Tiny waves

"“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.” “Come,” he said. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus." - Matthew 14:28-29

In perfect harmony, the tiny waves rushed over the cold, dampened sand that lined the shore. Shells and oh-so flat rocks, longing to be skip-p-p-ped mixed themselves in to the sand, a beige rainbow.

The water was cold, chilling to the touch. Every once in a while, against the uniformity, a large wave--which is really just a group of determined tiny waves working together--would come and spray the glossy blue water far past the markings of the daily high-tide.

Peter grabbed hold of a fishing net as he was so used to doing on early mornings like these, except this time it was to make room. With the others, like the tiny waves working together, they pushed their quaint boat off the shore. With a point in his brow, Peter turned in time to see his footprints in the sand- and then they were gone, washed over by a group of tiny blue waves.

Bobbing up and down, the fragile boat stewarded their heavy hearts well. Engulfed in fog, silence was over the surface of the deep. Subtle sounds of water meeting wood complimented the eerie rising sun that was barely visible off the surface of the water. 

With sunshine of a new dawn glistening off their moistened and downtrodden faces, Peter watched them dream. Deep down, Peter dreamed himself awake, his imagination unrelenting. Aspirations of security and belonging and even purpose, he floated away. Anything but the mundane.

Eyelids cracked open, adrenaline pumped. Boat still bobbing up and down with the current of the waves, it seemed as if everything stood still. There He stood, or swam, or floated, upon the glassy blue border where hearts of stone sink. He radiated.

Though He stood stoic, calm, and confident, the crew of bobbing men sat doubtful, paralyzed. With a ghastly, unsure tone, Peter, of all men, spoke up. His whispers were nearly overshadowed by the still-crashing waves.

The water was cold, chilling to the touch. They stood on the glossy blue water, together, soles dampened.

He was floating on waves of security and belonging and purpose. Peter's cold, wet feet tell a story of faith louder than his mouth ever could.

A place called home

I've never heard of a place called home. I've never heard of a place where I could rest my head and my heart and my mind and my soul. I've never heard of such a place... until I heard of you.

Home is a place where mercy reigns. A place where grace is abundant. Love in this place? Love is like an ocean without a shore; a nation without borders. This place. This home.

Home where is where you fill in the cracks with pure gold. Home is where you repair and mend and fix and craft something beautiful out of something horrible.

Home is where I take off my shoes, personalized holy ground longing to be occupied. The place where my soles track dirt and grime. The place where my soul tracks dirt and grime. You clean it effortlessly.

Home is where I exhale. You breathe into me the breath of life. I soak it in. I savor it. I never want to let it go, but there it goes. You breathe into me again, like waves crashing elegantly into the shore, in and out in perfect harmony.

Home is absent of rhythm. Walls, barriers, shields, armor, masks line the carpeted floor in perfect un-uniformity. It's a place where "having it all together" is impossible and unnecessary.

If only I was a linguist whose knowledge of words spanned past language barriers. And if only I had a 26-volume encyclopedia set, including the world's largest dictionary and most expansive thesaurus. 

But here I stand with nothing but my own experience. I've been reigned on and flooded over. I've been broken and have the gold-filled cracks to boast. I've had my soles and soul washed and made new. I've been left breathless. I've taken off my mask.

Where is this place called home? Experience shows it is wherever You are.

Resilient light

"Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper." - 1 Kings 19:11-12 

I began walking down the street as the large summer sun slowly made its descent over the horizon. Pointy polygon shadows produced by red roofs cover the street with a calm intentionality. 

There are no cars. There are no barking dogs. There are no young boys or girls learning to ride their bikes. The streetlights crack on, plagued with synchronized arthritis as they eventually transition from weak flickers to onslaughts of fluorescence. 

I look above the white, dented garage doors to my right to see shining numbers of gold and silver. Flags wave. Basketball hoops stand almost-straight. The world is as it should be.

Yet inside of me, deep down in the roots of my being, things are not as they should be. 

