|valənˌtīn|

My first introduction to the idea of father. My first introduction to
God too, probably. My first Valentine - for sure.

No matter what you may think about Valentines day, it seems that everyone thinks something.

People who will post status every other day of the year dripping with single, self-pity, will today post pep talks about there being nothing wrong with the position of singleness.

There are plenty of reminders on my wall about God and His being the ultimate answer to our heart's need.

There are people who make no comment, because they don't care much for the idea.

In my life, Valentines day had it's most significance when I was little and my parents would usually spring for some sort of token. Candy hearts, chocolate, random stuffed animals. I have never much associated anything particularly romantic with February 14th, and have by consequence, never held any malice towards the day with the absence of such expression.

I suppose I fall into the apathetic category when it comes to this 'holiday', but God is not a God of apathy and God has been slowly over taking my everything, therefore I am not actually apathetic this year.

This is not a post about how we should perceive the day. This is not a post about my cut and dry opinion. This is not a sermon. This is simply a testimony, a story, of how I have been approaching the day this year. I've no doubt that my opinion and approach will evolve and change with the years ahead, as it has with years past. God, it seems, has been working on my heart for a few weeks leading up to this, and the coming of this day of hearts, has proven a catalyst for my trying to communicate what it is I am in the process of learning.

God has of late been re-evaluating my heart in relation to the fantastic men he has placed in my life. I have been awoken to realize that the same M.O. that worked when I was 15, doesn't work when I'm in my twenties. Everybody is in a different place in life, and if I care about the lives of these men, then I will care just as much about my actions, words and behavior towards them.

My only brother. You wouldn't believe how awesome he is.

I am not saying that I have not been intentionally uncaring, I am saying I have been thoughtless - and God has begun to draw a line for me, tell me to stop, and change.

 In my pursuit of God, above all else, some things have changed. One, is how I see the people around me, specifically for this post, the male species.

God has a thing about family. He is very serious about it. From marriage, and imagery of Christ and the Church, to parenthood and beyond. Specifically, God has associated himself closely with one role, that of the father. (John 17 - one of the many places, Jesus Himself, calls God father, more than once.) Now is not the time to get into the doctrine of the Trinity, but the basics are, God is three persons in one: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. God the Father. (Romans 8:15)

I grew up with a wonderful, blessing of a father, but we all know someone who wants nothing to do with God because their father was not great, and the idea of another "father figure" in their life sounds terrible. I have only ever connected the dots of father hood and God in my personal past tense (I was raised with a great father), or maybe even briefly in my future tense (marrying someone who would be a good father), I have not tied it into the present.

There are certain theories that hold that a someone's personality is set by the time they are five years old and it seems logical that personality affects how we approach everything. Helping to decide our challenges, what comes easily, what we have to fight. If I even halfway believe this, then the two and three year old little boys that I watch every Tuesday, are right now being shaped in a huge way. Could things that happen right now, affect their fathering far down the road?

More so, the teenagers in my church, a lot of of them I have known since they were in elementary school and younger, are before my eyes, growing up. These "little boys" are getting drivers licenses,  speaking their minds, pursuing their own interests, and becoming leaders and servants among their peers. Is it possible that the way that they are encouraged, challenged, and treated at this point will affect how they father their own children down the road?

My only brother-in-law. This guy.
Real excited he gets to be a part of our family from here on out.

Further still, my peers. Male staff at camp, friends from school, friends in the church. Many of these men are (not unlike the women in the same age range) in years of decision. Whether that decision is what degree to work towards in college, what to do after college, how to become independent of their parents, and most importantly, how they are going to pursue God when they are left alone. Do decisions that they make in these areas affect what sort of fathers they will be?

This may all seem very odd, to be thinking about the fathering potential of toddlers, but I have recently been thinking a lot about God and His nature. The God of the universe lets Himself be called, Abba, Father, Daddy. And this God also has the grace to let roughly half the human population operate under the same word, and many of those humans are doing a bang-up job.

Being able to see that men are under attack in our world does not take a biblically minded person. It does not even take a genius. The brothers in my life (familial and biblical) are under a strong attack, I believe because they have such strong potential to live such a vivid expression of God's Glory. They have the opportunity to personify an aspect of God's character. Fatherhood.

