Would You Rather...

"I did my own research on you." He said, from across the table

a body broken and the cup of wine, for the forgiveness of original sin

and I know a guy who heard from his coworker, who read something on the internet (so it MuSt be true)

the authority of anonymity and snipers on every roof

gatekeepers of the kingdom of [dis]grace; you wait for a response

while I'm sitting with my daughter on a Saturdate, over cinnamon rolls and hot cocoa. She wants to play the "Would You Rather..." game. 

So we commence:

Would you rather be celebrated for something you are not, or hated for something you are? 

Would you rather approach each new friendship with a disclaimer, or bury the past under the blood of Christ? 

Would you rather sit in the back row, contemplating the apocalypse, or snatch the microphone and preach about scandalous mercy? 

Would you rather be outside their circle, or the centerpiece of psychoanalysis? 

Would you rather respond to each rumor, or give a fist bump to the anonymous cowards?

Would you rather be a cracked pot beholding glory, or a white-washed tomb of self-righteousness?

 

She doesn't want to play this game anymore, and neither do I. Neither do I, Love Bug. 

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The Delicate Art of Deconstruction

I'm sorry that I'm not sorry that I've been quiet in recent days. You can find me in the mo(u)rning rhythm of the sun rising over Maplewood Park, as I walk the trail around the lake. Hands in my pockets and head in the sky, silent in the deconstruction of all I once held true.

The compartmentalization of systematic theology, dispensations of time to explain how God works, and a myriad of answers to questions that nobody was asking... I used to have an answer for you! I had a chapter and verse memorized for apologetical discourse on all things controversial. I was sharp with the tongue, and witty with the sarcasm, and angry with the liturgy. I had a vision for perishing people, a prophetic identity, and a zealous mission! I had adopted the 7-Steps, constructed grids and formulas for spiritual formation, and constructed a bridge between justice and mercy. 

The bridge I once constructed is now in ashes. The flames singed, the branches burned; beyond the point of no return. The chapter I'm reading is being written in a heavenly language, and I never claimed to the have the gift of interpretation... it's become like clanging symbol, triggering flashbacks of a full theater, an audience of rowdy revolutionaries, and a power point presentation complete with historical context. In the center of it all was a fiery prophet without the character to sustain the charisma. I have been exposed as indecent, revealed as a hypocrite, and evicted from the circle I scribbled with a felt-tip marker on a napkin at Fazoli's.

My life has not turned out the way I thought it was going to. And now, on the evening before my 46th birthday, I wonder if this is what is meant by "Midlife Crisis"? Should I go out and buy a new Corvette or get a membership at the Country Club? As if material possessions can scratch a spiritual itch, we all know the Corvette would get wrapped around a tree, and I'd get banished from the Country Club, just like every other church in town. 

It's all so disorienting, isn't it? When the grids and boxes are decimated by a spiritual virus, and the politics create a culture of cancellation, until we're all drowning in a tsunami of white noise. 

The cosmic plot twist has shattered the foundation of the opening chapters. The narrative is being re-written with a nuclear grace, and the ink is leaking hope on every page. The revolution is being redefined: to love my family, and lead my daughters into a deeper understanding of God's immeasurable love. This is my Church. This is my unbroken circle. In the company of agape love, I am known and loved anyway. 

When Time Stands Still

 Last night we celebrated Father's Day together as a family. My three daughters sat around the table and presented little gifts, and I read their hand-written cards with deliberate reverence. Each letter signed with the familiar "your favorite daughter", and a lot of hugs & kisses. 

We have a family tradition for birthdays and celebrations; the center of attention is surrounded by voices taking turns to share their own individual favorite memory. I savor these moments, as I've often wondered what my children will remember the most about their dad. From their earliest recollections, we've shared deep conversations and challenging observations. We've not avoided the hard questions, or the uncomfortable topics. We are known for our openness in communication, including the confession of my own messy story. My daughters don't have to dig through the archives to research the hidden secrets of their dad's notorious sin. They already know it. But they also know that my knees are scabbed over from the posture of humility, and my knuckles are permanently scarred from the incessant knocking on the doors of heaven for mercy. 

 Mariah is now 17. Ambria is 14. Ashlyn turned 11 on Sunday. These girls are sO radically unique and different from each other, and yet they hold this sacred bond in common: a bloodlines that refuses to go with the downward flow of our culture. They swim upstream, sometimes against themselves. They were raised to be revolutionaries, and they know it!