Still walking, pacing through life's streets, I come over a small hill. I rub my eyes. I rub them again for good measure. Off in the distance, your house is brightly lit. There is not a single cover on any of your lamps. The air is salty.

Deep down, I am torn and broken, astonished and blown away by the magnificence of this beauty. The beauty of failure. It is not in the vast and colorful résumé of spirit and truth that I find beauty, but with my lack thereof. Before this day, I stood at achievement's feet, a mountain I was not able to climb solo, awaiting my award. Achievement was cruel and I'm certain they still are. I never failed when I hiked with you.

The pressing feeling starts in my feet; sandals producing well-deserved blisters. My calves stretch and stress gradually as I keep my eyes fixated on your house at the bottom of the hill. I stomp the pavement so gracefully as it slaps the soles of my feet back.

In my core, I am shaken by the expansive vocabulary others use to sum up feelings of guilt. Yet here I stand, mouth agape and tongue dry from the very same words, used to sum up feelings of guilt. My guilt. Every time I would hear those words, they flooded over me like an ocean. The seabed was my only resting place. I never felt this guilt when I swam with you.

The air thickened as I drew closer to your extremely illuminated house. A fog rolled in slowly, covering a multitude of shins and sprinklers and hydrants. Your lights continued to shine through it, though.

As far down as my roots go, I am burning with anger. A terrifying giant, equipped with a hot-red face and closed fists, weapons of mass reduction, consistantly wearing myself down and down and down. A heavy heart of anger outweighs a clear head of peace. I always felt at peace with you. I never burned with anger when I fought the fight with you.

Three gentle yet firm knocks in quick succession. I took a breath of fog and perked my ears. Silence infected the air. What if I failed to catch you before you left?

I knocked yet again, a little less gentle. The hard wooden door stops my already-sore knuckles in their tracks. Silence meets me in this place. What if my guilt repulsed you, sending you in the complete opposite direction?

I smashed desperately on that dampened door, one more time. Just one more time, I needed to. Only silence.

I turned the rounded and wobbly doorknob and pushed in. It opened, like I knew it would. You looked at me as you sat comfortably in your favorite chair, your body not fully turned towards me. Beyond you, the glimmer of a roaring fire in the fireplace. I step inside.

This is no house, this is home. This ground is holy. I take off my sandals. Closing the door behind me, I turn to go sit with you. You stand up from your chair, slowly and cautiously as you always do. You walk up to me, the fire still crackling loudly behind you. With your hands firm on my shoulders, you look directly into my eyes and smile. For a moment, silence reigned once again.

"Welcome home" you whispered gently. Oh so gently you whispered it.

With you again, at last.

My winding escalator

Truth be told, my mind has been running a lot lately. Truth be told, I let it. 

Truth be told, I return back to ideas and concepts and thoughts like a fool returns to his folly, like Wile E. Coyote returning to the Roadrunner. Wile E. Coyote did say it best though, "It is the curse of an addict to chase the thing that destroys you."

My heart would love to stop and rest, but my mind is always up for a good chase. Some thoughts carry little weight: clothing, technology, trends. Others carry more: blessings, opportunities, friends. Some carry more weight than I wish to admit: personal weaknesses, shame, death.

All too often, I find myself in a place I know too well. It's a winding escalator and it's moving down. I find myself thinking heavy and weighty thoughts, the heaviest and the weightiest, all while I'm descending on this winding escalator.

As it takes me down, I look outward. I see the stars and I see the planets and I'm in awe. I wonder how it all works, I wonder why Jupiter's Great Red Storm never stops, I wonder if it all weighs more than my thoughts. I can't help but feel that it doesn't.

I turn to go back up, but the weight of all my thoughts is too great. The first few steps are hard but I make it up them with my own strength. As I stop to rest, the escalator takes me down and down and down and my progress is lost. It's almost like I'll never be able to do it alone. It's almost like I wasn't made to carry this magnitude of weight on my own.

