An emergency prompted I sit in a lawn chair on the Gulf of Mexico with my family this weekend, slathering layers of pink pigment from the Sun’s demand on to my shoulders and chest. I wore a shirt in four days the same amount I stood under the shower faucet — once total, to the agreement of my self and my what would seem the inner interlocution concerning my life’s direction, which is not as large and complex as I once thought it to be.

Ask a year ago — or to another extreme — two years ago, what I ought to be doing with my life, and surely some insecure pretense would say “I know exactly what!” though no actions embodied seem to provide a paralell verdict. Of course, much of that’s been discussed here and rather than repeating motions of awareness I only wish to build upon them and show some forward movement.

My family continues to be a strong source of scaffolding for my existence — not only a reassurance of who I am, but moreover a reinforcement of who I ought to be. My sister especially, for in our adult years all the shared experiences of she and I with our parents, whom I love deeply and understand more and more deeply that who I am is because of who they consistently have been for no less than some two decades and more than a half, her understanding of unintelligibly long sentences if this is an example.

I love them much that I find more and more my placement here is a man of Family — a man who understands his household is what best embodies who humans in general ought to be: the mutual selflessness, giving, benevolence, and well, ability to laugh at each other.  And with burned shoulders and the curliest hair my mother framed on my face and the dimpled grin my father placed in my cheekbones, I’m sitting in bed, back in Dallas, hoping for so much, after years of what seems like missing out on it all.

Some things from this weekend have stayed, where as some were meant to stay with the weekend. And specifically how it ought to apply in my life. What ismost valuable?

I’ve spent the better part of the last decade resolving I was a single man, fit for the work of the Kingdom and what extra time singleness allows for study and for service. I searched deep and wide for whether or not it was that precise calling or my own anti-calling (that of selfishness and to control my own time, effort, and finances). I’m coming closer to the understanding that it’s indeed not the former.

These newfound (though not sudden) discoveries have also shed intense light on how I ought to live. I told my parents only a few months ago (on their extravagant back porch, somewhere aloof my memories of that very same space growing up though it occupies the same; lawnmower sounds and allergy attacks), that the next roommate I have will be my wife, to further solidify earlier statements.

Probably the best thing I have done in years is move in to this house — Maté — benefiting from and hopefully benefiting others by sharing this communal space to musicians, scribes, searchers, the depressed, the most burnt and bitter to the most reverent and rejoicing. If ever I have grown socially in such a compressed amount of time, it’s surely these past six month. And even after a few months living here I might have had the thought, “I am never living alone again.”

After all, I am quick to say things far too soon.

Tonight I spent a drive to Whole Foods in Lakewood, an equal distance from both Ellsworth and from Vickery as is Maté, and purchased a plot of goods I might dine on the steps of either/and. I had accumulated much in my silence on the beach this weekend, and when I returned to Dallas proper after the four days away, I wanted nothing more than to revisit past nights of unpacking I have hardly known but one night a week or less since moving here.

In so doing, I lead west up Abrams to Richmond, took a left and went on through Skillman, making a left at Matilda. A few minutes later I was at the stoop of Vickery in which so much clarification internally was reached about my time in New York — so much was spent with one I love — and so much searching was exercised in light of, well, what seemed to be the entire world staring. I sat with an Avery Seventeen and looked to You, great God, and thought how I had missed trusting you like I once did, and that thankful that I am now again learning more sincerely and truly than ever.

I spent a good thirty on those steps, before I knew the next stop was ultimately to take a right from Mockingbird and on down to the Williamson trail-mast swingsets. I didn’t swing, though at those picnic tables we know I sat and stared at the inertia above the gravel pit, the question “why would you tell me that?” & a smile I have not felt as genuinely since.

Today was like any other.  I found my running shorts (which I hope none of my friends should ever have to see) a tanktop, and those running shoes which are so graciously buoyant on a great variety of surfaces.

After suiting up, I set out for Westshore Drive — which ultimately leads past a few stop signs to White Rock Road and then Lawther — the famous road which circles White Rock Lake and plays host to some of the most expensive homes in Dallas.  But of course that’s not the matter.

Just beneath the willow tree I began my run on towards the spillway, which, indifferent to my changing and growing person remains as constant as I remember it in the late winter months of 2007.

My strides are becoming more confident, my breathing more consistent, and my resilience ever-increasing. Since I don’t run with my head between an iPod, I’ve developed in the past three years all sorts of little games to keep me occupied while my mind explores things deeper, systematizing what might and leaving afloat what shouldn’t.

The most common among these includes one aural — namely on the sometimes symmetrical connection between breathing and steps taking, and I think this particular game will perhaps never be loosed if only for the short-term focus it provides.  (Another which involves the specific numbering of steps between each division of the concrete barrier above the spillway is a less-practiced type, but no less helpful to the fulfillment of specific goals.)

Recently, a few rowing teams from a few select private schools have been paddling and pacing along the side of the spillway during my afternoon runs, and on top of my once-established rhythms of breathing and counting steps has been superceded by a race with those in the water.  Much of why I’m able to keep up or even consider it a race is that they are a bit far off and the distance provides the illusion that our speed is comparable, though I know theirs is much greater.

It’s 100º today, and I’ve mustered the courage to continue in the discipline regardless of the heat (while taking special measures towards to find the equilibriums among hydration and rest.  Of course I shower more often too, but that’s beside the point, I think).

Each lap on the top of the spillway is somewhere between 3/10 of a mile and 1/3 of a mile, and so I usually round up in this regard, which essentially means I allow myself to believe 3/10 is an equal portion to 1/3.  I’m able to justify such an allocation due to the fact that the wind is at my back on the first lap of each round and blowing fiercely at my front the second lap of each.

Finishing sweaty and not a little red from the Texas sun, I walk through the only place in the path around White Rock Lake that seems a maze, and carry on up the hill, where my car is parked in the grass, perhaps too close to the fire hydrant.  Of course any rules I’d be breaking would never be enforced by the security guard on duty who is mostly concerned with guarding his own air-conditioned comfort.

The drive back is about 4 minutes.  I’ll usually reward myself after a long run — and especially as we come deeper into the summer heat — with some sort of chilled drink on the trip home.  Ultimately I’ll return to Vickery some 45 minutes after I originally left, covered in saltsweat and a certain sense of accomplishment.  The first thing I do when I step into my apartment is make an effort to reach the shower.

Trying to remove the layer covering my torso, each day I recall that the very thing which makes the removal of the piece from my body so urgent is the very thing which keeps it still so fastened and snug.

As of June 5, 2008, I am officially submitting my resignation from the role of Art Director for Lake Pointe Church, effective August 1, 2008. I’ve arrived at this decision after months of careful contemplation and prayer, and it’s with gladness I can say the Spirit of God is leading me on to pursue with greater focus photography, music, and various avenues of writing.

My loyalty runs deep for Lake Pointe, and the Communications Team with whom I have developed such a strong bond transcends the traditional definition of “workplace” relationships. I think that is a miracle possible only by the Spirit’s work of Unity in Christ.

So, although it is with grief that I look upon my leaving, it is with great joy that I look towards the opportunities the Father continually provides for me to proclaim the coming Kingdom of His Son through the arts.

Grace, Peace, and Love.

Wednesday, Or My Blood Pressure Rose

Not in all cases, but definitely in this one; A year is a long, long, long time.