Well-Known New York City Blog Found Dead In Apartment

"He just didn't care any more," neighbor says.

Mr. Blog Thomas, of New York City, uttered his final words on Friday, August 25, 2006. He is survived by a few faithful readers, notably Mrs. Smith, Kyleen, possibly Rebecca, and certainly not his mother.

Thomas lived an active life for an entire year from the fall of 2005 to the spring of 2006, often entertaining readers more than once a month with stories of his exploits in Queens. He was slowed in his latter days by fatigue and utter complacency, though early reports from the New York City Medical Examiner's Office indicate his death was caused by neglect.

It is possible that Thomas will be resurrected, though further details were not available at the time of printing.

In lieu of flowers, please send a memoriam to:
The Seminary Fund of Benjamin Thomas, PO Box 38443, Dallas, Texas 75238

On
Being in
Seminary
(And Still
Being Shitty)

I took my first class in seminary last week, and the awkward comments have already begun. I was standing at the bar in Cuba Libre, a loud, fashionable Cuban place in Dallas. The restaurant is decorated in curve and color, and gives one the impression he is painted into a colorful and abstract work of art. I had a Dos Equis in my hand and was performing my usual “how-do-you-do” ritual – a smile, some questions, and to be expected , a couple of comments no one else would typically say.

I believe this time the word was “porked.” I will not place it in context here, but I don’t believe the comment was necessarily crass. Still, someone in the group blurted out something that fills me with dread.

“You can’t say porked. You’re going to seminary!”

This doesn’t seem like a deep theological statement, but I assure you, it is. It’s something we all feel, perhaps suppressed, perhaps denied. But it floats somewhere in the bottom of our souls – this quiet understanding that approaching the throne of God requires us to be clean.

Most of the world’s religions have a sacred cleansing ritual. Muslims wash before prayer, Hindus wash in the Ganges, Jews wash before and after just about everything, and Christians get dunked or sprinkled and come out clean on the other side. From Jerusalem, to Mecca, to Delhi, and right here in cities across America, we have a notion that we need to clean ourselves up.

I think this sense of guilt is what keeps many of us away from church, away from our Bibles, away even from contemplating the reality of our lives. The truth is, when we look inside, many of us see something dirty. Or at least something not quite worthy of approaching an eternal God.

It is a great tragedy to me that our churches, our pastors, and our priests have done little to rectify this untruth – in fact, the church has probably reinforced the idea. When we do make it to a Sunday service, we’re told we should pray more, worship more fervently, give more money, and gossip less. In general, we come to church and hear that we’re not what we should be. And most of us know we probably couldn’t be it, even if we wanted to.

I suppose that is what many people expect I am doing at seminary – learning how to clean up and get on the road to God. But I have a confession: I am not clean.

Quite to the contrary, I am shit. If my word choice catches you off guard, or even offends you, let it sink in. What does that word mean? It is a vulgar expression for an unclean object. Let me assure you – if you knew me truly, you would neither say my name in polite company or bear me in your presence for longer than a moment.

I am not speaking in hyperbole, and I am not being hard on myself. Let me say this another way.

I am the proudest person I know. I have never been the most accomplished among my peers, and still I have spent most of my adult life thinking I am better than other people. If you know me, ask yourself this: have you ever felt judged by me? If you have, whether by a belittling tone of voice, a snide comment, or even open conflict, you must understand you haven’t felt this judgment errantly. I have judged you. I have looked at you and thought, “I am better.”

It occurs with nearly every person I meet. I size them up in a moment, and I think, “I could do it better.” I am better looking. Smarter. More eloquent. Better with people. Calmer under pressure. I have better taste. Or the greatest lie, I get it and they don’t.

This pride is pervasive and controlling. It is so strong, I can scarcely translate a sentence correctly in Greek class without judging someone else. It happened this week. Our professor wrote a few sentences on the board and asked us to translate them. I hurried through the work, quietly desiring to be the first one finished. The professor walked by and whispered, “Good work.” Then I heard him correcting the man in the row in front of me. My first thought, the most immediate and therefore the most telling, was, “How’s he going to be a minister if he can’t translate a simple sentence?”

And here’s the worst part. When these prideful thoughts roll into my head, I recognize them for what they are. I know they are evil, and sometimes, I pray for forgiveness. And the moment I’ve asked, the moment I’ve humbled myself before God and confessed, another thought comes. “You are so humble, Ben. You really get it.”

