Ashes, Ashes, We all Fall Down

I enjoy ranking things. Friends, today topples the rank of worst Valentine’s Day of my life. I have spent literally every Valentine’s Day without a valentine and this one can, by golly, this one can bury itself in a massive pile of elephant shit, light itself on fire, and burn until the ash blows away into the wind back to the hell hole from which it came.

It was not my intention to be this bitter. My bitterness towards today is not correlated with my singleness. In fact, I made all the attempts to have a good Valentine’s Day and was met with frustration every step of the way. Some of it internal frustration; some of it external frustration. I should have known when I was crying by 9am this day would smack of all thing wretched. Still, I pressed on foolishly assuming that there would be something redemptive about today. NOPE. Everything in me desires to list off hyphenated four letter words creating conjugations of curses that make the sky roll back and swallow me whole because existing in this time in this body in this place raises a fury that was simmering but is now coming to a boil. I fear it’s potential of splashing over, burning those attempting to cool it. I know some already have been seared. The workday ended with me being both empty, but filled with anger; scared, that my general reset button was broken and I was going to completely lose it: my mind, my will, my spirit, my hope, my breath, my life, my me.

I left to go to yoga and while zooming down Emancipation decided Ash Wednesday service was where I would be found at 7pm. Here’s are my reflections from that time.

Ash Wednesday is a liturgical reflection centering on our mortality. We all are going to die. Death takes us all. Sometimes one by one, other times in shootings, and tornadoes. Every man both rich and poor, male or female, will taste death. However, as melancholic as Ash Wednesday is meant to be, I find the Christian perspective on death to be rather hopeful. Death is hideous and ugly. It’s a dastardly thief. As a child, I struggled with suicidal ideation. I plotted death a couple of times and once sat alone and behind a countertop with pills in hand staring and still. Death has always felt like a door. By the end of the hour of the liturgy, I sat through the last readings to write words that felt true of the space and season I have lost myself in…

Death does not scare me, for I know that it’s the only passage way into life. It s life that cause me the most unrest. We are all heading to death, why fear a door. I’d rather fear the journey. I am mortal searching and hoping for immortality. I am done being dust. I feel like dirt already. When will I be clean? What becomes of my dust when I am dust no more? Death reminds me of life. Life reminds me that I am broken and I need life. More that love, I need life today. 

It’s the end of the day. I have holed myself in my room hoping to keep myself at bay…hoping for redemption on this day…hoping for the ashes on my head to cover me up…hoping tomorrow I’ll have a bit more love to give, but much more to take…hoping for life on planet earth just to be okay…hope


Brokenness & Idolatry

When I get lost, I lose myself. It is not that I have wandered and need to return, I feel more like the prodigal son who has forgotten he was someone’s child and completely gone rebellious. I don’t know if this is for everyone, but when sin takes over my life, I just don’t feel like me anymore. Well, at the very least, I don’t feel like the me, I was intended to be or have been for a while.

I am lost. Last year, I spent time generating themes for my life. There were four and they were cyclical: chaos/erosion, creation, brokenness, restoration. Chaos or Erosion is external. It is the process of my life in some fashion being completely dissembled. It can be through displacement or job loss or broken relationships or switch churches. Sometimes, it is erosion simply because it’s a natural progression or wearing away. Creation is the process of something being generated out of disorder, finding my current job, developing a personal sense of authenticity, finally getting counseling. Brokenness is my least favorite. Brokenness is internal; it points at my sin and depravity and does the most damage. Brokenness has been the most haunting of my seasons. Broken is how I came to Christ. Broken is how he finds me time after time. Brokenness frustrates me. It preys on every wicked desire for self-sufficiency that I have. Brokenness points a hard finger to God demanding that He back off and let me do this myself. Extended periods of brokenness lead to numbness. I am numb, and it’s my fault. I don’t state this condemningly. I did this to myself. I’m in bad need of a spirit defibrillation. I know, I am made alive in Christ, but sometimes, it feels like I am barely hanging on. Restoration, God is a good God. He is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast compassion. Restoration is entirely the working of God. I wish, I could jumpstart it, but I know that He will come.

I am in between brokenness and restoration. It is in this limbo, I have felt God nudging at me. Reminding me of who I am, “You’re a worshipper”. It’s my primary identity. I was created for worship. My open hands moved towards an idol that I worshipped wholeheartedly. It’s only in repentance, I find restoration. It is my hope that it comes soon. Brokenness is completely unideal. I feel like if we as humans were more honest, it is not that our success that drives us. It is not our desires, but the brokenness that drives us to idolatry, but no idol can fix it. No job, no relationship, no item, no person can set our wayward heart set straight. My only hope. Our only hope is in someone completely external. Oh, Lord let it be you.