Though, truth be told, there is one thought that trumps all. There is one thought that is more than just a hyperactive imagination or an extremely fascinating concept or a good idea for a best-selling novel, there is one thought that's a reality. My reality.

It's true, it's the curse of the addict to chase that which destroys them, but I am not an addict to these trivial thoughts. I'm not addicted to thoughts that hardly weigh me down like technology or trends. Nor am I addicted to heavier thoughts like blessings or friends. And I'm definitely not addicted to thoughts like shame or death.

I'm addicted to grace.

And though it is true, this addiction to grace destroys me, it picks up the pieces and crafts them into something, something more breathtaking than any thought I've ever had, something new.

This thought and reality triggers an emotional response deeper than shame, death, or the universe for that matter.

I think it's because the genius behind this crazy idea of grace holds the universe in His hand, winding escalator and all.

A defeated shadow

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me: your rod and your staff, they comfort me." - Psalm 23:4 

"I assured you it would be okay, that everything would turn out better than you could ever know. You looked at me with doubt. I could tell by the way your eyebrows bent toward your nose and the glimmer of a soon-to-be tear in your eye, you were scared. You turned and looked ahead, at the valley before us. You took a step forward but I pulled you back. Before going any further, I grabbed your hand. You grabbed mine back and gripped it tightly, so tightly. We stepped forward, together.

At first you kept your head up, your eyes not straying to the left or to the right. All seemed to be well. In the beginning, your footsteps were small, the first followed quickly by the second, yet not too far apart. Eventually, it seemed as though they got longer and you began to walk more confidently. For a split second, it almost felt like you loosened your grip on my hand.

You turned your head, only for a moment, but it was one of the longest moments. Harder than anything you've ever experienced, it hit you head on. With your head turned, you didn't see it coming. With your head turned, you almost forgot I was there. But you didn't; you squeezed my hand and I squeezed back.

It was clear how that hit affected you. Your steps got closer and closer to each other and they came much slower. You never let go of my hand, even others may have thought I wasn't there, you never let go.

And as we took each step forward, together, I wondered what you were thinking. I wondered if you were scared. I wondered if you were exhausted. I wondered if you were heartbroken.

Your lips didn't move. They didn't mutter a word, they didn't speak a sentence, they didn't open at all. But your heart did.

Your heart yelled out, piercingly loud, a shout that echoed through the valley of the shadow of death, the deepest, darkest, and longest valley that we've ever set foot in together. Though your lips didn't budge, your heart cried out, 'Lord, I'm scared. Father, I'm exhausted. God, my heart is broken into millions of pieces.'

As a smile grew on my face, I squeezed your hand tighter. I always knew your strength, even when your actions didn't confirm it. I always knew your emotions, even when your face didn't show it. And I always knew your heart, even when your lips didn't speak it. 

'God, I need your strength.' You said to me. 'I can't do this without you.'

And even when your strength was running low, when it seemed reasonable to stop and rest, you kept walking. You kept putting your left foot in front of your right, and then putting your right foot in front of your left, still on the path through the valley of the shadow of death. But yesterday, the shadow of death lost. Today, the shadow of death will lose to me again. And tomorrow, the shadow of death will lose once more.

You gripped my hand tighter and immediately I squeezed back, assuring you that I'm still here."

Eraser marks

"For we are God’s masterpiece." - Ephesians 2:10 

"I watched as you reached into your drawer of supplies. You pushed and pulled, scrambling up the contents. I could tell by the way you tossed things around exactly what you were looking for. Crayons, pens, pencils, paintbrushes, every last thing you could possibly create art with, but you pulled out an eraser.

This time, you weren't trying to create something, you were trying to change something: yourself.

You did your best to change every last thing about you. You changed your friends to your enemies, your compliments to your insults, your "definitely-nots" to your "definitelys"... You tried to change it all.

You left me heartbroken, crying over my own artwork.

With everything you had, you tried to change who you were. I don't know why, but you did. You tried and tried and tried, but it was left at that, you merely tried.

