Like writing my thesis all over again.

Andrew links to a moving speech by Barack Obama about his stance on abortion that touches on both his relationship to voters and the role of faith in public life. As someone who identifies deeply as both an Evangelical and a feminist, abortion gives me fits. How anyone does not struggle with this issue, perhaps above all others, is beyond me.

Happily, this is just one more reminder about what has already been made abundantly clear: we need more of this type of honesty, humility, and reflection in our leaders. As Bryce is slowing down on the politics blogging, I'm just about to heat up.

Broken Social Scene- Looks Just Like the Sun
RIYL: Stars, Indie/Dream Pop, The Shins

I embedded this one as an extra incentive to listen. Sounds like summer.

Keep Crashing This Car, Over and Over

Why are we still so afraid?
The things we do deserve their rightful names.

Swing with all you have.
Stop me if you can.

-be sensible, jimmy eat world


I think that, in a way, we all bought into the hype.

It's the trial. At last. The trial.

And of course there's so much to be said about that. Justice. A reckoning. Punishment. Confrontation. Something.

Whatever we thought it would mean, if we ever really thought about it at all, we were not prepared for what it actually was. In poetry you can never say "I love you." In life it is never enough to say "good and hard." How to describe that week? Imagine Jesus descending into hell. Grace personified. But in hell.

The trial was, both literally and metaphorically, a destination. Something that we could look forward to. Something that we could place our stock in. Something that was, I don't know, tangible. But it was also an unwanted guest, still in the house far after we tired of its company. It was the emergency surgery.

And it's understandable really. We needed this. Some of us more than others. Several of us much more than me. We all needed this. But none of us wanted it to be necessary. All we've ever really wanted was escape.

When I try to think of the last time that I sat down with a bunch of other people from Central Presbyterian to discuss Peter, for any reason, I picture his welcome party. The rest of it has sort of slipped by. I've never really talked to my parents about it. I've never gotten a card in the mail saying "we're having a meeting at the church, why don't you come join us." I've never had someone even suggest that maybe we should sit down and talk this out. What in the world would we talk about? How would we possibly begin?

Looking back, these events (the Peter years, the post-Peter years, the Peter's back!?! trial years) have all transpired with surprisingly little fanfare. Look back again and you'll be forced to realize that he has never really left us alone. A constant presence that everyone is ashamed to talk about. Scared to talk about. Confused about. The 600 pound gorilla in no uncertain terms.

I got a phone call this morning saying that Peter has been arrested. Again.

I couldn't move on even if I wanted to.

When the stone first hit the water, the disruption of our lives was just too much. Surface tension destroyed. The rotting muck underneath revealed. And when the water returned to glass, no one could intentionally throw another stone. But the wake remains, bouncing off the shore and ricocheting around us. The ripples lapping against our collars remind us that we are up to our necks. The temperature drops slowly. We alternate between bouts of confused panic and treacherous sleep.

Look out the window. The green bleeds away, leaving a sickly, jaundiced yellow in its place. The lazy breeze speeds up, and then its temperament sours. The wind grows teeth and tears at the flesh of the trees. And then one day you realize that the cover from your shade tree is gone. You look up to see a weathered oak standing naked in the sun.

At some point I realized that all of this was choking me. This recurring sliding feeling wasn't going away.

So the trial, this public spectacle, became the chance to say that the emperor has no clothes. It was a chance to come out. All is not well. Something terrible has happened here.

Something terrible has happened here.

Late in the week I was listening to an expert witness testify about trauma and its impact on adolescents. Suddenly I became alert, conscious of myself in a room full of strangers. I was nodding along, picturing my life in the scenes of escapism and guilt.

Here's a test:

Do you often assume that people in the church are full of shit? Clearly guilty of something, definite skeletons in the closet?

Do you look for cracks in the corners, sagging rafters, proof that the foundation is slipping? Are you convinced that the building will collapse? It's only a matter of time. Save yourself.

