No You're Not Dude, Don't Lie...

As the weeks have wound down here, I've begun to spend a lot of time looking back and thinking on the last three years of college. Three crazy, quick years.

When I came here to SBU, I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing. I still remember laying in that bed on the first night in Landon room 330. I honestly had no idea why I was even here to begin with. For some reason, when I stepped foot onto the campus that snowy day in February it just felt right. As though a divine hand was resting on my back and a ethereal voice was whispering "Yes...."

That's creepy. I think God would agree that He doesn't want to be shed in that light. Sounds like quite the omnipresent creeper.

But it's as close of a description of the moment as I can recall. Hard to put an attribute to the divine.

I was going to go to Mizzou to become a journalist. For some reason I like to write... Which is hard to believe, since every time I get excited about writing and logging my thoughts I get one week into the process and quit. Maybe my life is just too boring. Maybe I just hold too much in my head all the time. I've always found release in telling stories. I guess I think that maybe if I can help those who can't tell their stories get their hearts out there, then maybe mine will go with them. Some kind of weird writing missionary style, I suppose.

I find it funny that the Bible was presented to us in word form. In the form of a Book... a grand story that tells an unique and compelling story that no one seems to be able to comprehend. Two thousand or so years of people sitting down, reading, praying and pleading to be shown the true meaning behind the Bible, and yet no one can seem to give anyone else a solid answer.

A book is bound and has a definite beginning and end. A physical barrier that says "This is it. There is no more." But the grand story of the Christian life goes on past the leather binding. It pours out of our hands and mouths and flows ahead and behind us. As we live it flows from us, and it begins to meet and blend in with the other stories around it, making one continuous flow of narrative. Each person is the main character in their own book, yet a minor character in each other's. But Christ remains as the binding and glue that brings all the pages together, places them in order and creates the story. There was definitely a beginning.... but will there ever be an end to the story? I hope not.

I don't want my story to read like the Missouri Fishing License Manual.

I want my story to read like that part in Harry Potter where.... well... where you couldn't put it down, for fear of missing out on what would happen next. For those moments where the characters are alive and breathing, and shutting the book would, in essence, kill them. Kill the story....

Ethan just came in here from the other room. Looks like he is going to sleep out here. I wonder what's on his mind.

"Is SBU everything you thought it would be?"

"The food sucks, but I like it here."

I smile. That's about how I would sum it up I suppose. It sure is interesting here. Going from Tyler and I... to Higher Ground and Justin Goodwin.... to Jan Term with Ramen Noodles and Fallout 3... to Saturday lunch at McDonalds with Andy.... to Trevor and Ethan coming.... to Newspapers and Communication... to Florida... to the lake... to now....

To the future.

Hard to think that I'll be sleeping in a bed in a dorm room in Georgia a week from now. I'm incredibly excited, but even more terrified. I feel a sense of responsibility and power that I haven't felt before. Like these kids that I'll be living life with this summer have something to say to me... to this nation. I hope that I can help them spread it.

I'm excited to see the west. The mountains call to me for some reason. Maybe it's the Seattle journalist writer thing... I guess when it rains you have no other choice but to read. A lot. And once you finish reading all there is to read, all you can do is write more books to read.

I want my book to stay open. I don't want to shut it or end it, because I'm not good at writing endings.

Guess I have to keep writing then.

Dang. I'm going to bed.

They Say The Sky's The Limit... But The Sky's About To Fall

Saturday's in Bolivar never seem to disappoint. Or at least, never seem to provide you with experiences that make you stay up at night and write out your thoughts. Whatever...

Today's adventures all began with a bike ride. Around 10:30 I awoke with the desire to take my bike all the way to somewhere. Unsure of what "somewhere" should be, I just decided to go. I rode all the way through the center of town, with the sounds of Deas Vail and The Low Anthem encouraging me to continue. As I passed the statue of Simon Bolivar, the town's hero, I wondered what he would think if he was to come back to life in this day and age, to find his likeness erected between a bank and an auto parts store. Definitely fitting for an explorer/conqueror type. Would he go nuts and throw a car through the bank?

Around that time I began to enter a most interesting part of town, an area that I had never been to until that moment. On the left side of the street were a few trailer homes, and some houses that looked as though about 10 years of garbage had erupted from the windows and doors, and now littered the yards. On my right was a house that seemed quite too big and fancy for anyone in Bolivar to live in. This pattern continued for a long while, and I tried to ride the middle of the road, trying to stay in my middle-class white American subclass category.

I wonder if those people ever meet in the middle of the road to talk about the day's events, or to trade handyman or cooking tips?


A little later I found myself in the park, where all of Bolivar it seemed was out and about, enjoying the beautiful day. I rode around the bend, and continued on around the lake. It always seems like there is a birthday party going on over there. I pulled over and took a break by the water, watching couples and families walk by. A small child across the lake approached a goose and almost lost his hand in the ensuing attack. Poor guy.

I try, as often as I can, to take in the world around me. I watch the people walking by, and wonder what kind of life they have led, what experiences they have had. Have they struggled? Have they felt victory? Have they ever stopped by a lake during a bike trip and contemplated the meaning of life?


I raced my thoughts back to the dorm, but they ended up beating me there, as they usually do. But one thing is for sure.

Life is a story, always unfolding. And we are writing the pages each day.

There's my 2 am wisdom. Feels like I just type until my brain shuts down.

Which is now.

Here's a picture.