Church with a T-Rex

What is it about Mondays that makes people so turkey tired?

I had an interesting experience yesterday.

I worshiped God, along with a lot of people that I love, while a T-Rex was breathing down my neck.

(No, I'm not just saying that because I'm watching Toy Story 3 with my nephew.)

It was odd, to say the least. In a museum filled with ancient relics, war memorabilia, and dinosaur bones, God was alive and moving, and we were there to experience it.

We're in town, visiting our wonderful families for Thanksgiving, so we went to church with Kalyn's family on Sunday, and it was a lot of fun. It was refreshing time where we were able to give thanks amongst a bunch of dead bones who no longer could.

This isn't really an advertisement for their church, though, as much as it's an encouragement and a reminder.

Soon (and most likely sooner than we think), we won't have a chance to express our thankfulness anymore. To experience life in its brevity. To enjoy our wonderful friends and family, the people who love us.

Today, regardless of your circumstances, give thanks. Remember where you've been, and take a moment to enjoy where you're going.

And if worst comes to worst, just remember this:

Even in a place of dry bones and forgotten memories, God is alive and moving.

There's no doubt in my mind that he's moving in your life as well.

... ... ... 

EDIT: Apparently one of my 111 goals this year was to visit a museum! Yes!

Reflections

I'm scared. I'm nervous.

What if I've lost "it?" What if I never had "it?"

Will my friends notice? Will my family care?

Why did I stop in the first place? 

Why did I even start in the first place?

As I've thought about sitting at this keyboard to write, these are the thoughts that have been swirling amidst everything else that occupies my life.

School, relationships, work, sickness, exercise, holidays. It's all a jumbled mess, but somewhere in there is my dormant desire to be sitting here, right here where I am, writing.

My feet are freezing. But my coffee is warm. My hands are out of practice, and my mind is trying to recollect, to reorganize. It's like riding a bike, but much more vulnerable. I can't skin my knees, but I can rub my heart the wrong way if I'm not careful.

How did I ever do this before?

The thoughts continue.

Regardless of those thoughts, though. I'm here. I'm typing, or writing (if that's what you want to call this jumbled mess).

I'm back because I need to be. Because I've realized this last month and a half that life will always be there to get in the way of what you love to do. I will always be sick and taking extra medicine. I will always have work to do. I will always have relationships to tend to, people to love.

I want, though, above all else, to always be writing, regardless of life's twists and turns. Regardless of these thoughts.

But what if no one reads this?

So what?

That never stopped me before. Why should it now?

I'm Still Alive

I don't know what it is, but I love scrolling through Pinterest these days. Of course, as a guy, it's illegal for me to actually get an account, so I haven't gone that far... yet.

I'm in shock, people.

I disappeared off of the face of the blogging world for a week, without warning, and there was no missing person's report filed on me. Shame, shame, shame...

I could've been abducted by aliens.

Or kidnapped by Big Foot.

Or even worse...

But I wasn't!

No, in fact, my absence was a good thing. It means a number of things. And since it is officially October, and thus, the first time it has ever been PCD Awareness Month, I wanted to let you in on what's going on.

(Not sure what PCD is? Check out this post.)

Basically, I'm working on getting better. And because getting better takes time, I had to give up the time in the morning when I typically compose blog posts. It's for a greater cause, though.

Yeah, this is the part where you freak out a little
if you've never seen one of these.

Right now, as I type, I have a tube in my arm. I know, I know. A little freaky when you think about it. It's called a PICC line, and it basically serves as a semi-permanent IV, so that I don't have to get stuck with a needle 42 times in 14 days.

Through this tube, I'm given medicine three times a day. It's a pretty strong antibiotic, to fight off the infection that has built in my lungs, known as pseudomonas. Pseudo is pretty typical for PCD patients to get, but most people aren't susceptible to it, so you don't have to worry about getting sick from reading my blog or anything.

Unfortunately, the hospital in the city that I live in won't let me do the medicine myself. I've done it several times in the past, and it's really not a big deal. Unfortunately, that isn't the case this time. Instead, I get the pleasure of visiting the hospital three times a day: at 6 AM, 2 PM, and 10 PM.

Every day. No breaks. Not even for the weekends.

Basically, I end up spending about 3-4 hours a day in the hospital as a result. It leaves very little time for sleeping, let alone blogging.

So, in due time, I will be back in full blogging force. But next time I disappear, I'll be concerned if there's no concern about my absence. Just kidding!

Have a wonderful week. Make the best of it.

Growing

I thought I was done with Greek in my life. And then they sucked me into tutoring...

I stopped growing when I was in middle school.

I'm about average height, so to be a 13 year old at this height meant I was huge.

We bought everything too big. Sadly, I never met my expectations when it came to those things. I was supposed to be at least 6 feet tall. I didn't think that was too much to ask. Apparently I shouldn't have asked to be a reasonable weight, either, because I've probably only lost weight since then.

Thankfully, though, my mind and heart didn't stop growing with my body. Though I may appear relatively the same in stature (except for the beard), I'm not who I was 8 years ago. I'm not even remotely who I was, and I only have Jesus to thank for that.

We shared our 'stories' for the last couple of weeks in one of my classes. And you know, I have a lot of stories. I have a lot of experiences that I could've talked about that I've grown from. I was born sick. Physically sick. Spiritually sick. For a large majority of my life, I've been fatherless, and I haven't known any better.

But these stories are no good if I haven't grown. I can't imagine what it would have been like to share with my classmates that I am who I was 8 years ago. And, if you think about it, that was just the blink of an eye. I can't imagine what I'll be like in another 8 years. Or even in 80. But I hope for this: that I keep growing. Because to be the same person I am now would be a defeat of the largest kind.

--- --- ---

Just five minutes alone with your thoughts. Hop on over to The Gypsy Mama and try it out!

Compassion

As of today, our college town finally has a real donut shop. Finally.

One of the lamest ways to begin any speech, sermon, or blog post is with a definition from a dictionary.

Please allow me to be momentarily lame. And thanks for your forgiveness in advance.

There's a word I want to define for you, something that I think is very important to understand. Something that very few of us remember on a consistent basis:

Compassion.

According to my very official source of Dictionary.com, here's the definition of compassion: 

1. a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

What's interesting to me is the way that this definition seems to fall into two pieces. The first piece sounds an awful lot like empathy, but includes the word sympathy, so I suppose it's different. The first piece of compassion includes a feeling.

Personally, I don't place much stock in feelings. Feelings can happen for any number of reasons, including (but not limited to!) a change in weather, hormones, or a bad pasta bowl from Olive Garden. Feelings are just that: something you feel. Nothing more. Not much else to them.

Now, granted, there's probably a little more to them than I am letting on, but I'm biased. But in my heart of hearts, I believe that any feelings not accompanied by action are hogwash. They're nonsense. They mean nothing.

And that's why I like the second part of this definition. True compassion is not only a feeling, but a desire. And while many would classify desires as feelings, I believe there's something more to desire.

Desire is craving. If you desire something, it means you want and sometimes even need something. Your heart and mind are telling you that you are lacking something, even if you really aren't. And more often than not, desire leads to my favorite result: action.