Tag Archives: Writing

A Thief Saint

I would like to preface this by saying that until this story’s conclusion, it is almost entirely fictional, and is written from the perspective of someone who says almost nothing in scripture and who there is only minimal historical background on. I wanted to write a story about the Penitent Thief who, in the Catholic Church, is known as Saint Dismas. He is a saint because he repented of his sins and, right before he died, Christ granted him salvation and promised him Paradise. I felt like he deserved a story, fictional or not, for a few reasons.

I hadn’t given Dismas much thought until a priest came to a church one town over from where I live. He brought with him a bunch of relics. These are objects considered sacred by the Catholic Church for various reasons; usually because they have some miracle associated with them. My dad and I went to Mass, and after Mass, we were allowed to go into a room connected to the main part of the church and look at, and even pick up some of the relics. One thing I remembered as I went in was that the priest had said to expect one of the saints to connect with us in some way. I went looking for something from Saint Faustina because I know things about her and I think she’s fantastic. I couldn’t even tell you what her relic was.

When I came across Saint Dismas’ relic, I felt a real connection. It just felt like he understood me somehow. His relic was an actual piece of the cross he was crucified on. I’ve done cursory research about him, and all that’s known is that he seamed to be a loner, and robbed, and even killed people that happened to cross his path. On Good Friday, though, he recognized that Jesus was innocent and he was not. More importantly, he was willing to acknowledge it publicly, and ask for forgiveness. What really compelled me to write this story, though was something I came across just a few nights ago. He was the only person who spoke up in Jesus’ defense. People mourned him, and his Mother and Saint John followed him to the cross, but even they were silent. It was a condemned criminal who actually said, out loud, that Jesus was innocent.

So without further ado, here is my rendition of how he got there.

He had a rough start. That’s no excuse for the things he did. Still, his life was not easy. Dismas was the son of a very poor farmer. His family managed, barely, until he was about thirteen, but then his father got sick. He did not suffer long. That was his only consolation. Death took him quickly, and he was followed soon after by two of his sons. It was just Dismas, his mother, and a young sister now. Dismas knew it was his duty to take care of his family, but he was young and had no real skills. He was afraid and felt he had only one option.

He waited until everyone had gone to bed one night, then left the house in a hurry. There was a small village nearby. That was where he would do it. Near the town was the house of a carpenter, and next to the house was a shed where he kept his tools. Dismas would test his ability here before he did anything drastic. He pulled out a knife he had brought with him, and picked the lock on the shed, a bit noisily, but with relative ease. He would get better at this over time. He crept into the shed and, though it was dark, took what he could find. He left in a hurry, leaving the door unlocked behind him, and making far too much noise as he ran back to his house, cursing every mistake he made. He hid what he had stolen under a pile of hey, and quietly made his way back to bed.

The following day, Dismas and his family worked the fields as best they could, but with just the three of them, they didn’t get much done. Plus his sister was still quite young, and was easily distracted and slow. That night was uneventful, but Dismas got up much earlier the next day, took the stolen things into the market as quickly as he could, and returned to his farm. His mother and sister had already started work, and his mother was suspicious. She asked where he had gone, and in the end, he told her the truth. She was indignant. How could he do such a thing? Instead of feeling shame, however, Dismas was angry. What other options did they have? His mother made him promise not to steal again, and for a while, he did not.

Dismas worked as hard as he could, and perhaps harder, to keep his family afloat, but eventually there was nothing for it. Their only options were theft or slavery. Dismas could not allow his mother to make that choice. He would not see his mother become a slave, and he would not let his sister be used, which was all too likely. Once again, he waited until his loved ones had gone to bed. Then he took a knife, and silently killed them both. Neither had time to react. He was precise. In fact, his own precision surprised him. Between sobs he said to each, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

His heart felt like led as he gathered some provisions and headed for the desert. He was homeless now, and would likely have to remain homeless. The first few times he robbed, he felt a bit guilty, but the feeling subsided, or at least became numb over time, especially as he became better at what he did. The first few times he killed, it hurt; it deeply hurt, but his heart darkened, and something strange seamed to grow in him, as though it fed on the blood. He both loved and hated the monster, and increasingly so as he realized that it was his only friend.