Sidebar: before anyone gets offended. I am not whatever the female version of chauvenist is. I do not think that men are better than women. I do not think them more important. I do think that the mistakes in the past that led to such opinion are being far too radically overthrown in the present, and we have begun not to just promote women's rights, but degrade those of men. I am specifically not addressing the role of women because this is a blog post, not a 900 page thesis. 

How do these revelations affect my mindset towards "the other half" right now?

First reaction - I am floored by God's grace in allowing a part of His nature to be continually associated with humans who are so quick to fail, and in conjuncture with this, fearful on behalf of these men in my life I have had the opportunity to know and be blessed by. I believe that Satan is alive and active in the world around us, and he can not want these boys to succeed.

Second reaction - Prayer. These men will struggle and fail on some level. They are human, but if they have the strength to fight, to submit to the Holy Spirit and let God overwhelm their weakness, then His Glory is achieved, and shown to the world.

Third reaction - To double check my movements. How I talk to, act around, and express love towards "my boys" matters. From the one-year-old learning how to walk on his feet, to the 20-something learning how to walk as an adult, and man of God. I'm not sure what that looks like exactly and I'm pretty sure it is at least slightly different in each situation, but I know that whatever it looks like, it is permeated with prayer. Prayer and action.

My brother is now four months into the journey of fatherhood.
You can bet this has had a huge affect on this thought process.

Prayer because it is the strongest weapon I have, and action, because I cannot pray for the protection of institution of "fatherhood" with my heart, but fight against it in my action. The respect, grace, and words that I offer, even in passing to my fellow man, has the potential for good or harm. I need to be aware.

(Now, let me quickly tie this into Valentines Day, for the sake of relevance.)

As God has been teaching my heart, He has transformed it.

 I went to a small group last night and the idea of "single-ness" was briefly brought up. The girl shared how easy the trap was to just say, "I'm single because God is preparing just the right guy for me." and then in your heart be like, "Okay, God - I'm waiting, any time now." I think the idea of being content with where you are is great, but I think the idea that it is because God is preparing the perfect guy for you is terrible! It puts a ridiculous expectation on men. We are human. We fail. We all fail. God is not keeping you and that mystery person in the slow cooker until  you are both, "perfect". I'm not sure what God has for your life, but I know it is not a simple formula, and the only way to know is to seek Him with abandon, not under the agenda of figuring out secrets like who the "mystery person" is.

I can not say for sure if I ever particularly operated under this theory, because I never particularly put much thought into it. But what God has done is make me think, and make me seek Him. This has put my heart into a whole new level of God control. My heart is so free, to look at the all the fantastic failures of men around me and just be exceedingly thankful for their presence in my life in whatever capacity, to just feel overwhelming love and hope for what God will do, and, new to the stage of my heart, a burden to pray for them and silently fight to protect them from the attacks that will plague them their whole lives.

So I have spent, and will continue to spend my Valentines Day in prayer for my hundreds of Valentines. The children, teenagers, and men of God that He has given me to know and learn from. I have never before felt such a sincere, pure and weighty love for you all. I am sincerely sorry for any past thoughtless word or action that communicated differently, and for all the times I will fail you in the future. I am hopefully in nothing more than God's ability to work in my weakness. I am so very proud of each of you gentlemen and the way you live, fight and pursue God.

And to Bo, Andrew and Glenn, my father and actual brothers, You guys are such a ridiculous blessing. I have, and continue to learn so much from you three. I can't even tell you.


Happy Valentines Day.

Where I Stand

I just came from a random small group I don’t usually attend, but on a whim a friend invited me along. 

They were out of habit tonight and rather than study the bible like normal, they just had a sharing time. 

For a lot of months, my Spiritual walk has largely been a me and God affair. I have loved it. When it is just me and God, there is nothing to compare to but Himself. There is such joy at that intimate discussion, disclosure and growth that occurs. I still had opportunity to share, but it was mostly small, one on one discussion with a sister, my mom, or a friend.

But God desires us to share and grow as a body. So as I sat tonight and listened to my sisters in Christ share their struggles, share what they were learning I had to fight a sort of shock. 

There was so much to know! There was so much to struggle through! So much that I am so ignorant of! It was so overwhelming to me coming off my past few months. 

