from Blue Ash

My pal Ben took that picture of me this morning. That's generally the face I have when he gets my phone and starts taking pictures.

On Thursdays me and some guys go to a farm in Blue Ash, just helping out in whatever ways are needed. They're volunteers, but I get paid to be there, which makes it a pretty sweet deal. I love walking through the fields, the mud on my boots, the cuts on my hands. Sometimes I think I should've gone into horticulture; "Wait, with your skin?"

here we go again...

Resist the urge to save the picture as your desktop background, if you can. I’ve been on a sort of “health kick” as of late, inspired by the whole “quitting smoking” thing I’ve got going on. I’ve been eating lots of fruits and vegetables, lean meats, avoiding sodas and fast food, and I’ve been exercising for about an hour every day. I’m only at 155, and my goal isn’t to lose weight so much as it is to be healthy (and, yes, I’ll always have a tummy; genetics!). I want to be forty years old and be healthier then than I am now. A somewhat ridiculous assertion, as I’m a pretty healthy guy, but it’s the goal nonetheless. My workouts have been focusing on building muscle: arms, legs, shoulders, back, chest, the whole ordeal. I’m sore all the time, but it’s a good feeling. I want to get cardio into the mix, too (I hate cardio), and I’m telling myself that once I go a week without smoking, I’ll start running again. With any luck, that’ll be sometime next week (but if that's the case, I'll simply find another excuse NOT to go running). I’ve got the Zombie Couch-to-5k on my IPhone, and I’m definitely going to be utilizing it, if I get that far. To keep myself accountable, I’m going to be showing the transformation (or lack thereof) here on my blog. There probably won’t be any noticeable difference for a month or so, but I’m hoping in six months time, that won’t be the case.

I also want to note that one of my biggest annoyances is people posting pictures of themselves shirtless to show off. This isn't the case here, because, like I said, (a) this is to hold me accountable to actually doing this, and (b) obviously there's not a whole lot for me to show off. 

Also, bear in mind my skin is significantly paler in real life. The camera adds about fifteen layers of skin tone. 

little tigers

"I was amazed when some of our big, good-looking officers whom you would expect to be towers of strength turned out to be little pipsqueak people who needed bucking up all the time, and some other little nondescript 135-pounders turned out to be real tigers... It was the little people who really came through." - World War Two seaman Stephen Juricka, on his experience in combat and how sociological stereotypes were turned on their head. Quoted from Max Hastings' Inferno.

my hobbit hole

I promised pics of my new place, so here you go! I didn't take any pictures of the bathroom, though the vintage clawed-foot porcelain tub is indeed pretty epic. The only unfortunate thing is that I can only take baths instead of showers until I get one of those extendable showering hoses. All in due time! For now I'm more than content to have my own, cozy place perfect for quiet nights paired with history books and bourbon.

#snapshotswithfranz

The nice thing about the Bakewell House (other than the residents, of course) is that it's close to several bars and restaurants. We've hit up Zola a few times, and Dubb's as well. Dubb's is an Irish Bar that's about as Irish as Paddy's Pub in Philadelphia (there's a documentary!). Last night I had a Great Lakes Christmas Ale, one of my favorites, and Andy, Mandy, Corey and I played pool. I'm thankful for friends like these, and Amanda Hoos knows how to make bad days better! 

the 51st week

I was a little premature in calling the last update the “final week,” since it was really the second-to-final week at Park Avenue. I haven’t been staying there, but I haven’t totally said goodbye to it, either. Our lease there is up on the seventh, and at that point my time in the Hobbit Hole will commence.

Monday. I had the day off, and slept in until 8:30 before going to The Anchor to do some reading and writing. I had lunch at Dusmesh (the new crew knows me now), and the afternoon was spent moving furniture into the new place with the help of Mom, Dad, and Ams, and a U-Haul. It’s pretty cozy. “It’s my hobbit hole!” I exclaimed. Once we wrapped that up, I went to Winton Ridge for an evening of Mario-Kart 200cc. It began sleeting so I headed home early.

Tuesday. Miranda and I opened at Tazza Mia, and after work I ferried Brandon to Rhinegeist and then picked up Amos on Ludlow. We went to his place to watch the last episode of The Walking Dead and to play Call of Duty. Snow fell all day, and traffic turned a 20-minute commute home into an hour. Sarah came over, and we drank tequila—I had three shots, she had the rest of the bottle—and we ordered Chinese from Peking Restaurant and talked life, love and literature as the snow fell outside.