What he didn’t know, was that his reputation was growing. When it finally did come to his attention, it seamed that he was out of practice. He wasn’t used to having to evade people. He wasn’t used to people looking for him. Usually people were just trying to survive out here. Finally he realized that the smart thing to do would be to sneak back to a town in the middle of the night, strategically sell what he had on him, and disguise himself. Maybe he could just wait this out.

For some time, his plan worked–mostly. He was occasionally recognized and he was forced to move around quite a lot. This ultimately forced him to be more violent, and his reputation continued to grow. He tried to justify it all to himself, saying that it was all in self defense, but really, no one could justify the things he did. It was hopeless. There was no going back–not that there was anything to go back to. The memory of the night he had killed his family was fresh in his mind nearly twenty five years after the blood had been spilled.

Finally he decided to head for Jerusalem. He had heard talk of this zealot called Jesus. Some people called him a prophet. Others called him a heretic. Some said he was just crazy. What was important to Dismas was that this guy was causing mayhem, and he could use that mayhem to cover his own tracks. What was even more advantageous was that it was nearing the Passover, and the city was totally crowded. He could easily hide here. For several weeks he did so, and he heard a lot about the antics of this Jesus guy. He sounded weird, and kind of interesting, if nothing else. Then he apparently went berserk in the temple, why Dismas didn’t know, nor did he care. The authorities were on high alert after that, though, and Dismas knew he had to get out.

It was too late, though. More guards were brought in after that to keep the peace until the Passover was over, and Dismas could not hide. He had to do whatever it took to escape. There were people everywhere, and he spent several days simply getting lost, and occasionally doing what he did best–killing, stealing, or inciting violence among others. On Thursday, he was imprisoned and simply left to rot. Despite his own reputation, the authorities were more interested in this weird zealot. Dismas didn’t understand religious people. His family had not exactly been devout.

Almost before dawn the next morning he was wrenched from sleep and dragged to Pilate. This was it. He was doomed. He was surprised to see the crowd there. Then he realized that the zealot had been caught, along with another criminal. He and the other criminal were almost immediately sentenced to death. No surprise there. Then they were forced to watch this lengthy trial against Jesus. It was downright weird. Pilate pronounced him innocent three times, but because of the crowd, he was sentenced to death anyway. What was weirder still was that the crowd wanted some murderer called Barabbas released instead.

Then the three of them were taken away to endure everything these people had to throw at them–or hit them with. They shouted insults, and he shouted back. When the three of them were sent to be beaten by the Roman soldiers, he did everything he could to fight back, despite having his hands and feet bound. Yet eventually he noticed that, not only was Jesus putting up with it without a fight, he seamed to be asking for all they could hit him with. They were more than willing to hit him with it, and it felt to Dismas as though that monster inside of him was changing. It was as though the monster could see something that he himself could not.

He, Jesus and the other criminal, whose name he had learned was Gestas, were then led away, but not before some soldiers made a crown of thorns, placed it on Jesus’ head and mocked him as a crazy man and as a false king. Dismas and Gestas even joined in, though, for some reason, this made Dismas feel slightly uncomfortable. Then crosses were laid on the three of them, and they were told to march. Jesus had said nothing through this whole ordeal, and as the three of them marched toward Calvary, he noticed that people wept for the guy. No one wept for him. No one would.

When they reached the place where they would die, the three of them were nailed to their crosses. There was, of course screaming, but Dismas was astonished at the words that came from Jesus’ mouth: “Forgive them, Father. They don’t know what they’re doing.” The monster hated those words. The monster, Dismas realized slowly, and between waves of agony, was afraid of those words. The crowd and even Gestas continued to mock Jesus, who hung there, with his eyes fixed on heaven, and occasionally turning back towards a man and an older woman at the foot of the cross.

Slowly, it dawned on him. It was making him angry that Gestas was mocking this man who was dying. Gestas said through labored breaths, “If you are the son of God… get us down!” Dismas shot back, “Do you not fear God…? Jesus… remember me… when you come into your kingdom.” It was desperate, yes, but Jesus was who he said he was. Dismas knew that none of them were getting out of this, and he knew that he deserved to rot. All he could ask was that this King–the King of the Universe–remember him. If he couldn’t ask forgiveness from any of the people he had wronged, he could at least ask Jesus. In fact, Jesus had been beaten the worst of the three of them. He was bleeding and dying quickly, but he said, “Truly I tell you… today you’ll be with me in Paradise.” With that the monster died.