I sat there and started to get, not encouraged, as was the intention of the time, but discouraged, bogged down by all the things that were being tossed around to think about. Moreover, a strange sort of urgency, and stress came on, that I needed to stop life, to hurry up, to force myself into learning all these different things. 

That was wrong. 

Yes, I need to be challenged by sharing with others, and seeing their growth. Challenged, not to match it, but to continue to pursue my own growth. I don’t need to hear these stories and compare to all I know or have not known and find a value for my self-worth on whatever side I can check the most off on. I need to remember that all the different stories, came from all different people. It was not one person unloading all their knowledge, because God teaches us all differently. He teaches us all on different timing. There is no standardized test with God that He has for every year of life. We do not have a grade point average that warrants better scholarships or more elite schools. 

So many times this past year God has reminded me to live where I am. To not think about how temporary my stay in a place may be, but to think about the opportunities afforded me in that moment. This is one of those situations. 

As I sat there tonight I was tempted to take notes on all the things that I had not learned, and go home, chuck the things God has been laying on my heart out the window, and work on those so I can “keep up” with these other people. 

LIES! FALSE! NO!

God has me where I am for a reason. He is teaching me what He is teaching me, for a reason. Following that logic, I was at this bible study/share time for a reason. 

Not to say that I know all the reasons, but I believe that the topic of this post is one of them. 

I have been in such an intense, one on one growth time with the Lord, that to go back to a more community-like environment was almost culture shock, but in just four short months I will be fully immersed in a community like environment. 

I would have never have thought to consider this on my own, but God being what He is (AWESOME), and being as faithful as He is to teach me what I need, when I need it, did think about it. 

I have been nervous about some various things in my future, but tonight, in this one event, God has reminded me of His faithfulness. It is not on me to prepare, to plan, to research my life, because I don’t know it. My job is pursue Christ. He has time and again proven He is faithful to teach, to encourage, to challenge, and to grow where I need, when I need it.

Yes, I am ignorant, self-focused, squealing toddler of a Believer. I have learned so much in the past year, and one of the biggest lessons is how stinking little I know. I have not even gotten to the cusp of knowledge. If the Magellan Straight represents knowledge, experience, or maturity in Christ, then I am in Alaska on a tricycle. But that is where God has me, and He will take me as far and as fast as I need at that time. I just have to keep pursuing Him and trust Him to be, well, God.

US Highway 129

I turn right out of the Ingles and accelerate down the two lane road.

Many a writer and "scholar" has compared life to a journey, a road. I'm not sure about that, but there are certain roads that I love. Roads that tell a story about me. Roads that bring back stories that I have experienced. Roads that change with each pass. Roads like US Highway 129.

I accelerate up to somewhere between 55 and 60 mph, and hope I don't get stuck behind a large, "grandpa" motorcycle, driven by some bearded sexagenarian fulfilling his life long dream at 40 mph. Been there.

On my right, the sign that says, "You just passed Babyland" and laugh, imagining the one person who will see that sign and suddenly shout, "Oh SHOOT NO!" and pull a U-turn, bound for the birthplace of cabbage patch dolls.

I pass Yonah Bowl and Skate and a flood of memories emerge. Random dancing and picture taking with Dani, Owen and Thomas, watching Dustin, Bryant, Bekah, Lyd and Taylor race through crowds on the skating side, while I slowly and steadily find my feet underneath me and try to avoid the awkwardly grouped adolescents, one of whom has already tried and not-so-smooth pick up line.

I pass Linda's, and think of that tiny room with four washers and four dryers that half the staff counts on for clean clothes during the summer.

I pass the strange little store, specializing in Rebel paraphernalia, and remember a story I was told about the hijinks of the somewhat, and by that I mean completely, questionable woman who runs it.

Then I blow a kiss to my right as I coast past the lovely stone gates of Strong Rock Camp. I can not count the ways in which that place holds my heart.

Babyland General - it's a classy establishment

At this point in the road, my cell service all but disappears and I start to feel that strange feeling that I am leaving something behind. It feels like there are strings attached to my heart and as I drive further, they pull my heart, trying to get it through my shoulder blades and back to the people and places that hold their other ends. As I keep driving they stretch and twist and snap, begging me to stop and go the other way. I accelerate up the hills and curves, maybe a little too fast and Phala comes and whispers at me to slow down.