Wednesday. I worked 6:30-11:00 with Eric, a slow day because of the impending holiday. I worked with Walk of Joy until 5:30, and then I went to Winton Ridge for some Mario-Kart 200cc before drinking wheat liquor at Bakewell with John, Corey, Mandy and Ams. Sarah came over for a bit, and we listened to Of Monsters and Men and talked World War 2 history.

Thanksgiving. Ams and I headed up to New Carlisle for a holiday brunch with Dad’s side of the family: egg casseroles, pineapple-ham meatballs, and homemade cinnamon rolls. Cate turns five at the end of this month. I remember how when I held Cate for the first time so long ago, an image of me holding MY first child with the Wisconsinite by my side flashed before my eyes and sank deep. I never gave up on that dream, and the memory of that day sent me into a quiet spiral, and  sat in the living room rocking chair and clutched a cup of lukewarm coffee, and I had that thousand-yard stare you get when your body’s one place and your mind’s another. I get a little more depressed around the holidays, probably just seasonal depression, the cold and the dark. You’d think infusing Thanksgiving and Christmas in the middle of winter would help, but it tends to make things worse. Christmas time is one of the biggest suicide seasons, after all. I’ve never really had a “Christmas spirit”. It isn’t that I’m nonconformist or anything, I just don’t get into them. I’m sure when I have kids of my own, the holidays will be infused with more meaning. They’re family holidays, really, and when you don’t have a “family of your own,” it’s easy to feel like an outsider, especially when the gatherings are principally marked by three-generation families. For now the holidays, and all the associated glitz, glamour, and traffic, are more a wearying headache than anything else. New Year’s Eve I’m down with (I’m always eager to start a new year and end an old one), but everything between that and Thanksgiving could be gotten rid of and I wouldn’t lose a bit of sleep.

Black Friday. I met up with Jessie and Tony at The Anchor; they’re in town this weekend for the holidays. We grabbed breakfast and coffee, and then we went back to my place to hang out and catch up on all those things happening in our lives, all the changes we’ve been going through. When they headed out I headed south to Lexington to celebrate Thanksgiving with Mom’s side of the family. Mom and Dad were supposed to pick up Ams off 275 but forgot, and Ams was understandably pissed as she gunned it for Lexington. The family gathered at Jesse and Mandy’s house, and we drank beers, ordered pizza, and Mom and I took our ritualistic “Holiday Shot” (she does tequila; I do bourbon). Kennedy’s so big now, and Jesse and Mandy’s newborn Brentley was on display. They retired early, and Ams and I reconvened with Jared and Ashley at their place, and we watched TV and played board games late into the night.

Saturday. I woke with a start at 7 AM, unable to go back to sleep. I dreamt the Wisconsinite and I were hanging out at U.C.C., in the Roh’s Street café like we did a few times way-back-when, and in the dream everything was how I want it to be, and then another guy showed up. She hugged him and kissed him and called him “baby,” and in the dream I hurried from the church out into the cold and empty street and screamed in rage, waking myself up. I knew I couldn’t just lie there, the dream still heavy, so I went to the gas station for coffee. I left Lexington around 10:30 and drove up to Centerville to see Dylan and Tyler. Dylan’s in town for Thanksgiving, and he landed an awesome government job back in D.C. I met Julia, Tyler’s fiancée, and she seems pretty cool. I hurried from there to a Walk of Joy shift in Blue Ash, and thanks to coffee at 8 PM I was up until three reading history.

Sunday. Jessie and Tony and I met up for one last hurrah at The Anchor before they headed back to Illinois. Anchor times stretched into church times, so I forewent U.C.C. (it’s okay to miss one every once in a while, helps fight the legalism) and instead did some reading before grabbing lunch at Dusmesh. I spent my afternoon curled up in my Hobbit Hole reading and listening to The Black Keys. Sarah came over for a little bit, and so did Ams. Ams and I headed over to Bakewell, and Corey and Mandy joined us for dinner at Zola Pub & Grill down the street. I had a gyro with French fries, and Corey and I split onion rings. From there I headed directly to Blue Ash for a shift with Walk of Joy until midnight, and I navigated the cold and dark roads home and collapsed exhausted in my bed with the space-heater blaring. 