Do you feel caught between the past and the present, as if some blunt instrument has struck your history and shattered its continuum? Endangered your future?

Do pieces of your life feel fragile? At any moment a wave will come and sweep them away, like great walls of ice abandoning the glacier and drowning themselves in the sea.

Do you search desperately for something that looks like Jesus and feels like love?

The trial unlocked the hard drives and knocked over the file cabinets. Information everywhere. Bits and pieces of fear and hate and betrayal just littering the floor. Millions of pixels all distorted. An image I had not forgotten, but had very clearly lost.

The trial turned out to be a chance for the world around us to crash the party, to reach the epicenter and look for survivors in the wreckage.

Ultimately, it didn't quite go our way.

Mistrial.

A miscarriage is when you lose the baby. We didn't lose the trial. We had a trial.

In some way it was validating. It was good to hear eight voices say that was has happened was wrong. That what has happened was criminal.

Why did I need to go? Why did I feel so compelled? A physical draw, my headlights pointed towards the one thing I wanted most to avoid. Was it to support my friend? Clearly. But what does that even look like? Was it to, in some way, confront Peter. Possibly. I confess that I always stayed out of the men's room when he was at the urinal.

Mostly I think it was because someone finally gave me the chance to show up, to walk into a room. To say with my presence, "this was wrong."

I have been living my life like a sprint since the moment Peter left. Or maybe since the moment I left Peter. I've been running. From myself. From him. From the guilt. But sprints don't last. You can't live a sprint.

I've been running because the temple where I worshiped, the place where I Am dwells, burned to the ground. All that cedar and bronze. Poof.

But we've found that life goes on without the temple that Solomon built. Instead of the altar, we've had the Nicoletti's table. Instead of the burnt offerings, we've had the Wicklund's fire pit. Understanding in a car crash.

Transformation just takes so much time.

If I could make it better for the people around me. The friends and the family. Oh God. I would. But I'm not God.

And God is. God Is.

I'd be lying if I said that I don't still try to offer myself up as the ram caught in the thicket. I'd be lying if I said that I was alone in that.

What say you, and all your friends, meet all of my friends in the alley tonight?

A week ago today a team of hit men and enforcers from a drug cartel here in Mexico attacked a police armory in Cananea, a city in Sonora about 50 miles from Agua Prieta. After overwhelming (and killing) some of the officers on duty, the group left the armory with an unspecified amount of stolen weaponry and fled the city. On the way out of town they encountered and murdered four more police officers. They were chased, and eventually cornered, at a ranch in Sonora by members of the Mexican police and the Mexican military. All told, 22 people died.

There are many things that I could say about this event. It is clearly a tragic loss of human life. It is quite shocking that it took place in the state of Sonora. Violence like this is, unfortunately, not unheard of and in some cases quite common. States like Sinaloa and cities like Tijuana might as well be in Iraq. But Sonora has never really seen all out war between the drug cartels and the police. It is just one more sign that the long history of drug violence in Mexico is spiraling out of control.

On Friday a rumor was circulating the borderlands that another team of cartel members was headed to the town of Naco, Sonora. Naco is the next town over from Agua Prieta, a little pueblo that doesn't even have a gas station but does have an incredible amount of drug smuggling. The response to that rumor in Agua Prieta was, understandably, widespread panic. Schools were closed, the border was shut down temporarily, and people stayed off the streets well into the night.

All of this has left me feeling deeply unsettled.

In the midst of this violence my thoughts have been primarily selfish. I have thought little of the families that lost loved ones, or of the places in Mexico (and around the world) where violence like this is so common. Instead I have spent a great deal of time dwelling on a feeling that I have been unable to shake, a voice in the back of my head that refuses to go away. Even in Tucson, away from the border and doing more "normal things," I could not take my mind off the killings. And all of this navel gazing has left me chasing tangents through my mind, searching for the thought that might pull all of these strands together. I remembered my pothead high school friends and our ignorance about the true cost of getting stoned. I thought about the war on drugs and the morality of allowing legal drug use. I thought about the violence that profitable smuggling has unleashed. I thought about friends who are addicts, and all of my time spent in Skid Row. And I thought about the cost of securing our borders from drugs, in money and in human life.