I loved you, adored you just the way I made you. I created you-- you were and still are my masterpiece, the one that I boast about, the one that will never be topped.

You called yourself horrid, unlovable, and worthless. You aren't the Creator, but you are the created, so be careful about how you talk about someone else's artwork, someone else's masterpiece.

You thought you saw through it all, that you saw what others didn't. You were wrong.

What you didn't see is that I didn't draw you in pencil, erasable, I drew you in pen, or even permanent marker. There was no way I could ever make a mistake, not on someone as important as you.

And I didn't."

Nature's breeze

"He remembered that they were but flesh, a passing breeze that does not return." - Psalm 78:39 

Among the blades of grass I stood, or rather, lay. Face pointed resolute to the heavens, I lay relaxed and at ease, listening to the sounds of all things around me. Chirping birds, swaying trees, my own heartbeat. The sun and its rays did not relent, but neither did I.

Nature is a wonder in which wondering is natural; wondering is key. Sometimes I think that the world around me has shifted me, changed me into someone I'm not. I have become a master lock-pick, making nature's key pointless. I wonder why I wonder, if nature's key is pointless. I wonder, I wonder.

The sun sits high above all else, taking its throne as king of the open skies. Kites and airplanes compete for the crown, but they stand no chance, they probably never will. Nature has always been king because nature will always remain.

It felt like minutes, but hours had gone by before I realized that all was silent around me. This feeling of silence, of knowing that I was in control of an extremely breakable possession, I felt empowered. But I didn't move, not a single muscle in my entire body. The breeze was in control, in control of my worries and my fears.

Each breeze whispered comfort into my ears, telling me all of its secrets from all the years it has been.

They continued coming, passing over me and whispering secret after secret into my ears as I listened intently.

The first breeze introduced itself to me. Oddly enough, I recognized its voice-- it was me. Its name was Failure and it told me of all the ways I had failed, all the ways that I had come up short, every single time I should have completed something and hadn't. I lay listening closely for the whispers, but they were gone.

The second breeze came along, with an accent much like my own. Again, it sounded just like me, but its name was Regret. It told me everything that I had done, that would make me cringe at the mere thought of those memories, and it whispered it in detail. Just as I thought it would never stop, the breeze was gone, the whispers ceased.

Again, for a third time, a breeze came along that sounded identical to how I sounded. With much respect and adoration for my bliss in that moment, it introduced itself to me, its name was Shame. Every sentence that Shame whispered, every memory we recollected together made my heart heavy with ache, weighing me down to the ground. I couldn't get up, even if I wanted. Shame grew tired and just like the other two, its whispers stopped.

All grew silent as I was in that field. The breezes didn't whisper a single whisper. Failure, Regret, and Shame had gone, gone to torment someone else. Not me though, not me.

More than nature

"Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy." - Psalm 126:5  

"There you walked, I was only a few steps behind. You didn't know I was there, but I was, for every single second, of every single minute, of every single hour, of every single day. I was there, with you, only a few steps behind.

I watched as you wept, tears of sadness, tears of grief. My gaze was fixated on the small story in the corner of your eye. It started to travel, leaving behind a legacy from the corner of your eye to the tip of your nose.

It fell. The instant it hit the grassy ground, it shattered like glass, never to be whole again. You didn't skip a beat, you didn't even look back.

But where that tear hit the grass, I sprouted forth a beautiful flower, exploding not with sadness, but magnificent reds and blues and yellows. You kept walking, you didn't even look back.

Another story formed in the corner of your eye. This one was much saltier and much denser. I could tell by the rhythm in your step, the sway in your arms, this one was breaking you apart. You didn't know what to do, how to deal with it, how to stop it from forming, so you did nothing. And just like that, it made the journey from the corner of your eye to the tip of your nose.

And it fell. Just like the last, it split to millions of pieces, fragments of your story once it made its assault on the grassy ground. Again I sprouted forth a flower and again you kept walking. You didn't even look back.

