the 66th week

If all goes to plan, these weekly recaps will be ground to powder come the end of October. The house search continues, and the time frame's winnowing down. Andy's decided not to move with Blake and me, is moving back in with his parents to save up money for the next step in his life. It's a commendable decision. Blake and I have been looking for 2-bedroom apartments and houses all over Cincinnati, and we've found a couple decent ones in Norwood. The waiting game's commenced, and now all we can do is hope to hear back. I've got enough money saved up to cover all the expenses, so the financial burden is virtually kaput. The Claypole House has been kind to me, but it'll be refreshing to embrace some change.  Now: the weekly recap of my 66th week at the Claypole House. 

Monday. I woke at 1:55 AM, misread the clock at 6:55 AM, and thinking I was 25 minutes late to work, I bolted out of bed, threw on some clothes, and ran out the front door to my car before realizing it was only two in the morning. 4 1/2 hours later I started my opening shift, and after work I went to Amos' for a bit, and then he came home with me for Blake's birthday party. By the time we got back to Claypole I had a splitting headache (seeing as I hadn't had any coffee that day, and, yes, I work at a coffee shop), so I retired to my bedroom, popped some pills, and slept for an hour. The last edges of the headache were swept away with a quesadilla and birthday festivities. I didn't know most of Blake's friends, so I kept with Ams and Brandy. The people thinned out, and the usual Monday Night Crew--Blake, Amos, Ams, Andy, me, and John & Brandy--crowded Blake's room to round out the night.

Tuesday. I spent the rainy afternoon after work sitting on the front porch reading historical fiction, and I went to The Anchor and did a good amount of writing. I spent the evening hanging out with Isaac and Andy and treated myself to Chipotle for dinner and pumpkin donuts for dessert.

Wednesday. I didn't go into work till 11, so I got some breakfast burritos for breakfast and did some reading at The Anchor before work. I went straight to Amos' once we closed the store, and then I went back to The Anchor to finish out my reading regarding Burgoyne's northern campaign in the American Revolution: his drive at Albany, the conquering of Ticonderoga, his defeats at Bennington and Bemis Heights, and his surrender at Saratoga. I love American Revolutionary history paired with coffee, toast and eggs. The quiet, cold night was spent reading on the front porch, listening to the crickets and the distant thunder.

Thursday. I worked an enjoyable 7:30-2:00 with James, Sarah, and Tiffany, and after work I finally bought the new Mumford & Sons and Edward Sharpe albums. They're phenomenal. I did dinner at The Anchor--a cheeseburger, fries, and cottage cheese with club crackers--and spent the evening on the front porch yet again, listening to Mumford & Sons and reading up on Valley Forge and France's entrance into the war following Gates's victory at Saratoga while drinking Barefoot Moscato from the bottle. I've officially been promoted to Shift Leader/Assistant Store Manager at 600 Vine, and thus the wine was celebratory in nature. I also got to talk to Mandy K. for a bit, and that was good as always.

Friday. I worked 6:30-1:00 and kicked off the weekend with some more Valley Forge and some moscato on the front porch. I went to The Anchor for coffee and started a bible study by N.T. Wright on the pastoral epistles. I ran by Brandon's place up Vine Street and then Andy & I went to Eric & Tiffany's for a fire, pecan tarts, Kenyan coffee and good conversation. Lennon showed me his new Lego sets and all his self-portraits on Tiffany's phone, and Adler kept running around in the dark with her light-up shoes, catching slugs and naming them all "Louisville Slugger." Pat D. came over around 10:00, and Ams joined us and we all hung out in the living room and shared gut-wrenching laughter, as usual. It'd been so long since I'd seen him, weeks upon weeks, it was really good to catch up.

Saturday. I went to The Anchor for coffee and had breakfast burritos for brunch while watching "Land of the Dead." I spent the afternoon reading about the Battle of Monmouth Courthouse before grabbing dinner at Rock Bottom: brewery nachos and chicken quesadillas paired with their Oktoberfest beer. Brandon came over later in the night, and he played with the tacs on our tac-board and we stood outside in the cold smoking cigarettes and talking shop.