If you only knew how dirty I was. Shit doesn’t do me justice.

And yet, I have no doubt that God has led me to where I am today, a second week student at Westminster Theological Seminary. This does not mean I am certain I will be a pastor. In fact, the idea of being in the pulpit before I’m 40 makes my stomach turn a little bit. It does mean that for whatever reason, God has seen fit to provide for me to study his Word for a few years. And I hope whatever profession I choose, law, scholarship, or anything else, that I will use my training in these years to be an advocate for the Gospel. For the story of shitty people, unclean in every way, and a sovereign God who loves beyond belief.

I read something in Ephesians the other day that struck me.

Formerly, when you did not know God, you were enslaved to those that by nature are not gods. But now that you have come to know God, or rather to be known by God, how can you turn back again to the weak and worthless elementary principles of the world . . . ? (Ephesians 4:8-10)

We do not clean ourselves up and then approach God. We don’t fix our pride and then approach his grace. In fact, we can’t even know him. He knows us. He comes to us. Way down here in the muck and mire. To the seminarian with a pride problem, to the murderer, the thief, the whore, and everyone else. He knows, He comes, and any cleanliness we need, He gives to us.

So, approach the throne of God NOW. Even in your uncleanliness. Or rather, especially in your uncleanliness. And as you go to Him, there’s going to be a shitty seminarian right on your heals.

(1. Travis Speegle and I on the Brooklyn Bridge on a cold Feburary day. Please note Travis' man-muffs 2. What's wrong with the church these days, i.e. "The Best Vitamin for a Christian is to B - 1. " Not only is it stupid, and not clever, it's not true. I found this on Long Island.)

The
Making
of a
Man

Part II

I left New York City almost two months ago with no plan and not much money, just a quiet surety that my life in the Big Apple was finished. I came to Waco to get some quiet. To find a room I could sit in alone without feeling lonely. After spending a few weeks here, I made the decision to buy a car, a decision that assured my plan to stay in Texas, or at least, not to return to New York. I found a job, returned to my church family, reunited with old friends. Then I put in a call to Westminster Theological Seminary in Dallas, and a few minutes later, the entire course of my life changed. Barring God’s providential hand blocking me, I will be moving to Dallas in a matter of weeks to begin a three-year Masters of Divinity degree, made possible by some financial help I was not expecting.

I have always been one to map things out. I map out my days, my weeks, my future and past. And I can’t help but map out this strange journey from London, to New York, to Waco, and for now, to Dallas. Less than a year ago, I decided to take a train on a Sunday morning from Oxford to London to hear the great pastor John Stott give a sermon. I was deeply inspired by his message encouraging believers to “use their minds” instead of relying of feeble feeling to guide them. I gathered my thoughts, my dreams, my past ambitions, and I made a decision that day to move to New York. I packed my bags one hot, September evening, jumped on a plane, and began a new phase of my life in the City of Cities. Once there, I didn’t find a career in showbiz, or a career in the corporate world, or anything else I went to find. Instead, I found a deep calling to ministry of the Gospel, and armed with that calling and a million unanswered questions, I sauntered back to Waco. Then, I decided to call Westminster on a Wednesday, and God opened the door to the next three years of my life.

God’s hand has surely guided me. Not in grand moments of spiritual guidance. But in trains I happened to take, and phone calls I happened to make.

I can’t help but map out my larger life story either. If there is a low point to my story, it was on the morning of July 15, 1991. My father was to be buried in the afternoon, and that morning, my mother and older brothers were planning to view my father’s body at the funeral home. I was eight-years-old at the time, and should probably not have been allowed to see my father’s withered body. But even then, when I set my mind to something, it would be. After hours of concerted manipulation, my mother finally relented and allowed me to come along.

I feel certain that many of my memories of that visit are fabricated, drawn from brief images of a darkened, stale room, a casket in the corner, and my father in a blue suit. Truly, I can’t remember what I wore, if my mother held me up to look down at my father, if my brothers were even in the room. I can’t remember the shade of that navy suit my father loved so much. I can’t remember the grain of the casket, or if I was cold, or if my father looked asleep. I don’t remember if my mother told me to kiss my father goodbye.

But I do remember when my lips met his cold, hard, dead cheeks. My father. My soft, warm father was suddenly a ball of wax. And he was dead. At the bottom of my heart, I knew he was dead.

