Cardboard Flame.

Where to begin?
I desperately want to write about the last six weeks of my life. It is a daunting task. Daunting because there is so much to tell and I want it to accurately portray the experience. And so I ask, where to begin? I have already once tried to start where one would think would be appropriate, that being the beginning. But to no avail. And so I believe I will begin with the present and hopefully fill in some of the blank spaces as time unwraps the delights of these past weeks.

My soul is never more awake than when it is engulfed in creation and community. And my spirit is never so quickly snuffed as by familiarity and comfort. I came upon this realization after a few months in California, this deadening of fervor with time, and it is just as infuriating now as it was then. [See Zealous]

Returning again this summer to the comforts and luxuries of home after a month of living a stripped life, I find myself desperately clawing at the intensity, the intentionality and the peace I found in the woods of Maine, traveling alongside another crazy twenty-something and a group of students I now call friends. For a month we live in tents, eating elbow pasta, tortillas filled with peanut butter, and the dreaded chewy bar. Forsaking the brush, abstaining from mirrors and most general hygiene practices bring about a certain kind freedom, as well as a certain kind of odor. It's the bare essentials, living off of what we can carry in our backs. It's the bare essentials of relationships too. Texting is obsolete, there are no movies, no computers, not even a watch to keep track of the time. You cannot avoid relationships and as one of the kids so perfectly said it, "There is no where to hide". Another thing that cannot be hidden, when stripped of all that is noisy and neon, is the majesty of God. Views of miles and miles of mountains and trees, sunsets and sunrises, eagles and moose, wind and rain, flowers and stones, cannot help but shout the Artist's beauty.

I was writing a letter to my friend last night, and one thing I love about letters, is that they are like a vault. I write things I will most likely never see again. But as I was processing with the mighty, mighty pen, I wrote something I wanted to share.

"I want them to LOVE Jesus. Not just create successful, 'good' lives. Rich or poor. Artsy or Athletic. Book smart or street smart. Everybody needs more Jesus. I need more. I get so frustrated with the way that my ability to closely resemble Christ diminishes with familiarity... or for some reason I haven't quite grasped yet. Being with the kids makes me want to live better because I want to practice what I preach. It's real and I want them to see that. This desire for consistency coupled with constantly being in God's unaltered creation, away from distraction of poplar culture, makes it easier. It's easier for my thoughts and actions to breathe whispers of God's goodness."

More than last year at this time, I am noticing this slow slippage into the old, and I'm trying to fight it tooth and nail. It's annoyingly difficult. I don't want this fire to diminish into coals. Coals are good for roasting marshmallows, sure. But I want to burn something. I want to be like that huge cardboard fire we all had to take a step back from.

I now would like to write a list of ways to keep the fire raging. Consuming everything around it until it too burns with a white-hot flame.

Unfortunately there is no bullet list. Annoying point number two. Spending time reading the Words in columns and writing them on the tablet of my heart might be a start. ["Stop rhyming I mean it!"..."Anybody want a peanut?"...Wow it's getting late...] Prayer and quiet is always welcome. Writing of course needs to happen as well as taking moments to notice the leaves or the clouds moving across the sky.

The hardest thing to replicate are the relationships and the community.
Al.
Roon.
Juje.
Sarah.
Cars.
Kat.
Will.
Jared.
Luke.
Paul.
Hannah.
Keith.
Kortus.
Danny.
Jake.
Sammy.
Milan.
Justin.
Claire.
Caroline.
Dev.
Thanks for helping me live more like Jesus.
For this, I am forever grateful.