I spent almost a week wandering in the cloudiness of my thoughts before dawn finally broke. The thing that has made me so deeply unsettled by these killings is not the loss of human life, although that is clearly tragic. What was so unsettling, and what continues to trouble me, was how quickly and easily my relationship to violence changed when I was confronted with the possibility that I might not be safe. Let me explain.

Since I have been in Agua Prieta, many people have been killed. The police chief, a reporter, a migrant, and an untold number of lesser "thugs," have all fallen victim to the violence that is laced into the fabric of the borderlands. In spite of these murders, I have never felt truly afraid. A man was beaten to death in a remote place that I visit every single week, but I do not hesitate to continue my trips there. I have almost no fear that I might meet the same fate.

This sense of security is a luxury afforded to me by my secret love of violence. I know in my heart of hearts that it will keep me safe. In the past I have justified my sense of security by saying that I am safe because I stay away from trouble. And it's true, I do stay away from trouble. I don't smuggle drugs, or spend time with people who do. But there is another, greater truth that I have protectecd myself from. I am convinced that I will be safe because I believe that violence has the power to protect me. I believe that, as a U.S. citizen, I can cross the border and be protected. I can depend upon the literally thousands of U.S. government employees running around in the desert to keep the "bad people" from me. I can trust their guns.

When I am in the desert, or in Agua Prieta for that matter, I can trust my whiteness to keep violence at bay. I know that killing me is bad for business. Kill a Mexican? Happens all the time. Kill a white kid doing humanitarian work? Doesn't look good for you. Whether it is the Mexicans or the Americans, I know that the threat of violence from the government keeps me safe.

So I complain about all of the Border Patrol agents here, not because I want just anyone to be able to walk into the U.S. anytime they want to, but because I hate the migrant deaths. I complain about all the guns on the border, not because I love the drug smuggling, but because sometimes those guns are used to kill innocent people. But when it comes down to it, I love my own safety, and the violence that protects it, more than I love the lives of other people.

And I trust violence more than I trust God. When it came down to my own safety, I gave up my belief that God is powerful, and I worshipped violence instead. "Thank God," I thought, "for all of those men with guns."

Violence is my golden calf. Is it yours?

Death season.

Yesterday I was digging around my comptuer for pictures of the Migrant Resource Center when I found this map. It's a map of migrant deaths from the year 2003. Sorry that the graphic is so small. If you click on the map you should be able to see a full size image.

Sometimes I worry that my posts here are too negative (edit: especially recently), or that there are too many negative posts and not enough of the positive. There's so much hope down here, but it's a lot harder to share over the internet.

That being said, we're now entering the "death season" (hence the title of the post). Heat, more than anything else down here, kills. It was a colder than normal winter, I'm praying that the summer stays cool as well.

And it came to me that every plan is a little prayer to father time.

The world in which we live.

The State Department issued a travel warning for northern Mexico. Drug related violence has been shockingly high this year in many cities. AP, thanks be to God, still seems relatively safe.

The Border Patrol agent who shot and killed Francisco Dominguez Rivera, 22, has finally been charged with murder. Nicholas Corbett, 39, will stand trial on four counts related to the shooting. It's tragic that both of these families are losing their sons.

Bodies were found this week near Douglas/Agua Prieta on both sides of the international border. A body was found about thirty feet away from one of our water tanks on the Mexican side, and another was found at an undisclosed location in the U.S.

Update: The body of a journalist from Agua Prieta who has been missing for several weeks was found near Janos in the state of Chihuahua. Early reports are saying that he was tortured.

I'm not sure about using this as a theology, but right now I'm thinking that the greatest gift Jesus has ever given us is the gift of Hope.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

One by one they all fall away.