One after another, stories continued forming. Just like the last, they were salty, they were dense, and they made the journey from the corner of your eye to the tip of your nose. One at a time, like ants marching, like cars driving, like customers waiting in line, they fell. Shattered, destroyed, and broken to millions of words and sentences, they hit the grassy ground.

I didn't lose count of a single one. Each one, I sprouted forth a flower more beautiful than the last. My garden of stories was growing, alive, more than it had ever been before! But you kept walking, you didn't even look back at what your tears had created. No more of this.

Another tear, another story began to form in the corner of your eye. It was saltier than the last, more dense than ever before. When it journeyed from the corner of your eye to the tip of your nose, it left a trail of bitterness.

I was there, only a few steps behind you, watching. Just as it reached the tip of your nose, it fell.

And I caught it. Between my thumb and my pointer finger, I held the saltiest, most dense and bitter story that has come from you. I showed it to you. I turned you around and showed your our garden too.

Just like every other story, every other tear, I let it shatter, I let it break into a million words and sentences on the grassy ground. A flower sprung forth.

You smiled. You became a musician that day, singing songs of joy, all because of those tears you wept."

A green frog love-story.

"Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." - John 8:32
  The sweat started to pool underneath my eyes, the saltiness burned. Beneath my feet, I could almost feel the blisters forming. Stride after stride, I kept running, as fast as I could.

I didn't know where I was going and truthfully, it didn't matter to me. I found a way to get away. So I kept running.

The blazing sun began to retire its efforts. Sweat was dripping off the tip of my nose, it was still hot. I'd rather be in the lion's den than the blazing furnace.

I continued to run with all that I had. I found a way to get away. A narrow yet long path was the mouth to a forest, a canopy from the still-setting sun. I went. Leaves of all colors surrounded me, yellows and greens and reds.

All sound became meaningless once I saw you standing there, right in front of me. You smiled, I ran the other way. Back through the canopy, through the yellows and greens and reds, through the mouth of the forest, I ran even faster.

Back from the way I came. The sound of rushing water. Approaching a lake, I saw the magnificent sun and it's reflection. Nature's mirror is forgiving. I had no reflection. I continued running.

I circled half way around the lake, energy beginning to deplete. I was surrounded, surrounded by wondrous colors of blue waters, green frogs, and plants with a golden finish. I stared, just for a moment, at the beauty that surrounded me, all while maintaining a steadily declining pace.

But the majesty became meaningless once I saw you standing there, right in front of me. You cried, I ran the other way. Back through the blue waters and the green frogs' homes and the plants with a golden finish, my soul started becoming more and more exhausted. But I kept running.

Back from the way I came, I saw a field of green. A field of freedom from all else, calling me like a loneshark, waiting for me. Per usual, under the same conditions. The wind began to pick up, blowing the green razorblades of grass back and forth, to and fro. I can relate.

And that's when I saw you. Why me? Couldn't you have just left me alone, just once? I was irate, my knee were weak, my heart was heavy. I was sick and tired of running away, so I decided to run through. Full pace, a sprint.

You smiled.

You cried.

And that's when it happened. I was only feet away, max velocity, when you bent down onto one knee and spread your arms open, welcoming me. I couldn't stop. I didn't want to. So I didn't.

You hugged me.

I smiled.

I cried.

"Welcome home."

We cried.

Fruit-punch, cherry Jell-o, red velvet cake

"Love costs everything." 

Love, poured out like water. It was crimson red. Thicker than any red I had seen before and it flowed much farther than anything I had seen before. To the ends of the earth, it covered the cracks, taped together the broken.

Every day, it poured out like water. Every day it was just as pure and perfect as the day before it and every day it was just as unending and infinite. Every single day.

I stood in awe, an awe that shook much deeper and was much more meaningful than any awe I had ever experienced before. This liquid love, as red as could be, flooded me. I was drowning in it-- but there was no point in calling out for help. Why would I call for help when I'm being held as safe as I've ever been and ever will be? This flood is warm; this flood is unending.