Dismas wanted to say, “Thank you.” He wanted to say, “I love you.” It had been years since any semblance of love had come anywhere near his heart, but Jesus had loved him. He had forgiven the unforgivable. Dismas could barely breath, and Jesus died before he could say anything, so he waited. Eventually the crowd dissipated and he was left alone with nothing but the sound of his own dying breaths. He was almost relieved to see soldiers coming.

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That’s Life

I’ve been trying for days to write something interesting and profound. I’m obviously trying too hard. This is just a life update because I can’t think of anything else to write.

For various reasons my sleep schedule has been messed up this week. I’ve been trying to get back on track, so far with minimal success. I also haven’t got a lot of work done on my book, though I’m almost done with one of my longer stories, and I really need to finish this one because I’ve come up with a magic system, and I’m using this story as an experiment to see if it works. I find it often helps to figure things out as I go along. It often complicates things, but the project is reasonably organized right now.

It’s been super warm out the past couple of days, which is most excellent. I’ve had terrible cabin fever. Because it’s New England, it basically went from winter to summer in a matter of days. It does that around here. I was just waiting for it. This winter was long. There wasn’t a whole lot of snow, but it was cold for a very long time. My idea of cold is anything below sixty degrees, though.

I’m currently rereading the Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini. I just started the second book. I’m completely addicted. I had read the first book twice, but this is just my second time reading the whole series. It’s partly because of my addiction that I’ve been staying up way too late. I pretty much don’t watch Netflix or anything anymore. Instead I do this. I realized that I love fantasy so much because it takes my mind off the real world. I think too much.

We had a minor setback on the development of hour house in Maine. They guy who was digging the hole for the foundation did some kind of calculation wrong and had to redo it, but apparently it wasn’t a huge deal. Stuff like that is annoying, though. I really have no idea when we’ll be able to at least camp up there. Even if the house isn’t totally finished, it would be good to just have a place to stay when we visit family and such.

We recently learned that both of the priests at my church will be leaving at some point. They’re being reassigned by the diocese. One of them is going to be working full time at a Catholic school in town, and the other is moving to another town. I’m bummed because I like these guys a lot. They’re my friends. Plus, getting used to someone new will just be odd for a little while. I’m still hopeful, though. I was nervous when the priest we have now was assigned to our parish, and it turned out great.

Speaking of Catholic stuff, my cousin was confirmed last weekend. I was, and I guess really still am his sponsor. I don’t want to be too much of a pest, but I want to try and keep him connected to the faith. After I was confirmed, “church stuff” sort dropped off the face of the earth for a while, and I fared the worse for it. I would have been spared a lot of pain had I actually known Jesus back then. My cousin seems more receptive to it than I was at the time, though, so that’s a good thing.

I just finished another mosaic. I’m kind of obsessed with doing them now. I’m not sure what my next one will be. I’m going to wait for inspiration. The one I finished was harder than my others because I was using materials I wasn’t used to. I’m happy with how it turned out, though. Mostly my ideas have been inspired by religious concepts, but I might try and make a mosaic visual of one of the Realms from my book. That might be hard to do because the Realms are kind of an abstract concept in themselves, plus there are a lot of them.

So as you can see, I’m still pretty boring.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

That’s A Lot

Within the past week, I’ve got up to 320 followers. I don’t care that other people on here have been blogging for a lot longer than me and have a lot more than that. The fact that anyone is remotely interested in my insane babbling is pretty cool. I figured this would be a good time for a regular, plain old life update.

I’ve figured out how I’m going to complete my book. I’m currently working on a story that’s causing me a little trouble in terms of pacing, and I also have to deal with a language barrier between two different cultures. The book should be finished by the end of this year. I’ve also started working on a magic system, as well as the beginning of a plan for a second book, so I’m really hoping this one sells. Prayers are always appreciated.

I’m going to Maine tomorrow night with my mom. We’re meeting my godmother at a church near her because a priest is coming whose ministry it is to bring relics of the Church to show people all over the world. I don’t know exactly what he’ll be bringing, but one of the things I know for sure will be there is a piece of the True Cross–the cross that Jesus died on. Apparently miracles have been associated with this stuff, so I’m pretty excited. I’m a total nerd for this kind of stuff, and quite frankly, the history alone is super cool.