Taken from the New York Times via Josh Marshall

I hope to see Mr. Dowd in "Africa or South America doing something that was like mission work" one of these days. I imagine the two of us sitting down to a meal of fresh fruit, rice, and free range meat, imagining a world of greater "gentleness."

The world is changing.

I expected the Rocky Mountains to be a little rockier than this.

Dear Dr. Albert Mohler,

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any dumber, you go and do something like this... and totally redeem yourself!"

Love, Aaron


Well, he didn't totally redeem himself, but I respect what he said about Coulter. He didn't totally redeem himself because in the first post, speaking about homosexuality, he said that if a "biological basis is found, and if a prenatal test is then developed, and if a successful treatment to reverse the sexual orientation to heterosexual is ever developed, we would support its use as we should unapologetically support the use of any appropriate means to avoid sexual temptation and the inevitable effects of sin."

In response, I give you Jeremiah 1:5.

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
before you were born I set you apart;
I appointed you as a prophet to the nations."


Albert Mohler, by the way, is the president of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. He's sort of a big fish you might say.

Albert's probably right though. Using chemicals on a baby seems like what Jesus would want us to do.

*I've got a gold star for the first person to get the quote right!

Anne Coulter Really Stole My Thunder On Edwards Controversies

You heard it here first. The criticism of Edwards' new house, the request for Kuo to ask about it, the posting of the interview, and now my response.

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about then scroll down a little bit. It'll all come to you.

As an aside, I highly suggest watching the full beliefnet interview with Edwards, which can be found right here. First and foremost, it was pretty refreshing to see someone who used to work within the George W. Bush White House sit down with a presidential candidate from the Democratic Party for a discussion on personal faith and its role in public life. I thought that the interview itself was great. I really like the questions that Kuo posed, and I was more than impressed by many of the answers that Edwards gave. If you are not going to watch the whole thing then at least try to watch the part where he answers the question about the house.


The residence in question:




This article from the Carolina Journal Online reports that the 28,200 square foot complex, built on 102 acres of property, is valued at over 6 million dollars by the county tax assessor. Apparently it is now the most valuable house in the county.

The "Journal" writes that "the main house is 10,400 square feet and has two garages. The recreation building, a red, barn-like building containing 15,600 square feet, is connected to the house by a closed-in and roofed structure of varying widths and elevations that totals 2,200 square feet," and that "the recreation building contains a basketball court, a squash court, two stages, a bedroom, kitchen, bathrooms, swimming pool, a four-story tower, and a room designated 'John’s Lounge'.”

Just so we all know what's being talked about.

Now on to business. Here's my transcript from that part of the interview:

Kuo: "Does the size of your house undercut your discussion on poverty?"

Edwards : "I think it's a fair question, first of all..I come from a very modest place and I've done well...and we have a very nice physical structure. It's completely unimportant. What matters is what happens inside that structure. I'm not for a minute suggesting that we're saints, or that we've done more than a lot of other people have done, but we have done...(lists "causes"...So, do I think we've done everything we could do? No, I don't think anybody does."

He clearly ducked the question about his house. To be honest, he didn't even duck it that well. What he tried to do, after a few brief remarks, was to steer the conversation away from his house and towards his charitable giving as well as his involvement in various "causes." If there's one thing I really hate, it's politicians ducking questions.

What is really telling, however, is the way that he explains why the size of his house is unimportant. That one sentence, "What matters is what happens inside that structure," stood out to me more and more as I continued to watch that part of the interview. What does happen inside that structure John? You can go swimming, play a massive game of hide-and-go-seek, plan national campaigns, use one of countless bathrooms...the list is endless really. But you can't identify with 99% of the American people, can you? Not living inside of that house. And let's face it, if you can't identify with Americans, you are definitely not going to be able to identify with the rest of the world. It's not even like he was just trying to keep up with the Jones' either. That's the most expensive house in the county. We get it John, you've done well for yourself.