Sunday. I went to The Anchor and spent the afternoon reading The Glorious Cause on the front porch. The autumnal weather is perfect for it, but soon my reading will have to move indoors with the onslaught of winter. "I'm going to start calling you 'Anthony the Literist," our neighbor and N.T. professor Jamie Smith quipped, "because you're always out there reading on the front porch." Blake returned from a family reunion in Paris, and I took a nap and, after yet another bout at The Anchor, I spent the evening over at the Loth House playing MW3 with Amos and hanging with John & Brandy. John had some awfully skunked "Colonial Times" beer that I've been digging into. "It's so old, it's like it was made to be enjoyed at Valley Forge," I quipped (though the recipe was established in 1799, quite a while after the winter of '77-'78). 

[september contemplations]

9.1 My sins haunt me. The shame literally makes me feel sick. I fear that there is no mercy for me, no grace to cover these sins. I fear I've gone too far, that there's no coming back from this. I know I'm not alone: we all have our dark secrets, the awful skeletons in our closets, and even the great men of faith suffered moments of heinous sin. Abraham passed off his sister as his wife, Noah got shit-faced drunk, Samson couldn't keep his dick clean, Jeremiah accused God of being a rapist, David slept with another man's wife and had that other man slain to try and cover up the adultery. And yet they repented, and God kept using them, even called them men after his own heart. The heroes of faith in Hebrews 11 are all marked by sin but, even more, by grace. God knows my heart, knows that despite the pollution, despite its convoluted nature, I still desire to please him, yearn to honor him. I guess I kinda thought a switch would be flipped, that the gray would become black-and-white, that things would pan out with ease. But I was wrong. Faith is complicated, and hard, and we're yet made of dust, and we must rely not on our own strength but on the strength God gives us, trusting in His grace rather than our own spiritual accomplishments (if we can call them that). The shame I feel over these sins doesn't justify them, but it does testify to the fact that I am, at least in a certain sense, a good man. Good men who are devoted to God will sometimes find themselves overtaken and overwhelmed by their own humanity, and all we can do is trust in God, confess our sins, repent and keep repenting. The only other option is to submit to our all-too-humanness, to give in to our dark sides, to cast off God in our self-loathing. But the message of the cross isn't that God came to save those who didn't go "too far" but, rather, to seek and save precisely those who did. Any inclination that we'll be perfect after conversion is idealistic (read: unrealistic). God demands our repentance and offers us his grace. Job was a perfect man not because he never sinned but because he repented and kept on repenting. Wallowing in guilt and shame is its own collusion with the powers of darkness, a failure to appropriate for ourselves the great mercy, grace, and love of God, a way of saying that the cross just didn't cut it. My prayer is that God shows me his grace and mercy, and it is my responsibility, as a recipient of his grace and mercy, to likewise be a creature of grace and mercy to those who sin against me, not in an effort to justify myself, or to "make good" on God's love, but out of thankfulness for what he's shown me despite my laundry list of sins and shortcomings. 