More red than the reddest of reds, more warm than the warmest of warms, more pure than the purest of pures-- how could something so red flood me, change me, wash me into something so clean, so pure, so snow-white?

No thing, no trial, no struggle will prevent this love from being poured out like water, just as it was the day before. No amount of money, no amount sadness, no amount of achievement, no amount of hate, none.

And for me? No thing, no trial, no struggle, no amount of money, no amount of sadness, no amount of achievement, no amount of hate, no amount of anything will prevent me from chasing this love. This love so red, so warm, so pure.

Struggles will arise, problems will stare me in the face, hate will affect me, people will betray me, I will fail.

But this love? It never fails.

This love-- I live for it. I would die for it. True love costs everything. That doesn't bother me, though, because without it I am nothing. Nobody can take from me what I lay down without regret.

Everything.

Maybe the fridge isn't empty...

"How strange is it to be anything at all." 

I've always fancied the idea of getting a tattoo. Lately, I've been toying with different designs and just playing around with ideas. I came across this tattoo and the first thing that stuck out to me was the design of it. I thought it looked great and started playing around with the same style but with a quote or verse of my own.

As I began looking at it more and more, doing my best to mimic it-- and failing-- the quote began hitting me harder and harder.

Ari, a name, I like it. It's fairly uncommon, unique in its own ways, easy to write. But I didn't pick it.

My parents, Mom and Dad, I like them. They're loving, encouraging, and great people. But I didn't choose to be their son.

The United States, a country, I like it. It's well-off, prosperous, and known for its freedom. But I didn't ask to live here.

The list goes on.

How strange it is to be anything at all, especially an "anything" that can buy things with a little plastic card, go and get water whenever I want, and even pray to God openly. How strange indeed.

How strange it is to have shoes that are in one piece.

How strange it is to sleep on a clean mattress.

How strange it is that "there is nothing to eat in the fridge".

How strange it is to own a fridge.

How strange it is to dread getting an education.

I didn't choose to be the "anything" I am, but I can choose to do what I will with the everything I am. I choose thankfulness and I choose love.

Thankfulness-- I have clothes to wear and food to eat, what more could I possibly need?

Love-- "I've decided to stick with love for hate is too great a burden to bear."

How strange it is to be anything at all.

Vacancy

"He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead!" -Luke 24:6 

Do you think they had neon signs 2013 years ago? You know, like the ones outside of Steak 'n Shake or hotels?

I remember sitting in chemistry class 2 years ago. Always being good at math, I never really paid attention because all we did in this class was grasp concepts and plug in numbers. Eventually, we started doing stuff with the Periodic table and my interest was ignited (heh).

I remember learning about neon signs and why they burn the colors that they do...

I was betrayed, utterly and effortlessly betrayed. We learned that only the red "neon signs" were neon, the other colors were different noble gases. Such a shame, I guess they're not so noble.

The reason I ask such an odd question is because of the verse above. Jesus came to fulfill the prophecy that had been long-awaited and much anticipated. I mean, just read Isaiah 53. This guy was famous before he was even born. Again, sorry Brad Pitt.

After reading Luke 24:6, it seems it would only be appropriate that a large, red neon sign be put above Jesus' grave. Shining bright and in those fancy, attention-grabbing letters, it would read, "VACANCY".

Except this vacant hotel room was much different-- there are no ripped curtains, there is no stained carpet, there is no leaky faucet, and there is certainly no Jesus. Its cold, it's dark, and it's locked with a giant rock. Barbaric. This thought boggles my mind, but at least helps me get over my chemistry-class betrayal.

"VACANCY"

If Jesus was the occupant of this cold, dark hotel room, then sin was the owner, and death was the rent. Jesus paid it forward for his room, my room, and your room too.

I wonder if this place gets room service... Eggs Benedict sounds grand right now.

A Late-night Sage

"Jesus wept." -John 11:35
  I find my mind wandering, and wondering, late at night, even more so in the day. From baseball comes shoes, which springs forth weather, and from there comes deodorant. My mind is in an ocean that is sinking in itself. I can't find the words to shout for help, so I just tread water.