In the anticipation of this evening, I got a head start to think about the question... what is my favorite memory with each of my daughters? My mind scrolled through the rolodex of images, a collage of tears and laughter, surprises and unexpected blessings. I revisited the clouds through which we parasailed over the Mexican beaches in Cancun, and the impromptu dance parties on the Cruise Ship last spring break. I recalled the time that Mariah hijacked the stage at Hope College theatre, and all of her state championships in forensics. I revisited the epic landscapes of the Rocky Mountains and Zion National Park with Ambria, the time when she launched herself off the cliff to the water far below, without hesitation. I remembered walking beside Ashlyn up the Narrows Riverwalk through Zion, and the hike around Bryce Canyon. I can still vividly remember the first day she came home from the Asheville Hospital, and I took her outside to the tree swing to introduce her to the wild world outside. 

To my surprise, these were not the favorite memories they chose to share. 

Mariah went first. "My favorite memory" she said, "was nothing too exciting. And I'm not sure why this particular memory stands out above the others... but I remember one afternoon we took a walk behind our house in North Carolina. We found a Mulberry Tree (previously unfamiliar to our Yankee heritage), and you helped me climb out on the low hanging branches to fetch a fistful of berries." 

I was shocked! It wasn't the expensive vacations or the epic road trips. It wasn't the stage or the awards. It was a simple walk in the filtered sunshine of a mountain landscape, and the unexpected pursuit of mouth-watering berries. And, although I vividly remember that afternoon walk as well, Mariah and I had never talked about it since that day, 8 years ago. 

Then it was Ambria's turn. She reflected on the myriad of sporting activities and extreme adventures we've had. She said, "My favorite memory is probably the time we went snowboarding together at Bittersweet. We were both learning, and you fell a lot." She added, "I don't know why that particular memory stands out as my favorite, but it was just really fun to be with you!" 

I remembered that day as well. I considered all of the blue ribbons and goals scored and awards and accolades that she had achieved. I was her personal Hype Man on the sidelines, cheering her on to victory. I thought about all of the deep talks and late night movies and long road trips to Chicago or Montana. But nope. It was a wintry evening on the icy hill, creating Bittersweet memories together. 

There was another memory that stood out as well... last winter, in Jackson Hole. Ambria had struggled to overcome her hesitation on the steep slopes. She traded her snowboard in for Teresa's skis, and we took the lift to the top of the moderate run. Immediately, she fell. Twice. Three times. Then, in tears, she unlatched her skis and surrendered. I sat down beside her in the snow. I said, "I know it's frustrating. But I'm not going anywhere. I'll walk with you." So we both carried our skis all the way down the mountain. I think at one point I even carried her. Those are the memories that she holds sacred. 

When it came to Ashlyn, she reflected on White Water Rafting, overcoming her fears of heights, climbing mountains, and going on a cruise together. But she also added, "And every morning when I wake up early, and we're alone together in the living room. We usually talk or watch the Bucket List Family, or even go on a secret run to Biggby to get smoothies!" 

 Ashlyn is living in the tween paradox of childhood and adolescence. She loves the rhythms of being tucked in each night, but she also loves her own freedom. She watches Mariah and Ambria closely, as they have helped to raise her. She craves individual attention from Teresa and loves to go on 1-1 dates. 

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We are trapped in a sequential understanding of time. This moment is the only access point to understand the journey thus far, and the anticipation of things to come. We see through the lens of moments, seconds, ticking away like grains of sand falling from an hourglass. "Don't blink!" they warn us. "Life is a dash between birth and death!" From the moment of delivery, our children are speeding away from their nest, and we are left to comprehend the emptiness of evaporated time. Time is running out. Time is slipping away. Time is now. We refer to this version of time as "Chronos" (Chronology). 

This idea of time is measured in quantity; ticking clocks and watches and automated cell phone alert us with alarms. Moving forward to the unknown. Onward and upward and downward and outward and everywhere but   i n w a r d .

Meanwhile, the heart beats like the algorithm of a life sentence. Fear gives birth to anger, and anxiety is born in the furnace of depression. We are anxious about fleeting moments, and capturing it all on camera. Every moment. Every memory. Every conversation. Every last look. Like shredded wrapping paper on the floor on a Christmas morning, our memories become a whirlwind of confusion. That song, that scent, that image of a sunset in the rearview mirror... these nostalgic gifts that are fingerprints of a cosmic grace. 