9.6 There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. These are profound words worthy of much pondering (as Danny Dyke would say). It's easy to know but difficult to believe, and even more difficult to appropriate. I find myself, in classic fashion, weighted down my the knowledge of my sin. It hangs over me like a turpentine cloud. I find it difficult to pray because of my own unworthiness, I can't bear to ask a thing of God, and I even struggle to ask forgiveness, something I so richly do not deserve. I fear that if the guilt goes away, I'm trivializing my sin, hardening my conscience or something akin. Yet Paul declares that sin has been broken, we're no longer in its debt; the guilt has been transposed and dealt with, our slates have been cleansed. We are not debtors to sin but slaves to God; and not just slaves but children. Our cry is the Aramaic "Abba," the desperate cry of the child to a loving and providential father. We've been adopted as God's children, and as such we're both granted the privileges and responsibilities of family membership. These responsibilities (and privileges) include living by the Spirit, a type of life characterized not least by love, joy, peace, and hope: all things I'm fighting for but failing to attain. There's no joy and peace when my sins haunt me; there's no hope, for how can a creature such as myself claim title to such a thing? But as much as I may seem to be fighting for these things, perhaps I'm really fighting against them, in my own resistance to grace? In my refusal to put the past behind me, to look upon myself as a child of God rather than as an unkempt rascal, in my opposition to what grace means about me, maybe in this way I'm fighting against those things I so desperately crave? St. Paul and Hebrews tells us to boldly approach God, in confidence; not confidence because of our merit but confidence in our justified position before God through Christ. Paul tells us not to "fall back into a slavery of fear" but to stand firm in grace and to look forward to our inheritance. This is an admonition, a command, to know who we are in Christ and to let our mind be renewed by the Spirit. I struggle with this, I really do. I've got the guilt complex of a Catholic schoolgirl.

9.8 I long for a world of black-and-white, where the answer to all our dilemmas is presented to us in crystal clarity. But sometimes life presents us with situations where the right thing to do isn't so clear. At times we're forced to choose the lesser of two evils; there come situations where the only possible outcomes are fraught with perils and shadows. When those times come, I don't know what to pray for. But Paul says that even when we don't know how to pray, or how to pray as we ought, the Spirit is there interceding before God in our stead. There's comfort in that: God knows we're short-sighted and dumb-witted creatures, knows that we're not yet glorified and that our prayers are often marked more by our fallenness than anything else. And he doesn't leave us at the mercy of such things. The Spirit, our Helper & Counselor & Guide, prays the prayers we should pray; and my prayer, then, is that God will listen.

9.12 Paul says that nothing can separate us from the love of God, and yet I find it difficult to imagine how he could love a person like me. The things I've done and haven't done, the way I've hurt others out of my own selfishness, my willing disobedience... I can't help but wonder, "Does God's grace have limits?" Can we truly go too far? I can't help but think of Peter, who, in full knowledge of what he was doing, denied Christ three times; and Christ didn't say, "You've gone too far," but "You're going to go further." He didn't say, "You really fucked up, so go sit on the sidelines." No, he forgave Peter and then, shocking to all sensibilities, he commissioned him. Peter confessed his sin, his public & outright denial of Christ, and Christ gave him not only mercy (which he didn't deserve) but also grace (which he so didn't deserve). And I can't help but think of that next Pentecost, where Peter boldly announced the gospel. Those who had partaken in the mob clamoring for Jesus' crucifixion were gathered, confronted with the severity of their sins, and though standing condemned they were invited to align themselves with the one whom they crucified and whom God resurrected. Those whose hands were bloodied by Christ's death were summoned to be washed, to be made clean and whole; and not only that, but to be filled with God's own Spirit. I look at my sin, not those sins without knowledge but those sins with knowledge, and I ask, "How can God forgive me?" The answer, of course, is on a cross. All that God asks--no, demands--is repentance. If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you WILL be saved. Christ is my Master, my King; I've committed my life to him, and I believe, beyond any shadow of doubt, that God raised him from the dead. And thus I've been saved; my sin is forgiven, no longer held against me; and I'm freed to be the person God wants me to be. There's not just mercy (not getting what I deserve) but also grace: getting precisely what I do not deserve. Friendship with God, a new identity, a commission to advance the good news of what God has done in Jesus. The pondering of this can't help but to inspire praise, awe, and wonder.