My brother will be getting his Bachelor’s in biochemical engineering in May. He’ll start classes for his Master’s shortly after that this summer. I’ve tried to understand what he actually wants to do after school at least six times, and it confuses my brain, so I’m sticking to the writing. Regardless, my brother’s super smart and I’m proud of him. I don’t think designing a universe is ultimately less complicated than what he’ll be doing, but he’s certainly much more focused than me. As far as I understand, he’ll be designing plants to mass-produce medicines and such. It sounds boring to me, but I mentally live in fantasy land, so what do I know?

We’ve made some progress on our house in Maine. it’s currently resting six feet off the ground on some pillars, and we’ve got some workers to come and pour a foundation for it. This project is both hilarious and disturbing to me. I still think my parents are insane. Once the foundation is done, our builder (Mom’s cousin) is going to build a new floor over it. Then we’ll drop the house back down–not literally. Then he’ll get to work busting it up and building new stuff where old stuff has to be replaced. I really hope I get to do a little demolition, even just some small stuff. I admit I have a taste for breaking things. Maybe that’s why I like making mosaics.

I’ve finished three so far. One was of a coiled ball python on a rounded piece of wood. I gave that to my friend for her birthday, I think a year ago since she has a pet snake. My second was my abstract interpretation of the moment of creation, when God said, “Let there be light.” The one I just finished was another abstract conveying the emotions of the scene when Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. The one I’m about to start is based on some song lyrics I wrote that are also sort of a prayer. “…There is beauty in black and blue/ Walk far enough and you’ll wear down your shoes/ But you’ll find good in the places you go/ And you’ll find truth somewhere along the road” I’m going to put the Lazarus one in my bedroom in Maine, so that’s stashed away for when we actually start moving in. I’m going to sell the one I’m about to start. I’ll probably start working on it this weekend.

I haven’t had normal work or sleep hours this week. I’ve had stuff going on during the day, which has meant I’ve had to stay up pretty late (eleven PM to two AM kind of thing) and write crazy stuff. We had to take my bird to the vet today to get his claws taken care of. Right now he’s kind of at his most aggressive because he can fly and up until today, he had little demon claws. The worst is that he likes to get into bed with me and snuggle in the morning, but having a bird with demon claws climbing on your face is not fun. I tell him on a daily basis that I’m going to cook him, but I think he knows by now that this is an idle threat. He’s too cute to eat, anyway. We’ll be taking him back in June for a regular check-up and to get his wings done. For such a small animal he’s kind of high maintenance. The trouble is he tricked me into liking him from the get go.

Anyway, that’s pretty much it. God is cool, my brother’s a nerd, writing is fun, but hard, mosaics are cool, breaking stuff is fun, we currently own a floating house, and my bird is evil, but too cute to eat.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Weakness

We don’t like weakness. We especially don’t like our own weaknesses. We pray that God will take them away, and sometimes he does, but a lot of times, he says “I have something better in mind.” Saint Paul begged God to take away the thorn in his side, whatever that might have been, and God told him, “My grace is enough.” So often we find ourselves asking God, “Can’t you just make this easier?” Maybe when we don’t get a clear response it’s because his answer is the same in the twenty-first century as it was in the first.

God chooses the weak and the messy. Think about his twelve apostles. They weren’t perfect by any standards. Ten abandoned him when he needed them most. One sold him out altogether. Only one stood by him at the cross (and there’s a theory that this may have been Lazarus, and not John the apostle). Later, he chased down Saul, a nasty persecutor of Christians, and asked him–didn’t make him, but asked him–to be his apostle to the Gentiles. If it weren’t for Saint Paul, we wouldn’t have most of the New Testament. He consistently chooses the least likely people to do his work.

He consistently chooses the uneducated, the humble, the simple, the sorrowful, the weak, to show the world that his ways are not our ways. That actually kind of freaks me out. What does that actually mean for me? I want to be a saint. I don’t say that lightly. I really do. That means really figuring out my weaknesses. I know what some of them are, and I don’t like them. The fact of the matter is, though that saints embrace their weaknesses. Jesus embraced human weakness. The fact that God decided to take on a human body that could get sick, and feel sorrow, and get hurt, and die, is insane. Still, he embraced that human weakness out of love.