But the ancient greeks believed that there is such a thing as time outside of time. They believed in moments that were so holy, that they transcended the time/space continuum and were secured in the vault of an empty hourglass. They believed in sacred time. When time stood frozen in captivity to the atomic energy of an event. They referred to this version of time as "Kairos". 

If Chronos is measured by quantity, then Kairos is measured by quality.

And at the end of my life, I will see the flash and the dash... the blur of a million intersecting points of love and hate, laughter and pain, conflict and resolve, hugs and fists, and the avalanche unexpected turns in the road. I will see Byron road, and a small boy learning to balance barefoot on the guard rail around the corner by the Muskegon Airport. I will see my best friend  Dan Cook and I running after a herd of deer in the woods behind Johnny Galindo's house. I will hear the church bells and the judge's anvil and the sound of muffled voices over intercoms in the county jail, and I will taste the bittersweet juice of communion offered by ragamuffin saints Awakening to a reality of a Love unearned. I will touch the healing scars on my wife's legs after being attacked by the neighbor's pitbull, and smell the the flowers growing outside the kitchen window. I will know the difference between an acquaintance and true friend. I will trust that I am held by the familiar embrace of a Rescuer who has known me fully and loved me anyway.

Chronos will be shattered by Kairos. 

"At the side of the everlasting Why, is a Yes and a Yes and a Yes." - E.M. Forster

a hug on pause

 when i was twenty five years old i got lost in the manistee national forest in the middle of a snowstorm, i had a walkman with headphones and a cassette tape of jack hyles preaching a sermon from the old testament called "I Did Know Thee In the Wilderness" and i wandered down to the water's edge and fell asleep in the snowbank and i knew that my heart had been strangely warmed by the charcoal fire and the relentless invitation of my rabbi to come and die. 

remember when saturday nights were littt with atomic optimism as we broke break and studied the apostles teachings and dimmed the lights and sang our hearts out to delirious and the happy song and the tambourine didn't fall into the rhythm of the guitar but joel was spirit filled and jacob had his hands raised and mariah was an infant and we knew that the ceiling was glass and heaven was invading earth.

when i was in jail a thief stole my shoes. when i confronted him, he spit in my face. a crowd swarmed around and a fight was immanent. surely, this is my rock bottom. (what is yours?). but then a stranger approached the thief and interrupted the conflict. he said, "i remember jerry depoy jr, he once picked me up when i was hitchhiking and took me to the store and bought me food." and in that moment i recognized him as angel that i had unwittingly entertained a few months prior. 

when i was out on work release, i remember standing in the check-out lane at meijer. i was carrying a bag full of boxer shorts that i had planned to layer and smuggle back into the jail to distribute to my new friends whom had been wearing the same underwear since the day of their incarceration. while was standing in line i heard whispers and in my peripheral vision i could see the pointed fingers in my direction. bowing my head in toxic shame, i tried to avoid eye contact. when the cashier took my credit card she read the name. "Jerry DePoy Jr.? I remember you. You once came to us after our house had burned down and you took up an offering to collect resources for my children." she then walked around from behind the counter and gave me a hug. the kind of hug that kicks the bloody hell out of shame. 

[my givashitter broke three weeks ago]. 

the great cloud of witnesses

from the back row of the the little white church on the corner where the sign says 'Jesus saves', i disassemble the offering envelope and draw a picture of redemption with red ink like the words bleeding through the pages of the new testament, the great cloud of witnesses surround me now with a violent yawn and the rocks in the pockets begin to cry out like the trees clapping their hands and the heavens reopened to rewrite the ending from the beginning (i was fearfully and wonderfully made).

lake effect snow buried our tent at pj hoffmaster state park, and dad awoke early to stoke the fire and these anthrakia coals have turned to ice as i'm interrogated thrice, of a professed love that is unpossessed. so i point to the beloved and say 'what about him!?', only to be beckoned to follow the Way of an upside down cross...

so i walk into the room and stare at the whispers hushed and wait to see who blinks first. because i'm staring through your powerpoint presentation like an MRI exposing a primal hypocrisy. 

you are loved and there's nothing you can do about it. 

Where Are(n’t) You?

Three thousand miles deep into the heart of nowhere, I’ve searched for a sign of Your presence. The ever-present absence is the one constant chorus in a song with no bridge, and the harmony sounds like thunder falling from the stairway to heaven where Jacob climbed and fell and wrestled and prevailed. Still You remain a memory, a tragedy, a rumor of eyewitness and the echo of golgothic cries... ‘Why have you forsaken me!?”