Before, my idolatrous season began, I wrote a song named Idolatry. As I look back on the lyrics, I had idolatry more right than wrong. May it not overtake me once again.

Idolatry, you pull me straight down to my knees

I worship you, hoping you’ll make me complete

Your siren sound, echo my unanswered prayers

Those hollow words, I’m helpless you leave me so scared

I’m paralyzed; you’re draining the life out of me

I cannot move, silently suffocating

Another drink, pour it up watch it go down

Your praise begins, prostrate I lay on the ground

I will return, for you are my stale daily bread

You’re killing me, but you also keep me well fed.


I always need You, but I need you especially in this place, where I feel fragile and fragmented. Mind me of the work of Your blood. Help me to understand it, trust it, and live in it, not just for today, but especially for tomorrow and the days after.

In Christ,


To Be Broken is to Be Human

Oft in my writing, I am found in the middle of my brokenness. Historically, I have leaned into it to understand the actual problem. When does it end though? When will I lean out and into something that feels whole and complete and healed? Leaning into brokenness often feels like leaning into emptiness. Boy, have I️ leaned into the abyss this year.

People will say, we are all broken, as a word of solidarity. However, it negates the uniqueness of each of our brokenness. It disregards the individuality of it. In a family, two children can go through the same thing and be broken in different ways. The more, I have leaned into my brokenness and explored it, the more I can relate to others. However, there are moments where I have leaned to deeply in, passed the brokenness, and into depravity.

This is a year where I have been starkly reminded of sin and its effects. Sin ravages and leaves people broken and empty. I don’t mean that in a condemnatory way, I say it experientially. Sin broke me and consumed me. Often in the Epistles, we read of the brokenness in the churches and say proudly, “Don’t be THOSE people”. It’s too late. We are THOSE people. For those who “excel in self-righteousness”, the Epistles tell you who to point a judgmental finger towards. For those who “excel in the righteousness of Christ”, the Epistles remind you of how easy it is to fall into sin. For those who have fallen and broke, the Epistles remind you that other believers are broken as well.

We Christians come from a foundational, historical, and present community that has practiced all sorts of abominable and immoral behavior. It brings comfort to know that I am not the first or chief among sinners. Paul took that title for me. When I fall broken, I arise with a number of thieves, adulterers, murderers, liars, rage-filled monsters, who somehow received the healing salve of the Savior. Who knows, I will break again.

Yes to be broken is to be human

But to be healed is to know divine

Merry Christmas Eve,



December Blogtember

If you have followed my blog at all this year, thank you. I write from my heart and experience. However, I know I hyperfocus on the melancholy and complexity of simple things. It’s a flaw. This year has been difficult for me. The last time, I had a year this struggle-ridden a friend sent me a link to something called Blog-tember where I was given prompts on different topics.

It has been three years since my last Blog-tember and about five years since, I started this blog. I’ve decided for the month of December to post daily with prompts. I may post other things, but I want to do something light. Also, prompts generate creativity.

So, stay close and attentive, and enjoy Blogtember.



I was in Seattle. I had found myself haphazardly sitting in a Mediterranean restaurant drinking mango lemonade. Reading Richard Foster’s Celebration of Discipline. It was the chapter titled, Simplicity. Life was not chaotic at the time, but it was regimented and oriented in a way that made me relentlessly busy. I felt the Lord breathe this phrase into my soul, “Live simply, love extravagantly”. It has stayed with me ever since.

I don’t think, I have pursued simplicity this past year as much as I have just decided it. Rather than fixing a car, that wanted to be broken, I took the bus. Rather than stay in one church, I left. Rather than maintain an active social life, I chose moments of solitude. I don’t regret these decisions. Simplicity is not easy, though it can be eased into. I have learned that when one peels away the busyness and superfluousness of life, there is a foundational depth desiring exploration.

There is something more wonderous being known by a handful of people than networking with hundred. There is something rich about waking up at 5am, just to embrace the last moments of the world being silent, before it pummels back into its chaos. There is something about lowered expectations for entertainment and leisure that makes a simple drive adventurous. Simplicity is grand. I don’t make these statement to condemn the networker or the late riser or the thrill seeker. I am just kind of blithering about.

There is another side to simplicity though. It can become isolating. Thematically, I have always struggled with loneliness. I remember prepubescent evenings in my basement room, bawling because I just didn’t feel like I could attach to people. I realize that in hindsight. This is exacerbated by the fact that, I would rather be alone than with people. But in this simplicity, I am left to contemplate my sorrow. I know, I am not fully alone, but there are desires for companionship that go unmet.