Not many people know this about me, but I flipped upside-down before I was born. My mom was carrying me around so my head was upright. They were going to have to do surgery, but somehow I “miraculously” flipped back around so I could come out naturally. When I was about a year old, around the time I should have been learning to walk, I wasn’t, so a tiny piece of muscle was taken from my leg, and they figured out that I have MD. I wasn’t supposed to live passed the age of five. In fact, the likelihood of my even existing were very slim. Both of my parents somehow had the same defective gene that meant my body would be “weird.”

At times I have celebrated it, and at times, I have resented it. Had my body been “normal,” I probably would have played sports. I probably would have had very different friends and different interests. I also probably wouldn’t have figured out how to play guitar upside-down. I probably wouldn’t paint abstract pictures or make abstract mosaics. I probably wouldn’t have become an author, and I probably wouldn’t have come very close to God. I probably would have gone to a secular school half way across the country to get away from the boring suburban town I live in, and I may have lost my faith altogether. Instead, I went to Gordon, a small Christian school within driving distance of my house, so my mom could get me to my classes and then home. It was there that I learned that, not only does God notice my existence, but he loves me. It was also there that I learned nearly everything I know about writing. God’s love, reading, time, and failures have taught me the rest.

Yesterday’s post was about trust. I wrote about how God chooses to trust untrustworthy people. He’s made it quite clear to me that he loves me. Trusting someone with your love is a pretty big deal. Both of the priests at my church know that I think God is calling me to religious life. I asked one of them: “Why does God choose who he does? I mean, why would he choose me? There’s nothing special about me.” He effectively said, “I don’t know.” I know my weaknesses. I also know my strengths. I have physical weaknesses and I’m a sinner. I also deal with a few leftover insecurities from when I was a kid, but I know how to manage that stuff. I’m not just a writer; I’m a good writer, and I know that. I’m loyal. I know how to prioritize, and how to manage my time, even though I fail to do this as I should sometimes. The point is, I’m human, and so are you. For the remainder of Holy Week, this is my advice, from one messy human to the next: look at your weaknesses, and try to see them as God sees them; let him use them for his glory. Write about it, sing about it, cry about it, scream about it, and especially, pray about it because sometimes our weaknesses end up being our strengths.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Fear Is A Lie

I realized something recently. When I’m working, I listen to Christian music almost exclusively. I’m talking about bands like Tenth Avenue North and Rend Collective. When I’m hanging out with my dad (my mom doesn’t really like music), we almost exclusively listen to secular music. My preferences in both categories don’t cover a hugely wide range of genres because I know what I like. When it comes to movies, I’ll watch almost anything, from romance to action to horror films, as long as the story is good. I don’t mind what some might consider vulgar language, and I don’t mind portrayals of faiths or belief systems that contrast with my own. I’m not afraid of these things.

Similarly, I am beginning to care less and less about what people think when I say that I am Christian, and I believe the Christian God to be the only true God. As I said, I am beginning to care less. As a teenager, I purposefully separated myself from others, but it was not for faith reasons. I had no faith back then. Still, I didn’t care what people thought of me. It was out of spite. Now I have faith, and my God has taught me to love, and now that I do love, I care what people think of me. It’s odd, and ironic. I care what people think because I love. I need people to understand that I believe in absolutes and in objective morality, and though I’m not perfect, I try not to judge. What I am trying to say is that I care less about my image now, and more about whether or not people can see the real me. The real me is Christian.

The world breeds fear. It’s hard to overcome it because the world is just so complicated. There are wars, there is violence, there is hunger, there is sickness, and there is a multitude of other problems, not to mention the supernatural factors. I’ve learned that fear is probably the Devil’s most powerful weapon. The most important thing to remember is that Jesus has already won. That means we’ve already won. My mom and I are listening to a story right now that’s told largely from the perspective of a seventeenth century Jewish woman living in London. At that time in London, apparently the leaders of the Jewish faith condemned theater because it was vulgar. I remember hearing that Christians had very similar sentiments about early Rock ‘n’ Roll, thinking that it was downright evil. They said the same about games such as Dungeons and Dragons when that first came out.

