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| Dear Nathan,
What an interesting year it's been. I wonder if interesting is the right word... let's see... disappointing? Disastrous? Too melodramatic. How about... silly. Foolish. Lazy.
But then, let's remember December. Reading the Gospel of Luke for what seemed like the first time, wondering why it seems like Christians don't love the poor like Jesus seems to be saying to. Let's remember January, when Eamon gave you Irresistible Revolution to read and you cried in every chapter because you wanted so badly to live that way, loving the poor and free of material greed. Let's remember May, when suddenly Meghan Ridge seemed like she finally liked you. Let's remember June, when you started dating her, almost two years after meeting her, almost two years after being convinced that she was the perfect girl for you..Let's remember July, when Luke came back from Africa and you spent the week together in Colorado, smoking pipes, staring at the sky, talking about regrets and failures and the evolution of Reformed Theology, and black matter. Let's remember August, when Luke came to Denton for a week and made your life there feel somewhat validated with his encouragement, with his presence. Let's remember that your sisters both married amazing men this summer. Let's remember September, when you moved to Mack Park and embarked on an adventure of community: Sarah, the Reformed Pentecostal, and Yasmin, the Infamous Persian Christian, right next door. Let's remember Meghan. Let's remember Luke. Let's remember Anna and Ashia. Let's remember Eamon. Let's remember the other Luke, the dead one. Let's remember Jesus.
It makes me sad to see you so low these days, Nathan, like you're content to just drift between radio programs, YouTube videos, sports games, late night movies, shows with your band, and the occasional liason with unrepentance. But maybe that's why you're writing me now. To dig out a bit, to poke your head above the dirt like someone who has been saved by God Himself, to look at your mind and say, "I am fearfully and wonderfully made." It is hard. It is hard to keep your eyes open, to listen to the Spirit. Lately I have found great comfort in letting myself feel empty at times, especially when the Spirit convicts me of sin. Try that. Let yourself be empty, not of beauty or life or love, but of pride that comes from and causes sin. Let the love of God burn it away, like a forest fire burning away the dead wood, so that the young and vigorous flora can sprout in you, and so the young and vigorous fawna can eat little pieces of you. Haha. I only said that last part because I knew you'd find it funny.
I'm glad you wrote me tonight. I think it was good for you, just to think and put words one in front of the other. Since you plan on posting this letter on the internet, maybe I should say a word for anyone who might read this: Luke, I miss you and I love you. Anyone else, don't worry, I'm just being honest for posterity and catharsis at the risk of confusing or worrying you, and please feel free to be indignant and cross for exactly thirty-five minutes, then you should go have some black tea with milk and sugar, and read something encouraging (nothing by Salinger or Hemingway), and then take a walk with a friend who loves you enough not to confuse and worry you.
Nathan, I thoroghly appreciate your writing me, but I think you should go to bed or talk directly to God instead of just about Him. By the way, I'm not sure about the sideburns.
Cordially,
nathan
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|  | Currently Watching
Hook
By Dustin Hoffman, Robin Williams, Julia Roberts, Bob Hoskins, Maggie Smith
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My mother says it's a damp, cold night, but Avril Lavigne would probably disagree with her.
Regardless, my question for Avril and my mom is this: is it a damp cold night in which you are trying to figure out this life? Or is trying to figure out this life, a damp cold night itself, figuratively speaking?
And no I don't always listen to 102.9, and when I do, I don't always try to find the meaning of life in the song lyrics I hear there.
But if you can tell me, whether my mom or Avril Lavigne, I don't know who you are, but I, I'm with you.
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| I have never sat in this seat before. I have never lived this day, or been this age, or known these people, or had this exact brain, down to its wrinkliest cranny, before.
And I must say, I find every day that the excitement I should feel that every moment is a bend in the road is somewhat abated by my desire for the road to lead to some sort of home.
When I was five, I told my best friend Josiah that I wanted to die a five year old. I told him that we would never be happier, and that I wanted to be five in heaven, forever. I can honestly say that I have been happier since then. I know nobody reads this journal, and that's why I don't mind saying with complete honesty that that is only because of Jesus. Not like, some awesome stuff happened and as a Christian I attribute it to providence. No. It's the moments when I've tasted him, when I've felt his Spirit burn me up with undeniably foolish hope, when I've seen darkness redeemed and friendships sustatined, when I've seen that the only poetry in this world of harsh bullet points must come from somewhere else, that the cadence is made more beautiful with suspensions and dissonance that perfectly resolve.
Without those things, even those beautiful scenes of my family, laughing together reflected in a Christmas ornament, or much less so, my experiences of physical and emotional pleasure with various girls or the wild applause of a fixated audience, would be the walls of a hell I'm trapped in; without those things, the things of Jesus, I would wish that I had died at five. So now, even when I despair, I despair in hope, and even when I weep, I believe in comfort, and even when I am lonely, I believe I am inches away from Jesus. I feel his carresses, and long to be ravished by him.
By the way, I tend to write when I am somber. I experience so much joy from knowing Jesus, that anything else is worth it. Know that, and don't be concerned that I am suddenly an older version of my young quasi-suicidal self.
And yeah, I want to be five in heaven. I want a trail that leads through the woods, frightening and wondrous, and then at the end, a home. | | |
| Less than two weeks ago, I sent out a cry for help to my poor and near friends. I needed more than two thousand dollars for my imminent trip to Russia. Asking for their money was one of the must humbling experiences of my life (which probably means I needed that as much as the money).
All that is to say, I now need only $130.
I didn't write this to say thank you to the people who gave to me. I plan on telling them all individually. I wrote this to proclaim, to shout, to insist, and to remind my feeble senses, that God is good and faithful and true.
So if you pray, then pray for me please. I'm going to Russia.
love, nathan
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| I think part of the reason Pride and Prejudice resonates with me so much is that I was totally fooled the first time I read it. I hated the cold, distant Mr. Darcy, and I kind of liked the charming Mr. Wickham.
I realized recently that I am both of them. To so many girls I play Wickham... an intelligent but basically predictable flirt, showing just enough depth and genuineness to keep them wanting more. And in the end, I can't or won't finish it. And foolishly, in my own eyes I am a patient Darcy, watching from a distance the one that I want, never betraying myself for a second to her knowledge, or even letting the other girls catch on that there is anyone else.
The problem is, I know that this is real life, and in real life, so many Elizabeth Bennett's settle for Wickham because Darcy never comes around, and in real life, Elizabeth Bennett maybe doesn't go for Mr. Darcy because he actually is arrogant, or he's just a little too old or has a big nose.
Nonetheless, I repent of being playing Mr. Wickham.
love, nathan
p.s. Praise God, my passport finally came! Now I just need a couple thousand dollars, and a lifetime of prayer...
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