On grieving 11

Drove on that long straight highway today. Didn't like it, Thehalflight. I wish you were here. It was a completely senseless way to go. And nothing about it makes sense even today. Not the passage of time, not the dulling of emotions, nothing about it makes sense. But it's not sense that I want, Thehalflight. It's you. 

On going under the bus 01

It’s been over a decade since I gave any thought to throwing myself under the bus. And it’s really been the power of God that has kept me on the straight and narrow all these years. But yesterday saw the dismantling of eleven years of God’s work in me on this matter. And today, it fills my every thought. It follows me everywhere like a shadow, like a scythe. God have mercy — I have no desire to stay on the curb. And the psalmist says ‘my soul thirsts for you / my flesh faints for you / Your steadfast love is better than life’.

On the discard pile 04

I'm learning that making Jesus my cornerstone involves consigning other stones to kelefeh roles. The same applies for the discard piles in my life. I can fixate on them and live my life in regret. Or I can turn my eyes upon the one thing which still explodes with unfathomable hope and possibilities — the draw pile. There is still a huge draw pile in play and every morning, a new card is taken into hand. God alone knows what's been shuffled to the top of the deck. My job is just to draw and play. And the song says, "When darkness seems to hide His face / I rest on His unchanging grace / In every high and stormy gale / My anchor holds within the veil"

On the discard pile 03

The discard pile is in many ways a purgatory of sorts. They are things that have failed to stay alive in any active way, but are not entirely dead, so as to be expunged from existence. They just sit there, waiting to either get thrown out or be loved back into useful circulation. It might even be possible to love your own discard pile back into life. But you can't love yourself back into someone else's playing hand. 

On the discard pile 02

There is a stack of books by the door, waiting to be given away. Among them are all the duplicates that Thewife and I discovered we had when our respective bookshelves merged over three years ago. I like having duplicates. I like the stories they propel, the oneness of literary tastebuds they quietly represent, and how serendipituous life used to be. But all the duplicates have been removed from the shelf and they now sit in a discard pile by the door. As soon as I'm not looking, they will all check out. 

On the discard pile 01

When you play life's hands at several hundred days per blink, it's easy to forget what's in the discard pile. The passage of time has rendered many of my life's most charming details to the scrapheap. And as I thumb through my discard pile, I realise what hands have been spent and can never be drawn back. Many of these, I wish could have been played differently. But nostalgia is expensive and regret is unaffordable. And as I place the discard pile back facing down, the only ethos left is to do the best with what I have. 

On rebuilding 04

Most bricks on a wall were created equal but not every brick is loved equally. Some bricks bear the scratch marks that tell us how tall we are as we grow up. Other bricks bear the nail marks over which we hung our family photos. And some bricks bear the crude dent marks from the careless moving out. I've found a brick that bears all the marks we left to one day reminisce. I'm gonna build a wall out of it.