Such fear is nothing but a lie. Of course there are lines that need to be drawn. I don’t listen to certain bands or even just certain songs by bands that I otherwise like because they insult my Lord or my religion, for example. However, fearing something and ignoring or condemning it are two entirely different things. There are things we as Christians can ignore, tolerate, and even enjoy, even when these things are not explicitly Christian. There are also, of course, forms of entertainment or other practices that should be spoken against. Obviously this requires discretion, and I believe there are plenty of people braver and better equipped than myself to do this. My aim in this post is to speak against fear. I’m not a warrior, and I’m not a coward.

I started thinking about this recently because I’ve started getting bored of the same phrases and imagery that are used over and over in so many worship songs. I want real worship, and I want real artistry, not a bunch of lines that are copied and pasted from Scripture on top of yet another new melody. This is done because it is easy, but also because Scripture is the Word of God, and we love it. We trust his word, and it gives us comfort and hope. It is understandable, but it is also overdone. God himself is an artist. His plan and his way of doing things are totally strange, yet beautiful. We are made in his image and likeness, and as Christians, and especially as Christian artists, we should aim to mirror that. Be bold, be strange, venture into the absurd, do not be afraid to love, and above all, do not give into fear.

Why I Don’t Edit

Readers might notice that I don’t always thoroughly edit my posts. I do some editing, but I’m certainly not as meticulous as I am with my book. This is for a few reasons. The first is that this is where I share my thought process, and my mind is crazy and unscripted. I think my blog should reflect that. The second is that I’m imperfect, and I think leaving a few grammatical errors is a fine way of letting it show. The third is that I simply miss stuff, and sometimes I’m just lazy. As long as what I’m trying to say is understandable, I’m good with it.

The thing is, I kind of like imperfection. I love working on mosaics because sometimes trying to get pieces of broken glass to fit together how I want is nearly impossible, and I have to let them do their own thing. Sometimes I’ll want to do one thing, and something entirely different, and often better, will present itself out of the blue. The same might be said of music or painting. Opportunities often arise from mistakes.

When working on mosaics or paintings, I almost always make abstract designs. For one thing, I don’t think I’m quite skilled enough to make realistic things, but I also think the abstract world gives me so much more freedom. Beside that, though, the abstract has a mind and a language of its own. Realism captures an image, while abstract and Impressionism interact with the artist and the audience. In the abstract, even flaws have beauty and meaning.

People are the same. We often don’t make sense, and it is often our perceived insanity that gives us beauty and meaning. We are so unique and abstract to one another that there is a world contained in each individual. God is our artist, but as with abstract pieces of art, we are unruly and flawed. We want to write our own stories, and we are given the freedom to do so, but to make them truly good stories, we need the help of our Artist.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Eternity And A Better Day

Today is a better day. Last night I prayed, and I said, “Lord, I’m still a mess. I need your help. What do I do?” I felt him say to me, “Come see me tomorrow,” so I went to daily Mass first thing today. Then I got breakfast and coffee. I hung out in the Kitchen and procrastinated for a bit, and then I answered an email, prayed, and got to work on my mythology. Life goes on. I won’t pretend I’m completely done being sad, but I’m getting better. I’m finding work helps. I’m at a point where I have a really good framework for the mythology, so I can work on several stories at once. Today I started working on four intertwined stories, three of which have to do with Realms of the Abyss, and one of which has to do with two characters who form a very odd friendship.

I started working on all four of these stories at once because I didn’t know how to start just one of them. I felt like I couldn’t write it start to finish without knowing details from the other stories. Realistically, I probably would have had a much easier time working on the mythology if I had worked in this way to begin with, but now I know. I also recently started keeping track of what I’ve done and what I need to edit or get rid of. I had been doing this in my head all along, but it was getting hard to keep track of, especially when obscure details start to be important.

I have got a start on the four stories I’m working on, but only a start. Weaving them together won’t be difficult, but I’m not far enough along yet, and getting them to that point is a bit perplexing. These four stories are also weaved together with other stories, and I don’t want to be redundant. I also have a somewhat difficult time with “backstory.” There are some spirits in the Abyss whose sole interest is understanding the timeline of eternity. I wrote this into the book because honestly, I’m rather interested in it. We make up beginnings and ends. There was a first moment in time, and according to the Bible, there will be a last, but the beginning and end of time as we understand it aren’t the beginning or end of forever. God exists in forever. I want to know about that.