I pass Turners Corner and offer a silent wave to Dahlonega.

I head up the side of Blood Mountain, enjoying, maybe a little too much, the roller coaster turns. Phala shakes her head at me from the passenger seat, silently scolding me with her eyes. She knows better.

I start the more definite ascent and soon pass two crosses on the side of a curve. The larger one has been there, attached to the tree, for who knows how long. The name on each arm of the white-washed wood read, Phala Harper. I salute her every time I pass.

The name and my frequent passing of it, often on my own, have led to a characterization of sorts. In my head, Phala was a happily single 30-something, with chesnut red hair, that was maybe just a little too dry, and a made up face, that was maybe just a little too cakey. She worked the minor league tennis circuit and was on her way up. She liked to wear her white socks and mid calf, with white tennis shoes, and a matching visor. Every time I approach the mountain, my memory of her comes into the car with me, and reminds me to be careful, to be aware, to not let my guard down, to not go outside my comfort zone for the thrill. We ride the ascent together and she gets off when I reach the store at the top, biding me farewell till next time.

This may sound odd, and I think it probably is. I don't think she is actually there, and I don't really know anything about her, but her name was so striking that my imagination apparently couldn't just leave it on that plain white cross, it wanted to give Phala Harper purpose, and now she has it.

As I begin to coast down the opposite side of Blood Mountain, I pass the imaginary line that lies between, "call Daniel if I have trouble" and "call the Kough's if I have trouble". That's the thing about this road that makes me okay to drive it even at night. There's hardly a stretch of road anywhere else in the world that I am more covered by love and care.

I pass the runaway truck ramp, and think about my plan if I ever get stuck in front of one.

I pass the stretch of road that I sat on the shoulder with four boys after the old green Chevy overheated. We sat and talked and waited for it cool off before giving the one last pull over the mountain and back down into camp.

I wave to Vogel State park and think of all the day trips my family enjoyed there and resolve again to camp there sometime like the Brannon's do.

US Highway 129 over Blood Mountain

I come up to the Sunshine store and smile, because I am approaching the turn off to Richard Russell. In my mind I turn right, then another right and a left, down a long, uneven driveway. I blow a kiss to my dear friends, the Koughs, and let that expression of love float down the road, back to Toccoa, and across the ocean to Denmark and wherever else they may be scattered, and wish for the time when we can all just hang out and drink coffee and watch fun movies together.

I pass my favorite farm house with the odd, terraced, grass lawn.

I flip my headlights from bright to dim as a car with just running lights on one side approaches, throwing my perception with the offsides.

I come into the square of Blairsville and turn toward the hospital, careful to follow the stop sign that I ran on accident more than once, because the fact that it is an intersection is far from obvious.

I pass the hospital and turn at the lake, leaving the "call the Kough's" cloud and entering into the "call Chad and Erin" cloud.

I drive past the gas station at the Gum Log interestion and think fondly on the day that I embarked down it on a spontaneous adventure to find my way through the backroads to Brasstown without a map, or a GPS, just a full tank of gas and three road names ( one of which would prove to be incorrect).

I drive towards the North Carolina line, and salute, from my car, the friendly, Indian, man who seems severely out of place in my predominately white county, and works in the gas station on the border between states. Then, I honk twice as the pavement changes, just for fun.

I pull through the flea market and smile at the King Kong Zoo my little sister has been obsessed with, but to my knowledge, never attended.

I turn onto the four-lane and switch to low lights permanently and set the cruise. Just a few more miles before I enter into the most safe "call" cloud of all. The one where my call is to "Dad" who has a terrible habit of helping figure out all my problems and to "Mom" who has a terrible habit of letting me learn about grace, by practicing it, even when I mess up.

Almost Home

I pass through Murphy and smile at the black outline of my mountains, somehow even darker than the inky sky, uninterrupted by light in this stretch between towns.

I turn off the highway and drive past the river that holds one of my biggest fears. Drowning. Running off the road in the dark and into that water, while it just closes over the top of me. But fear has no power over me that I do not give it, so I face it, and stare it down.

I drive down a hill and remember the 'possum I accidentally ran over a few weeks ago, my first 'road-kill'. That's right, you can now call me 001.