9.23 I keep thinking about forgiveness, what it means, what it's like, how to make it a reality in my life. What happens in forgiveness is simple: we're reconciled to God. Friendship is restored. God views us, and treats us, not as enemies at worst nor strangers at best, but as friends and family. Forgiveness breeds reconciliation, and the cross gives birth to forgiveness. Jesus defeated evil on the cross and death in his resurrection, and because sin has been defeated, it no longer holds any power. Forgiveness is the appropriation of that, the dismantling and defeat of all the evil putting us at enmity with God. Our sins aren't held against us, not because God ignores them or pretends they don't exist, or that they weren't really that bad after all, but because he's faced them, named them, and crucified them. This is why Paul can says that while it looked like Jesus was being dragged to the cross by evil, it was really the other way around. And because God has sapped our sins of all authority and power, they no longer pose that stop-gap preventing friendship with him. This means that shameful obsessions with our sin are empty, and fearing that our mishaps will deprive us of friendship with God is nothing short of foolishness. It means we can stand boldly in the Throne Room, it means we don't have to live in shame over sins. And, perhaps most amazing of all, it means God is released from being angry and wrathful towards us. When I reflect on my past sins, I keep thinking that there's simply no way God can be "on my side," no way that he can show me his goodness and mercy, because I certainly don't deserve it. But forgiveness wouldn't be forgiveness if it weren't for that little fact: I don't deserve it. Forgiveness isn't meek & mild, it isn't weak or dainty. It's powerful, it's effective, and it's the result of Christ's cosmic battle and victory over evil in his death and resurrection. 

9.30 Danny Dyke said, "Repentance is damned hard, it makes you want to cuss like a sailor!" He's right. But though hard, it's refreshing to the soul, invigorating to the spirit. My conscience is in need of renewal, and in regards to this whole "Get My Life Back on Track" thing, what I need in my faith isn't a fresh call to ministry but some time in Arabia. The past year has been marked more by low tides than high, and I've come to see through it all my desperate need for a faith that is founded on Christ alone rather than on any self-identity with vocational ministry. I can't equate the character of my faith with my involvement (or lack thereof) in vocational ministry. It may very well be that ministry is the cloth God wishes to cut for me (or, rather, sew me into); but what I need now isn't a pulpit but a good dose of time in God's throne room, just bathing in him and letting him reshape a heart and mind that's been polluted by too much time in the pigsty. Thus my renewed focus is to be on God and God alone, not on my performance for him. And I want to take this time in Arabia to really hack at those sins that so easily entangle me, to get back to the basics of Christian living and teaching, to get involved in church and to hopefully rid myself once and for all of those awful cancer-sticks that turn every back deck and front stoop into a cancer ward. My hope and prayer is that God will heal me and my life, stitch me back together, show me the path he wishes my feet to take. 

N.T. Wright: Romans

I've been making it a habit (or, better put, a semi-habit) to spend time in prayer, scripture reading, and reflection each day (usually at The Anchor, surprise, surprise). Isaac and I sat in my room just this past week talking about our spiritual discipline (or lack thereof), and the conversation ignited a further spark in my own quest to become more regimented in my religious observances. There's always the risk that they become nothing more than hollow ritual, but excising them for fear of what they could become doesn't make sense (because then you're just making the risk complete and justifying the fear). Back in the day I used to hate "Quiet Times" (and to be honest, that very phrase sends shivers up my spine), but I can't deny that setting aside time to reorient oneself is nothing short of wise. Even if you aren't Christian, the very practice itself has value: Buddhists have been advocating it for as long as they've been around (and it's much cooler to practice "Quiet Times" in Eastern mysticism than in orthodox Christianity, let me assure you). 

I went to Family Christian in Florence looking for a good bible study, and I couldn't find one fitting my tastes. I'm pretty picky when it comes to bible studies, and I think it all boils down to this: I want something of substance, and I want something that won't make me go, "Wait, that's not what the text actually means..." How many bible studies did I come across with Jeremiah 29.11 as the centerpiece? You really don't want to know (and I bet none of them were about the future hopes of nationalistic, post-exilic Israel). The bane of going to a Christian college and majoring in biblical studies is that by getting a good dose of common-sense hermeneutics, you realize just how little common sense hermeneutics are actually out there. Bible college teaches you to be critical, and when you come to sermons, to bible studies, to small groups, whatever, that tendency remains. This isn't a phenomenon regulated to me: most of my friends who went to bible college and took the same classes I did have this little quirk. So there I was, in the aisles, leafing through various bible studies, feeling frustrated, thinking maybe I should just throw one together for myself (an idea which I didn't like in the least, for multiple reasons), and then I came across the savior of western theology, N.T. Wright (and, yes, I use "savior" in a sardonic sense).