Also noteworthy: I reopened my online dating profiles for a few days, more so hoping that browsing profiles would help aleve the feeling that there's no one quite like Mandy K. out there. The truth is that I don't WANT to date, I don't WANT a girlfriend. I want HER, pure and simple, and the final evoscerating loss stirs my heart far more than I thought it could. Browsing the online dating sites just makes me miss her all the more, and it's more depressing than anything, underscoring the loss. It doesn't help when you chat with a girl for less than 24 hours, and because you don't reply to a text immediately, you're suddenly no different than all the other guys who lead women on and then stomp on tier hearts. It was laughable, and I did laugh, but I closed my account too, reminded again why I closed it in the first place. Desperate women fill the ranks, and I'm not at ALL into that. I'm not going to be some woman's redeemer. Besides, like I said, I don't WANT to date, I just want to be with Amanda Lynn. 

[sunday meditations]

I’ve been writing about, praying about, and thinking about “life in the Spirit.” That’s what the Christian life is all about. I’m not going Pentecostal (not that there’s anything wrong about that), and my focus isn’t on “spiritual gifts” or “speaking in tongues.” These indeed have their place (or had their place, if you’re of the cessationist breed), but “life in the Spirit” goes so far beyond such things. It’s for this reason, after all, that St. Paul criticized the Corinthians’ obsession with a Spirit-filled life manifested primarily in spiritual gifts and speaking in tongues. Life in the Spirit is life in union with God, life characterized by God’s presence and power, inside-and-out, a life marked not by bubbly speech but by daily death to self and life unto God. Life in the Spirit produces those very things which the human race is in dire need of: love, joy, peace, et al. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul tells the Corinthians, “Yes, God gives the church all sorts of spiritual gifts! But not everyone has the same gift. You’re eager in your pursuit of gifts, but you should be desiring the higher gifts.” The Corinthians, of course, were all about vouching their spiritual maturity in their spiritual gifts, so “higher gifts” is appetizing. “And this is what I’m talking about,” Paul says, launching into the classic text quoted at weddings every single day, and the most known of all Paul’s writings, 1 Corinthians 13.

“Life in the Spirit” shouldn’t be reduced to spiritual gifts, and certainly not tongues. These really are gifts from God, but the greatest gift from God, the prime “gift of the Spirit,” is love. This sort of love—a sacrificial, self-giving love that places the interests of other people over against the interests of oneself—is the kind of love Paul’s talking about, the sort of love that should characterize the church, the sort of love that will identify those who really belong to God. Anyone, of course, can love their family and friends. Jesus was honest about that much. The proof that this love is in our lives comes when we love our enemies, when we put their interests before our own, when we sacrifice ourselves and give of ourselves for their benefit and well-being rather than our own. When I say I want my life to be filled with the Spirit, I mean I want him to live in me and turn me into a truly loving person. When I say I want to walk by the Spirit, I mean that I want love to be the characteristic manifestation of my life. I want to love with the love of Christ, a love that is self-giving and others-seeking. That’s the love that Christ displayed on the cross, that’s the love that characterizes God’s love for us, and that’s the kind of love God demands of his people. This sort of love isn’t natural; it’s super-natural, in the sense that to really embody and be consumed by this love, we need to have someone else come and do surgery on our hearts. I speak, of course, of the Spirit—and that takes us right back to what the “Spirit-filled life” is all about.

Thus I’ve been praying that God will cultivate within me the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control. This fruit goes beyond mere externalities: they’re all about transforming character. Anyone can show love to a stranger, kindness to an enemy, gentleness to a neighbor; this fruit isn’t so much about what we do but about who we are. This fruit is itself a signpost pointing to what genuine human living is all about: those transformed by the Spirit are a different sort of person in the world, and it’s saddening that the Christian life has been reduced to a works-based religion founded on moral precepts and wearing certain behaviors around certain people rather than submission to God, conformity to Christ, and being filled with the Spirit. As I’m praying for these things, I find myself tested. That’s how it works. I pray for patience, and suddenly my patience is sorely tested all day long. This testing is critical to the growth of such fruit, for as gold is tested and purified in the fire, so our discipline and diligence in the midst of testing strengthens the fruit in our lives. Really, I wish God would just grant me this fruit, absent the struggle, but if the fruit is to truly be a part of my character, a struggle there must be.