I let the cornfields on my right, embrace me as I pass, welcoming me with their familiar stretch shapes, surrounding our small airport.

I turn left and up, and up. I turn left one more time. I am home. The strings that pull my heart are balanced by the pull of this house and the people in it, the people I will see tomorrow.

Thank you Lord, for the roads that you take me on and the stories you tell in my life.

Manifesto

For years, I have imagined that I aspired to be a writer. I assumed that because I hated scientific or research papers, and didn’t see myself as much of the reporter type, that I would write fiction. 

I love stories. I love hearing them. I love analyzing them. I love narratives. I love learning to see how the little twists effect the final product. I love how the struggles, joys and decisions take the character and teach them more than they could have learned. 

I love reading books and reveling in the authors care in creating full worlds, dynamic and different characters. I love watching movies and forcing myself to not guess so that I can enjoy the unfurling of the plot as the writer wanted. I have as of late been especially fascinated by the storytelling medium of scripted television. Shows like, “Chuck” are my favorite because for five seasons they look at the character of Chuck. I like that I can go back and watch them and see how the writers grew the character. 1st season Chuck looks vastly different than 5th season Chuck and you can go back and see all the experiences written in between changed him. I love analyzing that. 

You’d think, and for years I did think, that loving stories as much as I do, I should be writing them. I have stories in my head that I’ve been working on for years, but they never translate out of my head. With extensive study and trial and error, I imagine I could be a decent writer of fiction, as anyone who studies could be decent at anything. But its not something I find I love. It’s not something that comes naturally.

So why would I love stories so much, but not be able to write them? 

Because composition and appreciation are vastly different. I look at stories and I look at life and I love searching for the little details. The things that make the moment, or translate as significant later on. The more I do this, the less interest I have in adding my own fiction to the world. 

The world has plenty of stories in the lives of those living it, and even in those who have lived. Moreover some of those people are adept at using fiction with purpose. They can craft stories that call attention, soothe, teach, encourage, lift up, bring down, anger, shock, and embarrass. Why would I waste time adding my own mediocre voice of fiction, when what I love, and what I have so far had the most success in, is calling attention to what is already here. 

The story of my own life is what I have written on the most, because I know it best. I hope that I have been able to relate some of my journey to someone else, or help them, or entertain them. However, I also love to write on other’s stories, real or fiction. I move about the world and ideas pour into my mind. 

I drive my 60 mile round trip commute and listen to music, on the radio or in my cd player and think about our perceptions of life and love are translated in subtle ways through the things we watch and listen to. 

I proctor assessment tests for the GED department and look at the different faces around me and wonder what it is that brought them in to this room that evening. What bug bit them that was non-existent in high school? What hitch in their own story disappeared to enable them to pursue this?

I sit on my porch and start to form lists of everything that makes that particular moment great. The way the setting sun slants through the railing, it’s warmth slowly moving down my outstretched legs. The birds, just packing up for the winter and yelling at each other making last minute preparations. The wind flying in over the mountain and making the tall grass in the field across the street shake with anger at being disturbed. 

Why would I want to craft a new world when the one I’m in is so fantastic? I have pain, joy, love, beauty, lessons, anger, laughter, and vision contained within myself. I am surrounded by a sea of amazing and dynamic characters. To create a new world seems disrespectful to the one I am in. 

So will I give up watching TV? or movies? or reading? Not likely. It is fun to appreciate other’s work. It is good practice to try and notice the little things. Film, television, and fiction are all art forms of those who create it. From setting up an angle of a shot, to crafting a conflict, I have to assume that they were being intentional, and it seems equally disrespectful to ignore it. But regardless, appreciating others work does keep me from seeing what’s around me, so I will resolve to spend an equal or hopefully greater amount of time noticing where I am. 

What this changes for those who read my work? Not much. What this changes for me? Quite a bit. I will stop ragging on myself to practice storytelling. I will stop thinking of pursuing that as a career (teaching at least). I will allow myself to focus more on what I love to do. Appreciation and attention. Appreciating what I have been given and the art of other’s around me, and pulling attention to those little moments, little lessons. 

Now, just because I love the word, I will call this my “manifesto” and leave you so I can go focus on one of my self-assigned research papers while the pure white snow floats down from the sky to muffle the death of the winter world around me in clean soft goodness.