Eternity is uncomfortable in real life, and the discomfort of it is intentionally underscored in my book. We write stories, in part, because we like beginnings and ends. Beginnings and ends give us a sense of certainty. I believe in an afterlife, and an afterlife is outside of time. An afterlife takes place in eternity. There’s an afterlife system in my book, but in that afterlife system there is no love, and no mercy: only justice. In the real world, that’s not the case. Today in Mass I understood something that I already knew, but didn’t fully understand. Love hurts, and no one knows that better than Jesus. Love himself hurts for me and with me. I wrote yesterday that I had a hard time saying that, because I was so sad, I had a hard time truthfully saying that I trusting Jesus. I can confidently say now that I trust him, and I’m sorry I almost didn’t. He’s taught me a lot while I work on a bunch of fantasy stories. He’s cool like that.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Growing Up With Me

I just read a few posts from 2012-the year I started my blog. It’s interesting to see how the site has grown up as I’ve grown up. I already thought I was a Christian when I started blogging. The truth is, I didn’t personally know Jesus yet. I believed he was the God of the universe, and I vaguely knew that he saved the world, but I didn’t yet understand that he had saved my soul because he genuinely cared about me personally and wanted to be my friend. In 2012 I had some pretty funny, some good, and a lot of naive ideas. My posts were also a lot more varied in terms of subject matter back then, which I guess is neither here nor there. My posts these are largely about work and God, though sometimes they’re about stories in general or random life stuff. The blog has also largely turned into a way of procrastination, as well as a space to dig for treasure, and hopefully find some truth, whether I like that truth or not.

In the almost seven years I’ve kept the blog, I’ve learned a lot and I’ve gained just over three hundred followers. I don’t think all those people come here often, but that’s okay. This blog has been a companion in my many journeys that have taken place in the course of such short a time. It has been my companion through college, finals, insomnia, epilepsy, faith, hope, fear, love, and milestones. In a lot of ways, it’s kept me going. It’s been a place where I can share my truth, which sometimes, as ugly as it can be, just needs to be squirted out in muddy water colors. This is where frustration and triumph happens. This is where failures are confessed and victory proclaimed. This is where messes are made with the joy of a child, and I admit, in the grand scheme of things, I am one.

I write this as an encouragement to all my fellow bloggers, journalists, and writers in general. Tell the truth. Tell your truth, but more importantly, tell God’s truth. Fear nothing. Writing takes courage, and honestly, sometimes clicking the “Publish” button can be terrifying. Click it anyway. Sometimes we write something, expecting it to get us tons of attention, and no one gives us a second glance. Keep writing. In every circumstance, keep writing. When the world is falling apart keep writing. When you’re on cloud nine, write about it because sometimes the rest of us need to hear what cloud nine looks like. Sometimes your good day can be a happy five minutes for someone who is having an otherwise crappy day. Stories, especially true ones, teach us empathy, so write them. Keep writing, and don’t stop. Write without a reason. Write because you like to. Write because you know you’re good at it. Write because you think you’re good at it. Write even if you suck at it because it brings you joy. Just don’t stop.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

The Sky Did Not Fall

I’ve written about half of my mythology. Yesterday, a file went temporarily missing, which constituted a significant portion of what I had written, as well as a log of what I had finished. I had finished half a book. I thought I had lost nearly all of it. After an initial panic attack, I did something I normally never would have done. I looked for it for a bit, but then I gave up. It wasn’t the kind of giving up that feels like ultimate defeat, though. I decided that this was God’s book, and if it was gone, I would just start over. There was nothing else I could do. It seemed simple enough. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I had lost a year’s worth of work, and it sucked, but I realized that I couldn’t hold onto something that was presumably gone.

This is my fourth attempt at writing a book, and I wasn’t just going to drop the project, so I prayed. I said, “Father, this is your book. If it’s lost, then I don’t see much I can do about that, but I will start over because it’s yours, not mine, and I want to finish it for you. Maybe you have something better in mind that I haven’t even come up with. I really want to get this thing back, but your will be done, not mine.” I knew I might be able to get it back if I had help, but I’m technologically inept, and my brother and my dad were both out of town last night. There was literally nothing else to do, so I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, read some scripture, and waited for my friends to come over, since we had made plans earlier that day. We hung out, talked about Star Wars, and watched the latest episode of Runaways, then they left, and I went to bed. I ended up having insomnia last night, so I slept very late today. My dad had got an early flight home from New York, and got to the house before I was awake, which was around three thirty. He did some work stuff, Mom and I went to get coffee, and then he helped me rescue my book. The sky did not fall.