N.T. Wright, he's a solid fellow. He's primarily a historian, not a theologian, though he's renowned for the latter. He's sort of a bastard child when it comes to theological camps: conservatives don't like him because he goes too far, and liberals don't like him because he points out all the fluff and inconsistencies in their arguments. He writes about the awkward place in which he finds himself in his book on justification (a book aptly titled), but this doesn't deter him from bringing the biblical texts to fresh light in lieu of historical discoveries and research. When I worked at Starbucks (what seems years ago), most of my Christian friends didn't like him. They were bigger fans of Chesterton, Piper, and Driscoll (the latter two who stand in conflict with some of Wright's ideas). Having read many of Wright's books and articles, either for class or pleasure, I've found my own faith enlivened, and I've found that many of the attacks lodged against him really fall flat. Some accuse him of being in the New Perspective on Paul camp, with people like Sanders and Dunn; but this shows how wildly caricatures fly, for Wright himself asserts that while they have similarities in their convictions, there's some pretty hefty differences (it is for this reason, I suspect, that Wright's most popular book on Paul is titled, "Paul in Fresh Perspective"). Not liberal and not orthodox, Wright's under fire from everybody. But I can't help but wonder, "Why revolt against fresh readings of scripture in light of historical study?" The basic premises of the faith are not short-changed but reinforced, and I can't help but subsequently wonder if all those who so viciously oppose him would change tables if historical study supported rather than challenged their traditional beliefs? It's all about keeping the status quo, after all; no one likes their feathers to be ruffled.

Getting back to the main point, I found a series of bible studies written by him and instantly bought one. They're short and sweet, easy to wedge into any busy day, and Wright's good at directing prayer in light of the scriptures read. And, best of all, he weaves lots of history and culture into the bible study, illuminating different aspects of scriptures that we were hitherto blinded to because of the vast distance in time, culture, and geography between our world and Paul's. These bible studies are definitely worth your while if you're looking for something to keep you accountable, something to keep you interested, and they're very applicable to everyday life (being a more theoretical, abstract-thought kinda guy, I need lots of goading when it comes to application). Next up is his study on the pastoral epistles (1 & 2 Timothy and Titus), and for once in my life, I'm excited about a bible study. That's a good sign, I think. 

get on it

You read this post's title.
So do it. Now.

the 65th week

Andy & Blake playing Checkers outside Cracker Barrel

The searingly-hot weather that has defined summer thus far has simmered down, and now the cold's been encroaching (it's a happy encroachment). I've busted out that autumn wardrobe, my sweaters and jeans. This is my favorite time of the year by far, even though I know once all the leaves are gone and the trees stand stark and naked, I'll be over it. But the period between the lushness of summer and the barrenness of winter is one I love. 

Monday. Jake & I opened, and after a post-work nap I went to The Anchor and did some reading on the American Revolution before heading over to the Loth House to hang out with Amos. He came home with me, and after a failed attempt at watching "Kazaam" (Andy was quite upset), we rounded out the rainy night watching episodes of "Eastbound and Down."

Tuesday. Amos & I opened, and the rainy morning brought cool temps and people were wearing jackets and jeans out on the street. Autumn is almost here! I got dinner at The Anchor (eggs, bacon, and biscuits & gravy), and I joined Ams, Amos and Brandy at the Loth House and called it a night early after some good talks with Andy out on our front porch.

Wednesday. Amos & I opened together yet again, and after work I went to The Anchor to do some writing, and I spent the evening reading up on The Battle of Brandywine Creek. Andy & I got Chinese for dinner and watched Mel Gibson's "Payback."