I’ve come full circle to this geographic assignment. Maybe it was romantic nostalgia - this assumption that You would meet me here on the porch of this rustic cabin outside Yellowstone. When I was here fifteen years ago You arrested me with Your grace and suffocated me with a chokehold of Your agape love. But that was a long time ago... a lot has happened since. I fell down the stairs a few times and bloodied my faith and my stamina has faded. My spiritual gas tank is fuming, and there is no exit on this beaten path.

The rain is an unexpected knock on the door of my heart. I wake up late, confused. Boiling water for French press coffee, and stumbling outside to the porch. I sit sheltered from the storm and look back to the future of my life.

From this vantage point, through the steam and beyond the Grand Teton Mountains, I see Immanuel - my bunk mate in jail. I realize now that he. was. You. A visitation turned habitation, the ever-constant Presence. I see my sedan crashing on the highway, rolling several times across the median on US 31, and landing upside down facing oncoming traffic. No seatbelt. I walked away without visible wounds. Externally purified/internally traumatized. The first eyewitness vomited at the site of what appeared to be obvious fatality. When I emerged, barefoot (!?), he asked, “Do you believe in God?”

I see Skot, Brad, and Matt running toward the pariah that exposed me as indecent and unholy. Matt said, “You can run from this, but wherever you go - there you are.” I see Dan with arms raised singing about a grace that I can’t comprehend. I see hugs and a holy kiss followed by shrugs and a hundred fists. I see my aging father limping on reconstructed knees and an aching mother who has achieved sainthood through selflessness and I see the horror on my Mariah’s face the day I left Asheville forever (for now), and Ambria’s acceptance of circumstances she can’t control, and Ashlyn’s runaway tear as she sits in the plastic kiddie pool in the driveway as I turn away. I see the state border sign come and go and I have to pull over because I’m crying too hard. I see a screwdriver and a bloody wrist and they say objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they actually are.

I see an Awakening and a love from which there’s no escape. I see social media as image management and forbidden fruit hanging low in the form of questions from a serpent to challenge the mandates of Shalom. I look in the mirror and I see Eve shifting the blame and scrambling for fig leaves. I see the Grand Haven pier and dial 1-800-273-8255. I hear the voice of God on the other line, asking me about the names and ages of my daughters. I see Teresa walking along the edge of the north shoreline, toward me in a white dress.

When Jesus cried out from the cross, He was quoting the Hebrew Psalm, chapter 22. “My God... My God, why have You forsaken me!?” This has been the crescendo of the last 15 years. A lot has transpired since I’ve come full circle to this cabin in the mountains. And as I’ve wondered aloud these questions have haunted me. Where are You?

Psalm 22 bleeds into the beloved Psalm 23. The psalmist looks in the rear view mirror and sees God as Immanuel, walking beside the streams of water, and cooking breakfast beside a charcoal fire (in the presence of my enemies) and exhales, “You are with me!”

He was with me the whole time. He was there on the stage and in the cage. He was there in the spotlight and in the furnace. He was there beside the fire with a thrice repeated question... Do you love me?

As I write these words, I’m looking out at the falling rain beneath storm clouds over a rustic cabin outside Yellowstone National Park. I’ve come full circle to a love with no beginning and no ending.

Burning Bushes and the Relentless Invitation

A few years ago I started walking the streets along Division without a GPS. When the Spirit prompted me to turn left, I wouldn't hesitate. When the Voice interrupted the constant static of sirens and solicitations, I would listen. When the fire in in my heart compelled me to stop and notice the burning bush on every corner, I would freeze with anticipation.

The conversation usually began with a request for a couple of dollars, or loose change. A bus ticket or a meal pass was urgently needed. Another funeral in another state and another sketchy story about why cash was requested.

On the other side of a deeper dialogue, Truth revealed pain concealed. 

I began to learn the names of faces whom became more than statistics to me. Friendships were formed beneath the highway overpass, where my homeless friends were hiding in plain sight. The concrete bridges around Grand Rapids became permanent shelters from the unpredictable Michigan weather. Sleeping bags and plastic tarps were hidden behind trees during the day, invisible to the eyes of a thousand motorists in transport to the Sweet Bye and Bye.