The sky didn’t fall for three reasons. The first was that I was prepared for the worst. The second was that I trusted my dad. The third is that I trusted the Lord. As a Christian, and really as a realistic, rational person, I can simultaneously expect the worst and hope for the best. I keep coming back to a very important lesson God taught me recently. He can take my almost nothing, and turn it into something awesome. He could take all the work I had done, and even the loss of that work, and turn it into something better than anything I had planned. Even recently with a supposed lost like this, I probably would have had the expected panic attack, and just given up, but yesterday, because I was able to give the disaster to God, I was able to look forward to the next step. I was able to think to myself, “Well, there’s one final thing I can do. My dad might know how to get this back. If he can’t, then I know now how the Abyss works, even if I can’t get all the actual content back. I can work off of what I have and let it go from there.” Today, hope and trust won out, and the sky did not fall.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Advent Reflection Notes (Week Two)

I’ve already watched the videos for week two, and I didn’t find them that insightful, except for one done by a priest named Father Nathan Cromly. These are a few points that were in his video that I’ll expand with my own thoughts a bit.

1: God prepares us by making us wait, and making us thirst for him.
-I think this touches on one of the points that stuck with me from last week. It reminds me of the quote from Saint Padre Pio: “I’ve been praying for something for twenty years, so I’m beginning to have hope.” Father Cromly says that it can be very tempting to despair and give up on faith in our current culture, especially if we don’t know many or any others who practice our faith. It’s easy to look at the problems in the world and wonder where God is or what he’s doing, but God wants us to dare to hope.

2: God isn’t afraid to disturb our sense of peace.
-In a recent post, I talked about how I really don’t know exactly how one would prepare for the coming of a king, let alone the King of the Universe. This point is definitely true for me because I’ve grown a lot spiritually in the past few years, and as I grow, I feel a desire to be holy very strongly, and sometimes it’s hard to figure out how to put the things I like into terms that make sense, or even to know if they’re dangerous to my spirituality. For example, I’ve been watching the show Daredevil with my dad on Netflix. The story is super interesting, but the symbol for the superhero/protagonist is the devil, and there’s a lot of problematic language in the show. Granted, the protagonist is Catholic, so I’m assuming the irony in that was meant to be simply amusing and innocent, but it still strikes me as possibly problematic. I have a harder time overlooking the language, but part of my problem is that I can’t help watching this show from a writer’s perspective, and in that sense, it’s really good. The point I’m trying to make is that figuring out how to take on the world is exceedingly complicated.

3: God comes into our lives to expand what we think is possible
-Yesterday I was still wrestling with the feeling that what I had to offer the Lord would never be enough. Again, this hearkens back to the parable of the goats and the sheep. Out of the blue, while my mom and I were in the car headed somewhere, I sort of felt him ask me, “Do you doubt what you can do or what I can do? Do you doubt my mercy?” I was speechless for a minute, then all I could manage was, “Sorry… I don’t doubt it any more.”

4: What does it mean and what does it take to unconditionally say “yes” to God like Mary did?
-This is a tough one because I know from experience that it often means being totally socially weird. For me, at least, it has meant getting used to being weird, accepting it, and celebrating it. I know that it also means doing things I don’t like sometimes, or doing things I could never initially see myself doing. When I first volunteered to teach fourth graders, I never actually thought I’d like it. Actually, I like teaching the little kids more than the high school kids. I started with high school kids, though, and even then, it was kind of on a whim, and I just went with it. If it weren’t for my epilepsy, I might consider trying to get a teaching degree and teaching theology at a Catholic school.

I would also just like to mention something I read the other day. Jesus appeared to Saint Faustina several times, and in one of these apparitions, he gave her a prayer that would greatly help in the salvation and conversion of souls. The prayer is, “O blood and water which gushed forth from the Heart of Jesus as a font of mercy for us, I trust in you.” I’ve been praying for a few people for around four or five years at least. Ultimately, I guess that’s not really a very long time, but sometimes it feels like forever. Still, this revelation to Saint Faustina kind of reminds me of Saint Padre Pio’s quote. I like to tell people that I can swim a mile. After the first half mile, I’m exhausted, but I make it the second half because I’m more stubborn than I am strong.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!