Liquid amber; no other. Her.

The time is 7:11 and you are in neverland.

To know you and be known by you; it is a privileged uniformity, dear. Heaven save the married soul who hides from their companion. To whom can you tell your deepest soul matter if not your very soulmate? They say it’s a ball and chain. I say they misheard. She’s my sister, my cistern, my bride, my assister. My confidant, my uplifter. No one else; no other. Her.

Exclusivity is a precious gift; a treasure more valuable than all. Within limits is freedom, and within bounds is breathing. Within the logical dwells the magical. Within the equations resides doctrine. Within the structure sleeps the artistic, and within the justice abides mercy. Within truth is love, and within forgiveness is grace. Into only one, I will pour. No one else; no other. Her.

To love is to declare; it is an honor, my sweet. I cling to duty and nobility, because within these confines is glorious stability, true acceptance, and unmatched loyalty. I cannot express the designs of my heart on you, but for the remaining seventy years and more sunrises, I will paint you a picture of our loving in the sky. No seascape nor time could cleave our love.

Or disjoin our hands.

No one else; no other. Her.

The time is 7:11 and you are in neverland.

Porch-thought.

Welcome to the AM, the land of broad scope and textured living.

Welcome to the corner of insomnia and back pain, that intimidating aggregate of the current that won’t go away. I spill the coffee from pot to cup and poke around in Psalms, “Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.” The verse is tenacious, like my love for you. The glass is full, not empty. The world is big, not small; we are expanding.

Caffeine is sustenance and this is my meditation: perfectionism is flaw. When writing, my words are deeply broken; paper hearts and pockmarks. Humans operate within the crucible of limit, with resilient heart in the middle of it. We have bounds. We grow, we expand, we flex, and we push back. Yet we remain within, never without; we are expanding.

People are often divided into two groups: thinkers and feelers, logicians and artists, knowledge-driven and emotion-driven. In the space of living, this may appear accurate. Yet with a measure of introspection, the differentiation has a lilt of untruth. If man’s wonder grows with his knowledge, and wonder is a feeling, it follows that the more one knows, the more one feels.

I want to know you, that I may feel you.

We are expanding.

Welcome to the AM, the land of broad scope and textured living.

Sanctification.

Leve, vokse, lære, udforske, plante, omvende, elske.

Live, grow, learn, explore, plant, repent, love.

Providence.

In the crucible of providence, my reliance on Jesus is forged.

From the stone of trial, my trust is hewn.

It’s raining.

I’m sitting on the front porch, soaking in the rain. John’s here too, with his new tunes.

Moments like these are worth living for.

It’s like we planned it this way, fancy photographs of big buildings and a paragraph or three under each, humming the refrain of a psalm under resplendent memory; every. We’re living. And our feet drift through dreams and water as we waltz into the sunrise and pause for the falling rain like that one time on Rosaer Lane. I bag the coffee grounds for the flowers and we share a cup of the finest as we celebrate broken things, repentance, and forward movement.

Moments like these are worth dying for.

My eyes smolder into yours as the moment of grace arrives. Remember? We’ve dreamed of this turn in time. We age in every feeling, and we know we are artistry. We are free. We’re exclusive and limitless, together and we. And that might have something to do with the glory of God and life’s meaning. We don’t have much, but we have everything. Guitars and front porches, we have eyes, love, and pens.

Moments like these are worth fighting for.

We have coffee and the complementary. I’m the guy and you’re the girl, and that’s lovely. We have spirit and the phenomenal ordinary. Chesterton said, “art is limitation” and I think he had it right. We play by the rules, and it feels right, because we’re doing what we’re meant to. We’re risky and secure, upstream and learn. We afford our faces to the morning and squint at the daybreak. We clasp hands and take a slow pace past Dreamtime and Eventides.

Can we go for a walk in the floodgates? I want to pick a flower and put it in your hair.

We’re residing in each other’s arms.

I’m sitting on the front porch, soaking in the rain. John’s here too, with his new tunes.

Call it.

Pro-infanticide.

Let’s call it for what it is.

Many are upset by the human disregard for life we see in the political and philosophical sphere.  The reality leaks into every day living. Many once-future mothers are willing to murder a beautiful baby for the sake of social convenience (the reasoning for 93% of abortions according to one source). The reality is staggering and must be ended.

I pray for the unborn babies. I pray for the pregnant mothers. I pray for the country and for the world. I pray that this holocaust would end. I pray that value for human life would pervade the political and social sphere like a cleansing tide, clearing the debris and hubris we see in pro-death-ism. Please, Jesus. Return soon.

Irony of all.

“Tolerance is the virtue of a man without convictions.” G.K. Chesterton

What has become of religious freedom when the notion of “tolerance” is the highest good? Simply, one who espouses the “new tolerance” is equally religious as followers of Judaism or Islam. Their god’s name is “tolerance,” and it rules with unflinching grip. They bow to the feet of acceptance and mindless diversity. The matrices of it all is worship. The secular naturalist worships. The Buddhist worships. The atheist worships.

Rather than engage in rigorous deliberation, the population shouts “intolerance!” and the game is over. Rather than think, debate, and wrestle, we bow to indifference and relativism. Truth loses and foolishness claims the day. As D.A. Carson says, “genuine tolerance can be maintained only if people have the right — indeed, the responsibility — to tell others where they think they are wrong, in an effort to win them to a different direction.”

Interact. Dig deep. Ask questions. Probe. Doubt. Find. Seek.

Don’t just shout “intolerance!” and call it a day.

A prayer.

You.

I wonder at the knowledge, I cannot contain the key.

Omniscience, provision, humility; your transcendence evades.

Me.

Droplets.

It’s raining.

It’s a cool spring rain, and I am sitting on the porch, imagining the kind breeze on both our faces. The smell of rain on dirt and skin on skin is inebriating. Didn’t I imagine this scene when I was a younger man, then unintroduced to my lover? Memory says that I did, and I revel in the prophecy today fulfilled. Puddles puddle and rain rains, and I dream of our soaked eyelashes, stealing into the moment. Blue bullets: your eyes. Jade sunsets: mine.

Time sets and we are satisfied.

It’s raining.

Accomplished.

When you live as if life is about you, then you become the end goal.

When you’re the end, everything depends on you.

When you’re the end, you will only seek more pleasure to satisfy yourself. But no stimulus will sate you.

God did not create you to love yourself. He created you to glorify him. Find rest in the accomplished.