Time has a way of humbling us all. I used to think I could rescue those in danger, and liberate the captives. I used to think that my calling was Messianic, and that my blood could save. I used to believe that I was the Savior.

Until I repeatedly self-destructed and landed in a pool of my own vomit beside a porcelain throne that felt like a prison of regret. In time, I eliminated the excess egocentric bile, and stood open and exposed before the Voice.

"Who do you say that I am?" The whisper from heaven tormented my conscience with a grace unrelenting. The Truth is, I did not know. I had confessed an allegiance that I had not demonstrated. I had professed an alliance that I had betrayed. As a young man, I vowed to take a bullet for my Savior, and I gave the oath of my word. Time and time again, I woke up to raging roosters and mocking shame. In those moments I had locked eyes with the One who loved me, and I escaped to a lonely place to weep bitterly.

So as I stood before my friends on the street... as I sat beneath the overpass and heard the cries of my friends in the bondage of addiction, I could nod and say, "Me too."

But I have come to share the good news:

One day, when I was writing a goodbye letter to my family, and drafting the blueprints of my exodus, I was confronted by a scandalous grace. The heavens opened to collide with the gates of hell, as the Resurrected Mercy King walked toward me. He did not speak, except to say, "Peace be with you, Jay." He sat down beside my ocean of shame, and He held out His hands. I could see fresh scars; evidence of the cost of my liberation.

Until that moment, I had learned to live with the identity given to me by men. My identity is a self-righteous, cocky, murderous, adulterer, lying, thief, disqualified, banished, excommunicated, failure. For years I had protested and finally accepted my fate as a degenerate.

But in that moment, in the eyes of the Least of These, I saw Jesus.
The question was then reversed. I asked Him, "And who do You say that I am?"

He looked at me with tunnel vision, and saw my heart. It was beating on life support. He unplugged the machines, and rewired His veins into my own bloodline. He took off his outer garment and washed my dirty feet. He wiped away the tears from eyes, and slowly stood before me. He then took off His white robe of righteousness, and put it around me.

"Mine." He said.

 .

"...It's a Cold and Broken, Hallelujah."

The carpet felt more like concrete, as I collapsed beneath the table and erupted into a violent explosion of salty tears and self-hatred. The world I had known was forever changed in the unraveling of my shame, finding a shattered mirror and a fist and a whisper, "wherever you go, there you are."

Find me here, inconsolable and unrecognizable. A blanket of suicidal thoughts and imaginary voices calling me to run run run from the truth, and hide hide hide from the runaway tongues. I called Jennifer, Janelle, and Jonathan to say, "I love you." But this felt like the end of a long journey and
I was coming home.

From the carpet beneath the table, I was physically lifted and carried by an angel with tattoos and blue jeans. He drove me home when I was -less, and became my feet when I could not walk. There were no words, only the sound of choppy breathing and hyperventilating and the crushing weight of anxiety as I began to devise a plan for my escape. It was early in the afternoon, and rain had set in while the mountains of Asheville had begun to shake off the frostbite of late winter.

Cam laid me on the couch in his living room, and I rolled over to continue sobbing. These groans were immodest and explicit, and my hands had begun to tingle from the lack of circulation. It seemed my heart had stopped beating, and I was not getting enough oxygen. I cried bitterly, as the rooster crowed thrice. I trembled violently, as my fists became numb. There were no words spoken, only the sound of uninterpretable tongues toward heaven, have mercy.

I don't know how long I slept there on that couch. It seemed like days, but when I stirred I was confused. Where was I? What happened? My eyes opened slowly and began to adjust to the falling daylight. It must have been dusk, and only the fading natural light remained to illuminate through the windows. I was paralyzed in the aftermath of all things unholy; the ashes no longer provided heat - only the evidence that a fire once burned.

And there, beside the couch, sat my friend. He was unmoved and focused, watching me quietly from his chair beside me. To this day, I don't know how long he had been sitting there praying for me. All I do know is that in his provision of a non-anxious presence, he was delivering a powerful sermon.

[Intercession is the intersection between failing faith and saving grace.]

I remember that moment, being stirred back to reality. The pain was real, and it wasn't just a bad dream. The wounds would leave a visible scar on my reputation, and my children would bear the brunt of explaining that their dad (however flawed) still walked on water. Still, no words spoken. He just looked at me with inexplicable grace. His lips slowly formed to a slight smile, as if to say, "I know. It hurts. I love you. And I 'like' you. I am not going anywhere. Go back to sleep."