The thing is, by ducking this question, Edwards called places doubt in my mind about the authenticity of his other answers. He didn't say that he wrestled with the decision, but believed it was ok with God, and compatible with his poverty work. He didn't say that he wanted to use it to further the Kingdom. He said, esentially, that he had done well for himself, so why not? That's just unacceptable to me as a Christian. If you read the Bible, talk about its role in shaping your beliefs on poverty, and still build that house, I believe that there is a fundamental disconnect somewhere. I will not question his faith, but I will question how willing he is to apply it to his own life.

I'm not saying that John Edwards and his family shouldn't enjoy their money in some capacity. I am saying that they have chosen to do so in a way that isolates them from the reality in which the rest of us live. The decision to spend six million dollars on a house that is 3/4 as large as the mansion owned by Bill Gates is just not one that I will ever be able to relate to. Can you relate to it? No matter how many scholarships he gives, or Habitat homes he sponsors, his decision that each member of his family needs more than one million dollars of home will never go away.

Someone once told me that if you want to make good decisions then you should ask for advice from people who have made good decisions in the past. This house makes me extremely skeptical about John Edwards' decisions in the future. Believing that a candidate will make good decisions is sort of an important component in wanting someone to be the leader of the free world.

Of course there is more that could be said. What about the environment? What does that house say about the need to care for this planet in an increasingly populated and industrialized world? What does it say about his commitment to that? I think I've said enough, however. Everything that I wanted to say, save this last little bit:

John, you had a chance to win me back. You had it, and you blew it. It was nice while it lasted. I still might support you for Vice again though.

p.s.- Thanks to Bryce for the link. If you want to see the video clip of Anne Coulter's remarks on Edwards it is posted right here.

Is it a sin to covet an ash cross on someone's head?

Today is Ash Wednesday. I am sad to say that I will not make it to a service today. I really wanted my ashes.

Despite this tragic setback I did manage to celebrate the beginning of Lent with my very dear friend Julia who came to visit me today. We hung out in Agua Prieta and ate some delicious tacos, then headed up to Bisbee for a little ice cream cone action. It was great to see her, and makes me miss all of my Po-mo-na/Claremont College folks.

My second celebration of Lent starts today as well. I had been thinking long and hard about how I should celebrate Lent this year, and later what I should give up. In years past I have given up tv (no Simpsons was really difficult), meat (not as hard as I would have thought), and "sweets" (I like sweets). This year I decided to really test myself and give up music. Not listening to it, that would kill me. I have decided to give up buying it. I know that this is a good thing to give up because I REALLY don't want to do it. I mean, I don't even have the entire Iron and Wine collection. Can that really wait forty more days?! As a way to pursue love, because I don't really think that Lent should be about self-deprivation, but rather about faithful reflection and celebration, I am going to give away the money that I would have spent on music to something worthwhile. Don't ask me what, I haven't quite decided. I'll keep you posted though.

I Must Read This Book.

Oh yes, this looks really good.

Salon has just posted a short excerpt from a new memoir called Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, by author Sara Miles.

It is, from the description given, a memoir about Miles' unexpected conversion to Christianity, her view of the church as she came stumbled in from the outside, and the unexpected paths she found herself walking as she adjusted to a life of faith.

It sounds like a really great book, a camp onion of sorts to the great faith tapestries woven by fellow Bay area resident Anne Lamott.

It's not surprising to me that my favorite works of faith, whether they be music, literature, art, social action...whatever really, are often made by people who are, or who think of themselves as being, outsiders.

Derek Webb, C.S. Lewis, Dustin Kensrue, Oscar Romero, Anne Lamott, and Martin Luther King all come to mind immediately, although the list could just keep going, couldn't it.

It's refreshing to get a look at Jesus (and at his bride) from someone who loves him, but is unfamiliar with the strange ways of his people. At the same time, it is also refreshing that a treatment of Christianity done by a metropolitan progressive could be so nuanced and based out of love.

