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.

You make me want to be a better man.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WESLEY BENGT WICKLUND


Here are some thoughts I wanted to share with you on this momentous occasion:

1. You've been around through a lot of stuff. I remember being in elementary school with you, hanging out, moving on to middle school, and then being really excited when you finally got there two years later. Mission trips. Praise band. Leadership teams. Mexican champagne. I love that our history goes deep. I love that our future is going to be even deeper.

2. Because I can look back for years and years, far past a decade of friendship, I have no problem saying that you have always been a really, really good guy. More than uncommonly legit. And you've become a really, really good man. One of the best I've ever met. You've always tried to do the right thing, and when you've failed, as we all do, you've tried even harder. The title says it all.

3. You are damn passionate. I've seen you get in fist fights, yelling fights, and soccer fights (the dirtiest fights of all). I can't say I've always thought it was a good idea for you to be fighting, but I've always loved and admired that spirit. You have convictions, and a belief that there are things in life worth fighting for. And there are.

4. You don't love the law for the law's sake. You want all the freedom that Jesus can give you. Let's get after it.

5. JBBP baby.

You are my brother. I love you.

Despierta Mama, Despierta

It's Mother's Day here in Mexico. Quite a celebration, let me tell you. Last night the jovenes group from the church (jovenes being high school to twentysomethings) set out to do a little late night serenading in the streets of Agua Prieta. Armed with two busted up guitars, some hand written lyrics sheets, a list of Mexican Mamas, and a few flashlights, three cars set out to wake up all the women of the church with off key singing and the promise of group hugs. 3:30 in the morning later I finally made it to bed, surprised by how quickly I have adjusted to a post college life (well before 2:00 a.m., my former bedtime, I was way past still wanting to be awake). I managed to confuse some of my Mexican (and American) friends yet again last night by being both very detached socially and also willing to sing quite loudly. A sure sign that it's time for a nap.

I have been really fortunate this year to take part in a whole mess of Mexican customs that I didn't understand or know anything about prior to arriving at the border. A lot of people have been very gracious by opening up their homes to me and letting me share a small part of their lives with them. This was one of those times.

I thought about calling my own mother to wake her up for some singing, but in the end decided that muffled and incomprehensible noises at two in the morning might not be the most compelling way to tell her how much I appreciate her. But there's always next year.

Everything's bigger in Texas

What a charmed life I live.






The view from my balcony, room 529 at The Crescent Hotel in Dallas.






My feet getting ready for my "mani and pedi." Yeah, seriously.







What shines more brightly, the Rolls' logo or my freshly manicured nail? The car was parked right outside the hotel- across from an Enzo and next to a pair of Bentleys.







Jimmy, Nate (the groom), and Garrett channeling their inner CEOs. Alternate caption: Go on brush your shoulders off. First runner-up: I'm not a businessman, I'm a business, man.












Milli (the bride) gets henna applied on her hand at the Mehndi party.







Junia and I share a moment at the airport.

Can you really blow smoke rings? Radical!

Seymore/C-Macaroni and Chesse/C-Money/H to the Izzo V to the Izza (Wait, that's the Roc)

Happy Birthday Brotha!

Not surprisingly, I have some thoughts to share with you:

1. You really love profound thinking. And I REALLY love that about you. I don't know anyone who hasn't found themselves in an unexpectedly deep conversation with you only to realize that it has revealed a big truth about their life. How do you do that?

2. You have really been a part of a second family to me. Your parents treat me like one of their own kids. That makes us close like white and rice.

3. You, to be as cliche as possible, have taken some lickings and kept on ticking. You have what older people would probably call grit. I like that about you. I respect that about you. Sigue adelante, as we say here in Mexico. Roughly translated that means "keep on trucking son."

4. Tom Moore is your father, but I'm pretty sure that Bryce is your daddy.

5. I always sleep on top.

I love you brother.
Happy Birthday

I hope it's still yesterday in New Zealand...

Happy (belated) Birthday Erik!

Yesterday was the 21st anniversary of the birth of Erik Haagenson. I celebrated with you in my heart of hearts.

On this magnificent day I have a few thoughts that I would like to share with you:

1.You, more than any single one of "us," are a leader. Despite being younger than some, and a peer to others, you have been able to lead us into many great adventures. You make things happen, and "get it goin'." I will be forever grateful for so many memories.

2.You, in the face of great adversity, seek to be a safe place in the midst of a storm. You look towards love in the face of sickness, and hope in the face of grief. Keep walking that path, it leads to great beauty. You have been an inspirational figure in my life, more so than you will ever truly know. Through many long seasons of darkness in my soul, you have been a great light.

3.You have an amazing eye for beauty. Your pictures move me, and I look forward to having many of them on my (our?) walls.

4.You are a man that I treasure fiercely. It feels strange to call you my brother, as there is nothing else, in this world or the next, that you could possibly be.

I love you Erik. Happy Birthday.

Feliz Cumpleanos.

Happy Birthday Chris!

Today is the 21st anniversary of Christopher Nicoletti's birth. Well, it is here. Only God knows what time or what day it is in the land of the Kiwis. I could probably find out, I'm just too lazy to look it up.

On this momentous occasion I have some thoughts to share with you Chris:

1. You, more than any other person I know, have an ability to connect with new people and become interested in their lives. It never ceases to impress me.

2. You, through a bunch of really crazy life situations, have sought to be a steady and faithful presence in the lives of the people around you. I continue to be inspired by the peace, patience, and love that you've shown to so many people.

3. You, even when I don't realize it at the time, always make any activity that we do together more interesting and more fun. If I see a wall, you see something to climb. If I see some paint, you see Kyle as the canvas.

4. You are a great man of God and a person I am proud to call my brother. I'd give anything to buy you a drink, but I can't afford the plane ticket.

I love you Chris. Happy Birthday.

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.