I have always wanted a replacement. At first, I wanted a mentor. Then, I wouldn’t have minded a step-father. When it became clear that neither of these were coming my way, I began to look at the fathers of women I knew. This was always subconscious, but a girl would suddenly become more attractive when I met her father, he gave me a firm handshake, and I felt I had found my substitute. But always, the girl left, so did her dad, and I was stuck where I was before. Fatherless.

I realized something the other day that is certainly the closing paragraph of a rousing first chapter. For the first time, I found I had no desire for a replacement. My mentors are busy and have families of their own. My mother never re-married. And my father-in-law will always love me based upon my faithfulness to his daughter. My father is dead. By now, his body is nothing but dry dust and broken bone, and with him died any hope of an unconditional father-love in the flesh.

I look back, and I map out my path from that funeral home to where I am today. From Irving to Waco, through a football locker room where I gained the hard-earned approval of the coaches I looked up to. To a year spent away from the church, doubting God, doubting myself. Then back again. To the scene of a murder, or a quiet night lost in a desert. And finally, at the bedside of my dying grandfather.

There is a throughline in my life. There is a rough and wearying path, full of thorns and blind corners. But it is a road none-the-less. And always, just around the next bend, I can hear a voice calling.

There is a throughline to God’s Word, too. It is a story of His faithfulness. Of his care for the widows, and the cast down, and the prostitutes.

And the fatherless.

And what does he say? I will be your husband. I will be your helping hand. I will be your purity. And I will be your father.

“Am I strong?” Yes, you are. “Am I capable?” Yes, you are. “Do I have what it takes when things aren’t easy?” Yes, you do.

“Who am I?” You are my son.

I have spent my entire life wondering. And I finally know. I had a father. He was a good man and a good husband. And he loved me. But more importantly, I have a father. I am his son, and his pride, and his joy. And he has taught how to be what I must be. No longer will I go to a woman and say, “Am I?” Instead, I can say, “Walk with me.” When my son or daughter looks into my eyes and asks, “Am I?” I will say, “Yes.” And they will believe me.

I’m on a new leg of the journey now. I have found my father, and now I must obey him. “Go,” he said. I can’t quite see around the next bend, but his voice is there again. I followed it before, and he came through. Maybe, just maybe, it will come through again.

(1. From boyhood... at camp 2. To full, adult maturity... at Coldplay. With Miggy)

The Making of a Man

Part I

For most of my life, I’ve been trying to please two absentee fathers. One disappeared into a hole in the ground more than a decade ago, and I’ve rarely seen him since. The other shows up from time to time, but never when I want him to. I had a friend tell me not long ago, “You can’t keep trying to please somebody who’s gone.” What she couldn’t understand is, I perform every task of life with questions beating down on me like a summer sun in Texas – Am I honoring them? Am I like them? And most of all – Are they proud of me?

Countless men have lost their fathers in the long procession of time, and they have dealt with it in countless ways. Many turn to violence, believing that if they can outmuscle other men, they will prove their manhood. Some turn to achievement and break their backs under endless loads of toil believing if they achieve enough, they will be judged men. Many turn to women – this was my test.

“Am I a man?” I asked, and a voice sprang from my gut, saying, “You will be - if a woman loves you.” So I sought the love of a woman. Not just any woman, though. If I was to be a man, a great man, she had to be the most beautiful, the gentlest, the kindest. She had to be the woman at the party, the one in the green dress who drew all eyes and all breathe and all desire. If that woman were on my arm, I would be a man.

This question was exacerbated by the fact that I don’t exactly fit the mold of the American male. It’s hard to fit in in Texas when you’re a sing-constantly, dance-in-the-street, way-too-romantic type. Not that I don’t bear a heavy dose of masculine stereotype – I love sports, have gotten in fist fights over video games, and have a dislike for showering. But trust me. It isn’t easy being into theatre, singing, and the arts as a guy, especially with your fathers run off to who-knows-where.

I remember one of my first crushes – Megan Johnston. She was dating my best friend, so I couldn’t put any moves on her. That was, until I spun the bottle and it landed on her at Michael Vardeman’s house.

“You’ve gotta’ kiss each other!” everyone squealed in delight.

Megan laughed, a little embarrassed. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was enthralled! My chance. This is it. Don’t screw up.