We locked eyes for a moment, and I will never forget the blanket of comfort that covered me as I experienced agape love. I felt the love and acceptance of God, embodied in a friend - embracing my cold and broken hallelujah.

- Jay DePoy

[S]easonal [A]ffective [D]isorder

there’s a few things i’ll always remember

like the uncomfortable quiet of november

and the way happy chases the ever after

like a kite without anchor in a natural disaster

all contacts deleted like a chorus repeated

advice gone unheeded, and the champion defeated

there’s a few things i’ll always remember

like the frozen burn of late december

when the leaves have turned from red to white

releasing the clutch, letting go and holding tight

at least the most is a friendship on fire

intimacy born in a furnace of desire

there’s a few things i’ll always remember

like the train tracks leading to always and never

turn your attention from the knife-wielding judas

disguised as cheek-kissing, traveling buddhist

at last the first is a step toward denial

so we crawl toward the altar down a blood-stained isle.

Lost and Found

Several months ago I began meeting with men who are in recovery from addiction(s). At a local city Rescue Mission, we gather in a circle and talk about hope and faith and brokenness. My own experience with rock bottom has given me a greater platform of authority than my degrees. I have been there. I know what it's like to curl up in the backseat of a car and pray for death. I have acquired a taste for self-hatred, and I know the bittersweet warmth of destruction.

But I've also seen the sunrise from an abandoned truck stop in South Carolina. I have watched the tide roll in and out and in again from a thousand beaches and I know that a mild sunburn is good for the soul. I know that gratitude begins where entitlement ends. I have forgiven and sought forgiveness. I am still learning to forgive myself. I am one beggar telling another beggar where I've found bread.

It is in a circle of hope at Guiding Light Mission, where we gather around our stories and reach for resurrection and life. We pray for each other, and laugh and cry and surrender and repeat. Recycling repentance like a squeaky bicycle chain needing the oil of mercy.

I met "Steven" on a cold, Sunday night in February. He was one of three men who openly shared stories of accumulation and loss. He opened up about addiction and recovery and relapse and spiritual bankruptcy. He had a wealth of information from years of experience. Steven was faithful to attend our meetings, and brought his amplified bible with cross references. He showed signs of fruitfulness and hope.

We became good friends. I used to give Steve a ride to work after our meetings. He would be dressed up in his work uniform, carrying a sack lunch for his midnight shift. We exchanged encouraging texts throughout the week, and I found solidarity in his admitted propensity to wander...

Steven shared with me of his dream of opening a non-profit organization that could serve as a safe place for people to overcome their addictions. His own history with drugs had given him a heart for others who were hellbent on self-destruction. I gave him money and time and encouragement. He gave me friendship, and gratitude.

And then, without warning, Steven disappeared.

He stopped coming to meetings and did not return my phone calls. I asked the leaders of the mission if they had seen him, and they were equally concerned. Steven had refused a drug test, and packed his bags... He left the shelter and returned to the streets.

When I heard the news, I stayed awake all night tossing and turning. I prayed aggressively believing that intercession would be the intersection between failing faith and saving grace. The next few days I spent driving up and down Division Street through downtown Grand Rapids. I looked for Steven on every corner - in the eyes of strangers and cops and robbers and shopkeepers. I searched for him on social media, leaving messages for him at every turn.

Why do I care so much about Steven? There are a thousand other distractions that I could exhaust my energy with. Should I just leave the light on and hope he returns like a prodigal to the front porch? Or should I leave the 99 and go hunt down the 1 missing?

Here's why.  Because I've been in Steven's shoes. I have run away to hide in my shame. I have covered my scars with the fig leaves of religion. I have quoted scripture in one sentence and cursed God in the next. I have violently defended the Name of my Savior, and then betrayed that name before the break of dawn.

And I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. But I was hunted down by goodness and mercy, followed by the Rescuer. I have known what it is like to be lost, and I have experienced the humbling grace of being found. I love much because I have been forgiven much.

I am still looking for Steven. And when I find him, I am going to give him a hug. And I'm not going to ask any questions, or for an explanation. I am not interested in a religious inquisition. I have no desire to extract from him the details of absence. I just want to find him, and then drag him to the Table, and break off a piece of bread and pass him a cup and ask him to do the same for me.

Post Script: I have always been attracted to the margins. The streets. Those whom have been made to feel unwelcome in the American Church.

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