In the past Harvey season, I am continuing to live a simple life. I have relocated to a place where I don’t have my full wardrobe at my disposal. I have probably worn the same 25 articles of clothing repeatedly. I don’t need as much clothing as I think. I have no access to a kitchen on a daily basis, but there are simple meals, that don’t require stove tops or ovens. At the end of the night, the bed is not always the most comfortable, but somehow I find rest. Perhaps, God was preparing me a year ago.

Simplicity does make way for immense gratitude. Right now, I am in College Station. I cooked in a kitchen for the first time in about two months. I slept in a cushioned bed for the first time in 62 days. I soaked in a tub for the first time in 3 years. My room was completely dark bringing no light in. I was alone in all the best ways. In ways that were refreshing and healing.

I know I cannot stay here. I also don’t want to stay here. Simplicity is grounded in acceptance of reality. I will return to the bed that is uncomfy, kitchenless meals, standing showers, and limited clothing, but I will return with gratitude. Knowing this, God finds ways to provide simple things for me.



Tuesdays begin early. Alarm ringing at 5:30am, telling me I have 30 minutes more of rest before I need to get up. School begins in an hour and a half. You know 7:00am is real early to discuss when the union between soul and body. I love it. By the time, my mind arrives my body is prepared. Theology was meant for the beginning of the day. To ponder and discuss the divine as light breaks the chill autumn morn. It’s a transcendent three hours. Where the mystery somehow gets revealed but all the more becomes more enigmatic.

Transitioning to the tiniest of spiritual formation groups. Lead by a girl who is spiritually disfigured. Hands inverted inward, spine distorted twisting, limping hobbit-like with two women who find me “insightful”. Constantly wondering, finding truth in the quote, God draws straight with crooked lines.” So crooked, I don’t know if I could be considered a line anymore. I’m trying to align myself with the One who sees straight, but it is hard to straighten what is twisted without breaking it. Two white women and one black woman talked about race. It was good. It makes me grateful for grace.

Time between school and work is minimal. Scurrying, my drive is mindless. I just begin composing my mental to-do list, while chatting with a friend. Drafting up conversations I will have with my staff. Dreaming up ways to change the world. Damning myself for my weight. Dropping the responsibility of caring about it this week.

Tip-toeing into the office, hiding from those who want to talk or task me with what is not mine. The youth floor is so self-contained. I don’t even know what goes on beneath me. I’m more aware of matters taking place elsewhere in the facility. Texting my Chick-fil-A order to a friend who loves me beyond what I deserve. Receiving her love and general presence was a gift. Once she left, the afternoon soared. Until it pummelled into having to find a lost student. We found him.

Tears flowed this evening, unexpectedly. Trying to reach a beautiful adolescent mother, who needed encouragement. I was never told my heart would be taffy in the hands of adolescents with strong hands. She trembled in my arms, tears falling out her eyes, torn hearted. I held her as my own. She is my daughter, browned and slight with glimmering eyes.

Tired, I refuse to stay late. I walk to my room and author this to commemorate a Tuesday. Thankful that it happened.


Thirty-One Days Ago

Thirty-one days ago, I postponed my 27th birthday. My existence was in too fragile of a space to generate emotions, positive or negative. I just needed to know that I could live. Much has happened in the past month. There have been days where anhedonia set in so deeply that even food was not captivating. I know I have lost weight in this season. I moved away from the home I have dwelt in for nearly 3 years. Tucking my minimal belongings in a 5×5 storage unit. Work and home have become synonymous. School resumed for me and my students at work. I cried really hard. I have felt nothing. I have been depressed. Thirty-one days ago, I thought my life was over. Postponing my birthday was my own feeble attempt at creating a timeline where problems are solved in the span of a sitcom.

I drove past the Caversham Estate last night. Someone else had moved in already. I wept. I knew the house would not remain abandoned. I just didn’t know life would resume so quickly. There were plants and a chair on the patio with my old bedroom lights aglow. Selfishly, I wanted to be the only one to move on. I didn’t really want the house to be repaired before I was. Why does restoration of a home only take a month? Why can’t my healing process move more quickly? Why has God chosen an agrarian pace for growth? Is my life pruning or punishment?

Thirty-one days ago, I postponed my 27th birthday. I celebrated with friends yesterday, who have slowed their pace to walk with me in mine. Life doesn’t move at sitcom paces. Life moves at the rate of life. Thirty-one days later, I am realizing that that’s perfectly okay.

God, You’re gracious

God, You’re good

Help me change my attitude

By Your Hands

I am fed

Remind me that You’re Home again