Trying to assume a blasé nonchalance, I laughed as I leaned forward. Megan, probably in an effort to get the torture over, suddenly leaned forward to kiss me, her lips pursed while my lips bent in a broad, goofy smile. In her jerky lunge, my teeth bared by my smile, one of my little daggers got her, and when she pulled back, blood dripped from her lip. My one chance, my one shot, and I bit her lip.

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPP!

I fell in love for the first, and so far, the only time the summer after my freshman year in high school. I met Hayden at summer camp, standing on the steps leading up a jumping tower at Adventure Land. She was the cutest thing I had ever seen – a kid-size life jacket almost swallowed her up. Her arms were beautiful, white batons, hung gently at her side. She had board shorts on, falling mid-thigh on her legs, those, too, thin and dainty. But her eyes. Her eyes! I would call them stars, but they were more. They were galaxies, wild galaxies all twirled up in blue, twinkling with the power of a million points of light.

I saw her, and I loved her.

We left summer camp, and a call to catch up turned into a call every week, and soon after that, a call every few days. I’m not sure when I became a friend to Hayden, but certainly, by the time we headed back to school in September, she had firmly placed me in the purgatory of plutonic love.

I lived for our telephone calls. Her phone number was a mantra, a password that opened the gate to peace and rest and comfort. We talked and giggled together for hours on end. I imagined her in her room, lying on her bed in pajamas. That’s always how I pictured her. Lying on her bed wearing a fluffy pair of flannel PJs and a cozy, old t-shirt, her feet, tiny like a Chinese courtesan’s, tucked into an old pair of slippers.

Maybe I imagined her that way because I wanted her to feel the comfort that I felt when I talked to her. I sank into Hayden like a childhood couch. The kind you used to snuggle in to, your small body making it a king-sized bed. You could tuck your face in its corner and lay there until your mother came and spread a blanket over you and kissed you on the cheek.

I loved her.

But she didn’t love me. She couldn’t help it, really. I managed to intersect her path right as she began a relationship with a long-time crush (a habit I’ve mastered). He was charming, handsome, and good to her. And he was there. I, on the other hand, was three hours up the road. I may as well have been in outer space.

What’s interesting about my pursuit of manhood is that it took normal rejections and pushed them forward into epic heartbreak. All of us have at one time or another been turned down by a hoped-for love. But most of us hang our head, cry a few nights on our pillow, and move on.

But see, this wasn’t a casual battle for me. I wasn’t pursuing Hayden for sport. She wasn’t the object of my affections, but the object of my identity. And if I failed to conquer her, the me I hoped to be, the one I thought would please my absentee fathers, would die.

So I pushed on. For four years, I called, and called, and called. Hoped, and hoped, and hoped. Hayden lived her life. She knew I had feelings for her, but I never told her outright. Even if I had, it would have been impossible for her to understand what I had invested. She was good friend, one of the best I’ve ever had, but she couldn’t guess that my identity turned on her approval. Even if she had, she couldn’t have done what I wanted her to. She couldn’t have made me a man. And I could not have brought her forward and offered her to my fathers as evidence of my value.

I'm not certain I would have ever given up, except I changed. My quest changed. Somewhere along the way, my fathers showed up. They came to me, sat with me, put their arms on my shoulder. Not in the way you may expect, but they came. And they answered my questions.

(1. The Church of our Lady of Pompeii at Bleecker and Carmine 2. The West Side Concourse on the First Day of Spring 3. The Sights in Staten Island 4. The Sights in Staten Island, Again)

God Said "Go..."

It was July 31, and I was sitting in All Souls Church in London. My friend Adam had told me, “You ought to check out All Souls. I hear John Stott preaches there every now and then.” He was right. John Stott, the Queen’s chaplain and the most famed pastor in England, just happened to be preaching a three-week series beginning that weekend.

I headed to London on an early train from Oxford. I was graduating from college in two weeks, and I had a decision to make. Where would I live? I had applied for jobs in Portland, Maine after reading a Stephen King short story, but nothing had panned out. There was always the possibility of staying in Waco and saving some money.

But that Sunday, John Stott told me to use my head.

“People regard their mind as a kind of television screen,” he said. “They expect God to flash onto the screen answers to their questions and solutions to their problems.”