Thursday. I worked a long and tiring 10-hour shift, and spent the late evening over at Amos' playing video games with him and Brandy. John's dad was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma and started chemo immediately, already there's significant improvement. That's definitely excellent news! When I headed home I found myself locked out (lost my damned keys again), so I went over to Ams' place down the street and watched "Neverland" with her and Chris until Andy returned home from work.

The Last Day of Summer. I was 15 minutes late to work, but it was NBD. James & I had a solid morning, and I was off by 1:00. Tiffany brought in her kids, and they were adorable as always, and I made them some mini hot chocolates. After work I went to The Anchor and finished hammering out an essay (below) on predestination and election from a corporate perspective. I'm still wrestling with God's sovereignty and human freedom/responsibility, a paradox that has no easy answers or explanations. After hanging with Blake for a while, Ams and I met up with Eric & Tiffany and their kids, Lennon and Adler, at Rock Bottom to try out the newly-tapped Oktoberfest and to eat some good food. It was crowded, with Oktoberfest all up and down Vine Street and the Reds game, but we got a table pretty quickly once Tory saw us. Ams & I split nachos and Lennon had some, too, and we all got pretty tipsy off the Oktoberfest. Amos joined us after the Barista Jam at Carew Tower, and Brandon made his way down from his apartment on Walnut. After dinner Brandon, Ams & I walked around downtown for a while, even stopped by the Starbucks on 5th and Vine to see Carly, and I ended the night over at Amos' house playing MW3 with Amos. 

The First Day of Autumn. I woke early and went to The Anchor to finish by Romans study by N.T. Wright. I decided to celebrate this first day of autumn with a trip into Kentucky: I went down to Big Bone Lick, "The Birthplace of American Vertebrate Paleontology" (so you know it's good), and did some hiking. On the way back home I picked up some ornamental gourds and Indian corn and got some kick-ass books on the Civil War, covering Chancellorsville, The Battle of the Wilderness, Gettysburg, and Sherman's March to the Sea. I had leftover Chinese from Wednesday while watching "American Zombie," and after a nap I went to The Anchor and did some writing. Blake, Andy & I got dinner at Cracker Barrel in Florence and ended the night watching the second "Sherlock Holmes."

Sunday. I went to The Anchor for a while this morning, then got some breakfast burritos from McDonald's for breakfast. I missed Southwest this morning so I listened to a sermon podcast from livechurch.tv, it was about trusting God amidst the unknowns, troubles, and disappointments of our lives. I spent some time at The Anchor and ended the night hanging out with Amos at the Loth House.

[this, the first day of autumn]

It's officially time to break out that kick-ass autumn wardrobe.

Autumn is by far my favorite season. The trees changing colors, the crispness in the air, the cool breezes and frigid nights, the gray skies, pumpkin spice lattes (it's facebook official), country night drives with the windows rolled down, a fire in the hearth, my jacket pulled tight around me, steaming cups of coffee and the dead leaves with wrinkled and throbbing veins at my feet. There's a lot of reasons to love this season, and I'd be amiss if I failed to mention ornamental gourds and Indian corn:

The gourds I bought yesterday to kick in the season aren't quite as awesome, but they're mood-lifting nonetheless. I'm writing this with a cup of delicious diner coffee and wearing blue jeans and my blue sweater (which, I'm told, I look adorable in). 

This evening Blake, Andy and I went to Cracker Barrel in Kentucky. Blake made an excellent first impression, though the wonderful hostess seemed to take offense when he didn't know much about the Pixar movie Cars. We had to wait, so we went outside and Blake & Andy played a game of chess, and Andy would've won had our name not been called. On our way into the dining room I knocked something over, and the hostess politely asked me not to destroy the store. Back at the table we enjoyed a hefty breakfast for dinner: both Blake and I got steak and eggs with biscuits & gravy, and Andy drank glass after glass of lemonade. I couldn't finish my food, felt so stuffed, so I excused myself to have a cigarette, and on the way out I knocked over yet another piece of merchandise in their showroom. I turned to the hostess and said, "So sorry about that." She just laughed. I went outside and paced back-and-forth across the patio with the chess sets and rocking chairs, and there was a cute girl who just got off and saw me and smiled and stood there and said it was cold and I agreed and said nothing more, and she looked at me and then walked away. That's how I roll. After gorging ourselves, Blake, Andy and I watched the second Sherlock Holmes movie, and in that fashion the first day of autumn came to an end.