I'm excited to get my hands on this. Anyone else?

Link to the excerpt: http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2007/02/17/take_this_bread/index.html
(sorry, links are still inconsistent for me at best. Can't figure this one out)

So I guess they won't be joining us for the vigil...

"Volunteer Aaron Boeke, 22, of Colorado places crosses Tuesday in Douglas for immigrants who died crossing the border in or near Cochise County."


It turns out that I was in the newspaper recently, the distinguished Tucson Citizen.

As far as I can tell there was never any story, just a picture and a caption. The really priceless part for me were the seven comments made after the picture, included for your enjoyment:

1. TODAY IN THE NEWS:

Some White-guilt feel-good places two crosses by the port of entry to scare away Mexican shoppers.

2. Hey, great idea. Let's glorify ILLEGAL border crossers and let's make them martyrs. Message to ILLEGALS; it's now honorable to ILLEGALLY cross into the US. Morons.

3. Is there a story to go with the pictures? If so, I cannot bringit up, but I can pretty much guess what it would say anyway!

4. So no story and only pics… hum… I was waiting for the story but, hey, I thought this was a NEWSPAPER, I could be wrong… Star, take it down if your writers can’t think of a story to go with it.

I do want anyone thinking of crossing illegally into the US to know that I know how those illegals could have lived, and how to guarantee their not dieing in the desert… are you ready?? ... They could have chosen to stay in their own country and not try to invade ours... or they could have gotten a Visa or applied for citizenship, they could have come legally. I am sorry to sound heartless but I have no sympathy for someone stupid enough to try and take this deadly and illegal shortcut after years and years of deaths in the desert.

5. Knowing, the biased star, the story would go something like this:

MEMORIAL TO MIGRANT WORKERS
Today, activists planted white crosses as a reminder of how the heartless border enforcement policy of the United States and the Border Patrol are driving totally honest migrant workers to their unwitting death. The Border Patrol could not be reached for comment.
However, Gloria Allred Lopez-Miranda with "Mi Casa es Su Casa Humanos" told the Star: "This is another example of the United States government punishing honest hard-working criminals who only want a better way of life. It's such a racist and underhanded policy."

When asked for her reaction to the recent I.C.E. raids at meat packing plants across the country, Lopez-Miranda stated "I think the government is framing migrant workers. I can't believe that someone coming across the border for work would steal someone's identity to obtain employment. I want to file a lawsuit against the government on behalf of those migrant workers. They have a right to sneak into this country for employement and not pay taxes!"

The Dept of Homeland Security and Border Patrol could not be reached for comment.

6. These people ought to be directing their protests at Mexico, not the US. It’s the corruption, lack of opportunity, and social problems in Mexico that drive these people to cross the border.

7. Mr Boeke needs to go back to Colorado maybe someone up there will explain to him that these people died committing a crime, they are not to be glorified for it.
If they had not committed the crime of illegal crossing an international border across a desert they might still be alive.
They were stupid and suffered their fate, their demise because of it.


I guess that I should find these comments sad, but at this point I find them sort of funny. What we were actually doing was dedicating a bench commemorating eight migrants who died after they were swept away and trapped by a storm drain just a few feet north of the border. The crosses that I am laying down carry the names of migrants who have died here in Cochise County. We use them in a vigil that we hold every Tuesday evening. I plan on talking about that at some point, but I am still undecided about what I want to say.

The things is, these comments make the whole thing seem like it wasn't a real problem, like it wasn't complex and ugly and funny and tragic, and all those things that can make life so difficult to deal with. I used to find that sad, but I guess now I just like to laugh about it.

Also, that picture makes me look like I have to poop.

Did I Listen to Pop Music Because I Was Unhappy, Or Was I Unhappy Because I Listened to Pop Music?