Sometimes, my thoughts will all whirlpool back into the same thought or idea. As of lately, it is the verse posted above. John 11:35 is the shortest verse in the Bible but for some reason unbeknownst to me it is having a huge effect on my thoughts.

History shows that Jesus walked the earth-- not only that, he was kind of famous, like a past-day Brad Pitt. Thousands of people literally gave up everything they had, their jobs, their houses, even their families, just to follow this dude around. When it's put that way, it seems a little outlandish. But is it really? For example, lets take Brad Pitt. Even if you've never met him, you know who he is, what he does, and why he is famous. I've never physically met Jesus, but I know who he is, what he does, and why he is famous. Not trying to say that Brad Pitt is Jesus, just using him as an example of course.

Now picture this... Brad Pitt has a friend who passes away, a very close friend. What is the normal thing for Brad Pitt to do? Mourn the loss of his friend and everything that has in store.

This is where my mind begins to wander and wonder. If Jesus was just a past-day Brad Pitt, what was the big deal for him to mourn the death of his close friend Lazarus? Why were the people so amazed, astounded, and shocked?

I guess the conclusion I've come to in the hours I've spent thinking of this is that Jesus wasn't anything close to a past-day Brad Pitt-- he was so much more. I mean, his birth split history into BC and AD, the story of his life is the best selling book since the printing press was invented, and he has the largest amount of people who would call themselves "followers". Sorry Brad Pitt.

I don't truly know if this could be considered a thought, regardless of how long I've been thinking about it. I overwhelm myself sometimes. Well, back to baseball. I wonder if the Cubs will win the World Series this year...

Inspired by Bedding

"God said to Moses, “I am who I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I am has sent me to you.’" - Exodus 3:14 

I sat on one of the two twin beds in the room, listening intently as the four or five other guys around me begin describing and answering the question that was proposed to all of us. "Who do you say God is?"

To me, Exodus 3:14 is a verse that never leaves my mind. A name that is worth 1,000 words, yet still wouldn't be enough-- perhaps a million? Yet, there they stand, paired together like two birds. You know, they say that hope is a thing with feathers.

Only two words, "I AM", to describe the greatness of God. They do it well.

The guys around me continue answering, using more than two words. One at a time, they keep on going, doing their best to describe what they find fit for this God of the universe.

My mind wanders, not out of boredom, but simply out of awe of it all. Who is God to me? Previously, words such as "mentor", "teacher", and "friend" were good enough for me, but not today. My mind kept on going, racing and racing, trying to find the right word to use, maybe even two. I knew that I would be asked the same question that all the others were answering, but my mind is desolate, lost in thoughts far bigger than usual. Scanning through every bit of my brain, words such as "race-runner" come to mind. "Super-fan" pops up. "Challenger", not like the space shuttle. "Gas-station clerk", ready to fuel me up. None of these are good enough, not for the God of the universe.

"So Ari, who is God to you?"

Silence only seems evident.

Ten seconds pass by and my mind is still racing.

Twenty.

Thirty-- and then it hit me.

"God to me is that guy at hockey games who cleans the ice between periods."

"The Zamboni driver?" someone chimed in, their voice filled with doubt.

"Yeah, the Zamboni driver. Every single day, I step out on to that ice with the sharpest, or dullest, skates that there are. I try my best to not scratch up the ice, but you know exactly how impossible that is. And just when I can't skate any more and the ice is at it's worst... here he comes. With a smile on his face, happy that I was out on the ice at all, he cleans it. Again. Scratched up, messy, and what I would call failure, he cleans it up, makes it new, and assures me otherwise. God to me is the Zamboni driver."

I sit in silence again. Such a profound thought, sitting in that small room on that even smaller bed. The bedding smelled terrible. I don't know where that thought came from-- it must have been the bedding.

Who is God to me? He is a Zamboni driver. I think I'll name him Mark.