I'm really not sure why I retold that story.

It's not really noteworthy at all.

But this is my blog, and this is my life, and these are the things that happen.

Now Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" is playing on the jukebox.

I don't hate it, and I'm kind of ashamed to admit that.

The waitress just offered a customer his dollar back.

"Sometimes," she says, "the jukebox just plays this song, and I'm betting you didn't pick it."

[the last day of summer]

Today's the last day of Summer 2012, and it's been a pretty decent summer marked mostly by working but also by hanging out with friends. Amos moved out of Claypole and into the Cellar at John & Brandy's, and thus my life grew a bit more exciting: I actually had someplace to go other than my own home to hang out with my buddies! This, in turn, led to hanging out with John & Brandy much more, and that's been awesome. Andy stopped working at Tazza Mia and started working at Q'doba, and Ams moved down the street to Chris & Sarah's house on Glenway (giving me yet another not-at-home location to see people I love). The brutally hot weather's been replaced with the first tastes of autumn, and people have been breaking out jeans and sweatshirts in preparation for what's coming. It's been a good summer, albeit one marked with anxiety cropping up because of that whole "you may have cancer" thing, and exacerbated by the recent news of one of my friends' dad being diagnosed with lymphoma (he's started chemo and is doing really good, so that's definitely excellent news!). 

I talked to Blake about it a bit this evening, how I've been anxiety-ridden over the last couple weeks, convinced that every little discomfort is a signpost to cancer or something worse. He shook his head, smiled, compassionately told me to stop thinking like that. I've had most of the preliminary tests that doctors order for suspicion of cancer, and I've passed every test with flying colors. If I had any sort of cancer, it would've shown up in the test results somewhere. But as it is, I'm in phenomenal shape (to quote my doctor). But that's how irrational fears work: by ignoring logic, by slighting common sense, they are therefore irrational. We all have irrational fears of some sort, some more toxic than others, and we all need people in our lives who can think clearly outside the fog in our own brains and speak truth to us. I'm thankful that Blake is one of those people in my life. 

I sometimes reflect on the days before I was haphazardly told I might have had cancer. Ever since that moment, those few hours when I was convinced I was dying and the next two months when we were going through the various tests, life's been a bit different. I'm more aware of both my mortality and fragility. There's fear there, but it was never really fear of death itself. It was fear of living an insignificant life, of not making any sort of tangeable impact, of coming and going without leaving the faintest trace. There was the fear of dying and no longer being with my family, and there was the fear of knowing that they'd still laugh and share their lives together without me in it. It's selfish, I know, but I imagined Mom & Dad growing old and me not being there, Amanda getting married and having kids and me not knowing them. I was never too concerned about the experience of death (after all, everyone before me has gone through it and will go through it, and as a shared experience a bit of the fear is taken away), just about the after-effects here after I was gone. Amanda told me that if I died she'd lose it. I can't imagine what it would do to my family. And I don't like thinking these thoughts.

This summer was marked by lots of good moments, but underlying all of it was the constant and nagging fear that something awful was growing inside me, something that would snatch my breath away. I'm hoping this next season won't be marked by these anxieties, that I'll be able to dispel such fears with logic and reason, reminding myself that I've gone through a gauntlet of tests and doctor appointments, and everyone of any knowledge is convinced I'm in great shape. The fears are birthed solely from my own insecurities and issues, and I'm the only one who, at times, is convinced that something's quite amiss. But I'm not a doctor, and it is wise to leave such pronouncements in the hands of those who have the knowledge to make them. And the consensus all around the board is that I'm fine. So here's to autumn 2012, hoping it's filled with its own adventures and excitements and free of the same crippling anxieties that have been overtaking me like a psychological Katrina in the wasteland of my heart.