I’ve been having a tough time lately. There’s really no better way to say it than that. I’ve been discouraged, depressed at points, and really just at a loss about a whole lot of things. And, appropriately enough, I’m not very happy about it. I’ve had a bunch of “blah” days, and a few more that were much worse. I spent some time thinking about whether or not I wanted to write something up about this and post it here. Obviously I have decided to do so, largely because I think it would be dishonest not to. I’ve been trying to present a sort of broad picture of my life and work here, using mostly anecdotes and personal interactions to paint, what is hopefully, a complex and diverse picture encompassing this place and these people. Without posts like these I fear that this story would be incomplete.

I’m not really going to go into a lot of specifics about what it is that is making me feel this way right now. Instead I want to talk about the impact that these events have had on my time here. I was catching up with a friend the other day when he asked me if I was ever going to come home. It was a hard question. The truth was, I desperately wanted to go home. I desperately wanted to be in a place that was my own and with people that loved me. But my response was something like, “No, I’m not coming home for at least six more months.” The thing is, if I went home, I’m not sure I’d be able to come back.

It’s hard here. All of the people that I love, and all of the work that I believe in, and often love to do, doesn’t take away the fact that it’s hard. It’s hard for both small reasons and big, but the cumulative effect is that on really bad days, it’s almost impossible to be here. Maybe it would feel impossible to be anywhere. I can’t say for sure. But it has felt impossible here.

I think it’s especially difficult to talk about having a hard time here because in a lot of ways it feels like defeat. For some reason I want to be able to, well, to conquer this place. That’s an ugly, militaristic word, but it seems appropriate here. I want to be able to face the injustice, the cultural shocks, the lack of heat, the absence of my friends, the absence of many things that I like to do for fun, the insane working hours, the constant instability, and the strong sense of isolation out here in the desert. I want to be able to face these things and thrive. Which, after listing some of those challenges, seems like a ridiculous desire, but it’s the desire that I’ve had.

I think this desire comes in part from a sense that I am doing what God called me to do. I don’t think I’ve received a lot of calls in my young life. I’m usually more inclined to think that God gives us a lot of freedom in our lives and asks us to be faithful in making decisions. That’s not why I ended up here in Agua Prieta though. I came here through a very specific call, and because of this I had some sense that I should be “successful” at it, that it would be less difficult somehow. That’s not really a biblical reading of a call, but it’s one that I have been pursuing. And it’s clearly not working out so well.

I’m pretty sure that it’s going to keep being hard for a little while to come, and in some ways, probably as long as I stay here. There are also some things I’m wrestling with that will possibly be very difficult long after I leave. So what do I do in the face of these difficult times and discouraging thoughts? That’s a challenge to all of us that’s not unique to me or to this place. The first thing that I’ve had to change because of this period has been my own reluctance to be honest about things. My desire for this year to be a challenging but fun experience left me denying some very obvious ways that I was hurting until they all sort of came crashing down at once. That hasn’t been helpful. I’ve also got to be more pro-active in making allowances for how hard things really are. I’ve been afraid that dwelling on the difficulties would make me depressed, but the truth is that not trying to mitigate them, or to enjoy myself more, has left me in a place where I’m not really sure what I would do for fun even if I got the chance. That’s not a good scene.

Ultimately, I don’t think that enjoying this year is too much to ask, especially since this work is related to things I might do for many years to come. It’s not comforting to think that misery is in your future long-term. However, I also don’t think that Jesus was joking about that whole picking up my cross thing. Far from it. I often suspect that, for believers in Jesus, if life is very difficult then we must be doing something right. Clearly this is not always true, but I believe it is true more often than we would like to admit.

The most important thing, as always, is that God is worthy of praise. If God is worthy when my life is great, then God has got to be worthy now, or God is not worth anything at all. So, in this, as in all things, God be praised.

By the by, the title for this post comes from High Fidelity. Nobody does neurotic unhappiness like John Cusack. Not Woody Allen, not even Moz. Johnny Boy holds it down.