That statement stuck with me all afternoon. Sure, I could move to Maine. Or I could stay in Waco. Honestly, I didn’t feel any guidance at all. But I knew some guidance. Since I was 10-years-old and first saw Home Alone 2, I had wanted to live in New York City. Moreover, I felt I had to give the acting thing a shot or I would always regret it. I wanted to go for it. I wanted to live in New York.

That night in London, I went to see a show called Tick, Tick, Boom. It’s by the guy who wrote Rent, and the basic message is: “Go for your dreams! Don’t get down! Even if you’re 30 and still a starving artist, keep going for it!” In other words, it was pretty much the cheesiest and most stereotypical musical ever. But, combined with the sermon of the morning, it pushed me over the edge. That day in London, I made my decision - I would move to New York. I would go for my dreams.

Becca, Michael, and Lindsay came to New York last weekend for a three-day trip, and we spent a few days shopping, eating, and seeing the sights. Saturday morning, we began the day with breakfast at The Grey Dog Café, and then Michael and I dropped the girls off on Bleecker Street. We met up later, walked through SoHo, and were wondering through Chinatown when the snow started about 4 o’clock.

By the next morning, the snow was two feet deep, and still pouring down. Michael and I had breakfast down the street at D-Lite Donuts, and then the four of us spent most of the morning and early afternoon lounging around. By two o’clock, we decided to head to Central Park to do some sledding.

One thing I love about New York is that you can’t help but be together. You can be alone or with all your friends, but when you hit the street, you’re with somebody. Becca, Michael, Lindsay and I were in the park with little kids, parents, cross-country skiers, snowman builders, casual walkers, teenagers, loving couples, and squirrels. We sledded with 6-year-olds and 30-somethings. We had a ball and made some memories to last a lifetime.

A few weeks ago, my friend Catherine moved to London. For good. After spending five years at one of the top interior design firms in New York, she had gotten the opportunity to work with another top-tier firm in England, and she jumped at the chance. After lots of planning and a few visa rejections, she was on her way.

The only problem was Virgin Atlantic wasn’t going to let her on the plane with six bags. At least, not without a price. After weighing her options, she gave me a call.

“You’re not going to believe this, but they’re charging me hundreds of dollars for my extra bags,” she said. “I wish you could come.”

After a little research, I realized I could. A ticket on Catherine's flight was a little bit more than the baggage fee, and if I came, I could just carry her bags as mine and spare her the fee.

I was a little uncertain about the plan. It required I call in sick to work, and would cost me almost a day of travel time for two-and-a-half days of ground time. But a free trip to London? Who could turn that down.

I packed my passport and a change of clothes in my gym bag that Thursday. At noon, I booked the ticket. It departed in nine hours. I began playing the sick routine shortly afterward. Mainly a lot of short coughs, nose blowing, and comments like, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” or “Mmmmmmmmm. Ouch.” I darted out of work early, and off I went to the airport.

Catherine and I had a great time. I mostly helped her move suitcases and purchase cell phones (excuse me – mobile phones). But for me, it was all the more enjoyable. I love being in a new place and feeling like I belong, and you never feel that way when you’re busy shuffling between tourist destinations. This time, I ate English breakfasts, walked in and out of shops in Mayfair, strolled in the parks, and had a pint or two at the pub. It was wonderful.

On my first night there, I didn’t sleep well. Jet lag. And daydreams. Being in London had awakened my European dreams once again, and I spent most of the night concocting schemes to get myself to the Continent.

I made a list. One column was “Part Time Seminary/Pay Off Debt,” another “Full Time Seminary,” and finally, “Germany.” Germany’s list of pros filled up quickly – Fulfilled Dream, Language Ability, Cultural Experience, Confirm or Deny Calling, No Car. The cons were few. One actually – Great Loss of Savings.

In the meantime, the seminary pros list was mostly empty, with one glaring exception – “Calling?”

I couldn’t ignore it. But I couldn’t ignore that Germany list either. Then, about 2 a.m., the idea struck: go to seminary in Germany!

I thought about it all weekend until on Sunday, I found myself back at All Souls. It was almost exactly six months after that late July day that propelled me to New York. And, back to London again, for that matter. I felt strange. All the details of the molding, the windows, the upholstery on the chairs, it all seemed as if I had just left. Everything was vivid. And from somewhere, maybe up in the rafters, I heard a familiar whisper.

“Go,” it said.

