t express any other way. I’ve become a pent up ball of energy. Thoughts, ideas, jokes, theology, books. It was all inside me. I just grew so tired. I’m still tired, but writing is therapy for me, so I’ve decided i need it. even though myself as my own therapist is a terrible idea. Or as anyone’s, for that matter.

As an 8 year old, I wrote a 52 page book about a spaceman named Kenneth. He was the janitor on a spaceship and when he went outside to clean the windows, the jerks took off without him. He fell to earth in his spacesuit that turned into a spaceship and visited all my cousins. It was pretty legit for an 8 year old. At the end, I think he was about to die, and all my cousins were so sad, then he turned into a real boy when their tears fell on his face. Pretty sure I stole that part from Pinocchio.

That creativity has left me. Now I’m an old grump filled with arrogant opinions and distrust, with a hint of Jesus when I’m not too self-absorbed. I’m so wrapped up in internet arguments that the joy of writing has been stolen, ironically by myself, and it all feels so pointless on most days.

I’m not 8 years old, but I still act like one most days. My faith is weak, but I love Jesus. I have an amazing family, wife and kids, and am luckier than I deserve. Most people would kill for what I have. But I’m also whiny and take all the good for granted on a regular basis. Call it the ‘consumer condition’, or maybe that’s just an excuse. This is who I am.

I decided to try something. To just write every day and be as honest as I can. There will always be a little self-deception in my writing, because I’m just delusional enough to think others actually will care what I have to say. So I’m just going to write, for myself if no one else. Writing feels like about the only way I can let things out.

We can go for coffee, but I’ll be an awkward mess and probably cough on your dessert. I can preach, but I’ll just read notes off a page in a monotone voice. Plus, my preaching might be a little too preachy these days.

So here I go. Another caucasian, 30ish year old Christian with an outlet for all my frustrations and passions. Thank you, internet. Hear me roar. Katy Perry is my inspiration. Katy Perry fans will find my blog and be so disappointed.

Don’t expect well reasoned arguments all the time. I can’t promise that. I can promise Vanilla Ice references, and jokes about how it’s really MY milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard. Take that, Kelis.

I just need to write for my own sanity.

on anger

I didn’t intend for this to be an angry blog. Inspiring…hopefully. Challenging…yes. Humorous…at least to me. Filled with fart jokes and Sarah Palin references…you betcha. Angry…not my intent.

In real life, I am a passionate person whose passion often boils over and burns the person next to me through anger and unkind words and passive/aggressive behaviour.

But in my writing, I have historically tried to wear the ‘diplomat‘ label, trying to make everyone happy. No matter how unreasonable I find your thought process, I will generally try to hear you out and respond with respect. But behind closed doors, I dream of slashing your tires and cutting your full grown Chia Pet down to size.

I’m just finding it more and more difficult to not be angry. I left this blog for a year. Not because I had nothing to say. But because saying it in a kind, respectful way is so exhausting. I feel like I’ve lost the energy to be nice. You call it lazy. I call it living up to the jerkwad I truly am.

I trust it’s a phase, that I’ll move past this anger. It’s tough with stories like this floating around that make you want to go Nic Cage on Christendom. By that, I mean crazy.

There’s so much to be angry about, it’s hard to know where to start. The Jesus follower in me is screaming to turn the other cheek. But the devil inside of me is telling the sermon on the mount to get bent.

The angry voice is louder when I’m weary, so for now I’ll sleep, hopefully dreaming of Nicolas Cage drop kicking The Gospel Coalition in the teeth. Metaphorically and with the love of Jesus, of course. Maybe that will bring peace in the morning.