As I sat in church, my mind racing with my new plans, I felt a peace about my future. Just like the me that sat in that chair six months before, it was time for me to use my head and follow my dreams. Only this time, I had a track-record.

On July 31, I made the decision to move to New York. I didn’t have a job, an apartment, or many friends there. I just went. But in my head, I had a million questions – Will God take care of me? How can I be sure this is what God wants? How am I going to get by? Will I be able to find a job?

Boy, has God answered those questions! Time and time again, I’ve seen His provision. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen my net worth drop to 65 cents and then a paycheck comes in. I’ve found a job, an apartment, a Church, and a few friends. I’ve made some great memories, lived through a blizzard, and found a great hookah bar. More than all this, I’ve found trust.

I have no doubt that God’s hand is on me. I have no doubt that if He would have me in Germany, I will be there. And I have no doubt that as long as He dictates that I remain there, I will.

“Go,” He said then. “Go,” He’s saying again.

I look back now to that July day at All Souls, and I see the story. I can’t wait to see the story I’m making now.

(1. 46th Street 2. A Tree in Central Park 3. Me, Lindsay, and Mr. Hookah 4. Me, Lindsay, Bec, and Michael... In The Snow 5. Sledding in The Park 6. So Photogenic 7. Michael Actually Making a Snow Man After I Said, "Let's Make a Snow Man." 7. The View from D-Lite Donuts)

What's in a name?

I got sick a week or so ago. It was a Friday, and I had been feeling a little under the weather. About halfway through the day, I started getting achy, with hot breath and a hot brow, and since there wasn’t much work to do, I decided to take the afternoon off. I relaxed that evening, and went to bed early.

On Saturday morning, I still had a scratchy throat and a stuffy head, but that achy feeling was gone. Still, I didn’t feel like doing much, so I curled up and watched the most macho movie I could find – Gone With the Wind.

I know, I know. Not exactly Braveheart. Still, I hadn’t ever watched it before, and I had seen a cheap deal on a special edition at Best Buy. So, I curled up on my futon and watched it.

I liked it. A lot, actually.

What really struck me was how the show affected me. I found myself hating those “damn yankees,” despising them as they marched on Atlanta, wishing we could have another shot at ‘em. I have all this Southern pride balled up somewhere, and I didn’t even know it. It’s funny, huh? Identity.

I got to thinking the other day about names. My name is Ben Thomas. I couldn’t count how many times I’ve said, “Hi. I’m Ben.” Have you ever read your name over and over again? Said it out loud so many times that it starts to sound funny? Try it – I just did it and found that it started to sound a little funny at 10, and by 17, Benjamin sounded down-right alien.

Our names are these sounds that represent us. When you train a dog, you teach it to associate sounds with actions. It’s not as if the dog understands, “Sit,” or, “Stay.” The dog simply associates a certain sound with a certain behavior.

If you think about it, it’s a good analogy for our names. People associate the sound of our name with us. Perhaps with something they did with us, a trait they like, or quite often (at least in my case), a time that we did something completely wierd, rude, or stupid.

Our names are just sounds people associate with us. But they are NOT us.

Speaking of names, aren’t pet names great? I don’t mean names for your pet, but the names that people in relationships almost always give one another. I know many people are too proud, too together, and too “cool” to admit it, but we all want a pet name. Now, don’t get me wrong – some of these things are a little over the top. But in general, I think they say something very important about us, about our desire to be named.

I have a friend (who will remain anonymous) who calls his wife “Precious.” I can’t tell you how many times I made fun of him for it. The truth is, though, there is something wonderful about that name. My friend has a woman whom he adores. He serves her, cares for her, protects her. He has made a vow to spend the rest of his life, despite any sickness, sadness, or trial that comes, to stay with her as long as he should live. She is precious to him, more precious than anything else he will ever have, and every time he calls her “Precious,” it reminds her of the totality of his deep commitment to her.

I heard a pastor say once that even when two people are married, when they have shared years and years of common struggle and triumph together, there are still parts of them that long to be known. There are parts of all of us, no matter what our relationship to others, that can’t be shared with anyone but God. I remember thinking at the time that this sounded stupid. But, it is true. There are parts of me, deep, dark, mysterious corners of my soul that only find companionship at quiet moments when God breaks the veil and visits me.

And now we’re back to identity. We are something, deep down inside, that we can’t explain to others. I am many things on the surface – I have brown hair and brown eyes. I am passionate. I love football. I am spontaneous and free-thinking. On a deeper level, I have a great love for people, and generally want to share my soul with anyone I meet. At the same time, I am deeply vain, deeply arrogant, and spend most of my time fighting thoughts that I am somehow better than everyone I know. I have a deep longing for my long-dead father, and realize that these longings will not be satisfied in this life. I have an unquenchable desire to have a wife and family, and I also have a constant fear that I will never be loved, will never marry, will never have children.

But these things aren’t me. They don’t sum me up. They are a part of me, certainly. But deep, deep, deep below my appearance, my likes and dislikes, my old wounds and fears and hopes and dreams, there is an even deeper me. A me that can only find its release in God.

There is a verse in Revelation that says, “To him who overcomes . . . I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it.” A new name. A true name. One that isn’t sullied by our past, our sin, or our history. One day, when all is done, we will be with someone who knows our name. He will be our beautiful bride, our loving husband, our strong father, our gentle mother, and a companion closer than any brother or sister. He will bend his head down to ours, and whisper our name in our ear. This name will not represent us. This name will consume our whole identity in all the glory that God meant us to be. It will be a name that is us. In that name that he gives will be the totality of an eternal commitment. And every time we hear it, we will be reminded of his great love for us, and we will rest.

(1. Ginger and I at my favorite restaurant, Dandana 2. Blake and Nadia at Macy's 3. Flava' and I at the Empire State Building 4. The World Trade Center site)

I was in love with the place...

In my mind?

I'm back in New York after a very short Christmas trip to Texas. 2 days. Nothing.

I've often thought that when a family lives near one another, they never enjoy what they have. They see each other often, once-a-week, once-a-day even. But do they ever pause to enjoy this? It seems that they most often get caught up in the everyday things, don't hug long enough, profess their love too rarely.

I arrived in Texas last week with butterflies in my stomach. I was so excited to see my mother, my brothers, my nieces and nephews. I expected that some small explosion would happen, that I would be witness to some great, historical event. Instead, I kissed my mother a few more times than normal, hugged my brothers perhaps a little tighter. But, after a moment of excited hellos, all was as it always is. I was there, with them.

Places are like that too. I love driving in to Waco from Dallas at night. I love spotting the Alico from miles away. I love the moment, about a mile North of the Brazos when the lighted towers and spires of Baylor suddenly burst into view.

But this too is a passing thrill. Even as I drive by, the magic dims somehow, the lustre is somehow hidden. And true love isn't found in that momentary thrill.

I'm learning that you can't make up for being away. You can't replace quantity with quality. It's not the big days, not Christmas or birthdays that make up a life together. It's in all the quiet, mundane moments - sitting in my sun-drenched backyard, watching my nephew bounce on his new trampoline. Or walking around campus with my brother talking about the new bookstore. Or anything at all with these people I love. The truth is, every moment spent together, every trip to the grocery store and late-night conversation is a deeply essential moment in loving someone.

I admire my friend Rebecca. She has always loved home. She is absolutely satisfied to be at home, in Waco with the people she loves. There is a deep, admitted love between everyone in Becca's family - they love to be together, to watch movies, go on vacation, or just sit and talk. I have always envied that about her.

The other night, Becca, Amanda Hutchison, Michael Smith and I stayed up together until the early morning talking, looking at stars, and generally, enjoying our long friendships with one another. For most of the time I have known Becca, I have been a little intimidated by her. Her family too. What's hit me lately is that the big difference between Becca and I, the root of my being intimidated, is that while I have always been restless, she has been so satisfied. It hasn't been anything she has done - she has been happy to be herself, to be in her family, to be from her little town. It was me. I wasn't OK with me.

For the first time in my life, I'm starting to get that. I'm starting to like who I am, where I was born, who my family is, and where home will always be. And suddenly, I'm not intimidated by Becca anymore.

(1. This was inspired while listening at work to Death Cab's "Marching Bands of Manhattan." I was hoping for some deeper artistic significance, but I'm pretty sure there's nothing there 2. That's me and the Midway crew kicking it at Ninfa's 3. The fam and I gathered around the Christmas tree 4. My sister-in-law Karen and my nephew Aaron. I got him a pirate costume for Christmas, and this is his attempt at a pirate face)