Adventures in Antepartum

Extended Slumber Party in Antepartum 203:  My Love/Hate Relationship with the Hospital and Partial Guide to Ruling Your Idle Time Like a Boss

      I have a confession to make.  Bear with me.  This is hard, sharing such a startling revelation with my gigantic reading public, but I HATE HOSPITALS.   Here’s a brief, thumbnail sketch of reasons why: 

      1.  They smell bad.  2.  They smell weird.  3.  There are rubber gloves everywhere that look like cow nipples.  5.  They smell like big business.   4.  I can feel the germs breeding.  6.  The food sucks.  7.  If what happened in hospitals was working why are there still sick people?  8.  Fluorescent lights.  9.  Nondescript directions and labyrinthine hallways that lead to nowhere.  10.  Dr. Cox, J.D. and Turk are nowhere to be found which means Scrubs was a lie and completely crushes everything I hold dear and true.  11.  Parking garages.  12.  Doors that are open during certain times of the day but closed during other times of the day, specifically times of the day when you’re carrying a ton of groceries upstairs to labor and delivery where your wife is and it’s the shortest, most direct route and instead you have to go round-about through four other wings with all of the groceries.  13.  John Wayne toilet paper.

      

      Don’t get me wrong, hospitals aren’t all that bad.  I’ve been living in one for a few days since Stef is going to be here until baby Olive is born.  For those of you who don’t know, Stef ruptured prematurely, has been on bedrest and now that we’ve what medical science considers a “viable gestation period” she has been admitted into the hospital to be closely monitored until our daughter is born.  I guess since I’m getting accustomed to the environment all of my anti-hospital defense mechanisms are quickly faltering.  But maybe my reasons for being here have softened me a little bit.  I’m being forced to step into the shoes of many others.  I don’t have to like hospitals, but I don’t have to make them my mortal enemy either.   All in all, I guess what I’m getting down to is how perspective colors experience. 

      

      In reference to my last article, a year ago if you would’ve told me that I would be spending my Christmas in the hospital, I would’ve told you that would not happen and it was a terrible idea.  Well, I stuck it out.  We had visitors.  It’s fun spending time with my wife even though she can’t get out of bed, and my daughter even those she’s still in-utero.  What has hit me like a ton of bricks is that I've spent my Christmas here (along with all of my other days off from teaching) and I’ve barely noticed it.  What gives?  I need something to get cantankerous and riled up about!  At first I had a momentary breakdown, because I thought I was finally turning into an old man, but then I remembered that my old man died (Gal. 5:22, haha church pun), but really it’s just my perspective is changing and thus erasing a latent fear that had been lurking beneath my caustic outrage towards all things related to hospitals and modern “health care” in general. 

      I was angry at hospitals because I was afraid.  I was afraid at some level that I was sick or would become sick or my health would mysteriously fail which somehow is linked to my experience of medicine as a child.  I never spent time in the hospital as a child.  But I had a family doctor.  I was on an HMO.  I had what seemed an unusual amount of childhood illnesses.  Every time I went in it seemed, I felt so horrible I thought I was going to die and then on top of all of that, they would try to poke me with something or give me a perscription of something disgusting to take for several days or weeks after my visit.  Point being, hospitals, doctors, health care in general for me has always been linked to something negative, painful and inconvenient. 

      Not to mention, I’ve had a couple of bad diagnoses.  One was a broken foot (stress fracture) that three different doctors and another specialist all ruled as tendonitis.  I spent three months walking on a broken foot.  Of course the break got worse (actually bad enough for the doctors to see it) and I had to spend six months off my feet.  Another time I was misdiagnosed for the flu when I had mono.  I was given a type of medication that caused me to break out into a rash and also caused some of my capillaries to burst.  Needless to say, after a day of bad reaction to the meds, I stopped taking them.  Eventually they did some bloodwork and found out I had mono.  Problem being, the type of meds I was given initially actually could’ve been fatal if I would have taken them any longer (I would’ve been at risk for a blood vessel bursting in my brain aka aneurism.)

      I’m not trying to place blame on doctor’s or anything, but just give you a little background into the root of my fears and growing realization.  Anyways, after that last misdiagnosis, I made a decision to take my health more authoritatively into my own hands.  I did a lot of research.  There was a lot of trial and error.  I changed my diet, how I exercised, I stopped taking any OTC meds, and I stopped going to the doctor.  It’s been 6 years, and I’ve had no type of illness other than a minor cold and a 24-hour stomach bug.  I could detail my journey and I’m still learning, but bottom line, our bodies are designed to heal themselves if we allow them to.  Unfortunately most modern medical practices treat only symptoms or aim at getting "better" symptoms and very rarely treat the root of most health conditions or point patients towards their bodies’ ability to heal. 

     Anywho, I’m over it.  And I’ve been kicking it in the hospital, my former arch-nemesis, with my healthy wife and my healthy daughter and really the whole ordeal is quite bizarre.  My wife is healthy, my daughter is healthy (there are some complications, but no illnesses or threats of illness) and I’m healthy.  Here we are, three healthy people in a hospital.  Despite the little pullout couch I sleep on and our tiny fridge, I’m having a good time.  There’s always plenty of people to people watch.  And I have a ton of free time.

      I’ve been lamenting for 6 months about how I have so many creative projects I need to wrap up but I don’t have the time.  I’ve also been complaining about how I never have time to read anymore.  Well here I am, stuck in a hospital in the middle of a city new people are moving to everyday.  Although the circumstances in one sense are less than desirable (certainly I wish the complications with the birth weren’t there), I’m still in the lead.  Advantage Matthew.  Old irrational fears: 0.

      So far, after 6 days in the brig and I’ve read 3 books.  I’ve progressed to the last chapter of the novel I’ve been writing.  I’ve gotten a month’s worth of lessons done for my upcoming classes.  And...I’ve been working out/running like a fiend.  What should be a stressful and draining set of days has actually felt more like a vacation. 

      So to all my millions of readers out there, I want to encourage you in your perspective and the power it carries.  Your perspective colors your days and breathes life into whatever you attach it to.  May you live, love, learn, life and have your eyes constantly transformed to see the world and your dreams much bigger than you can conceive.      

What Did I Sign Up For?

IF YOU WOULD HAVE TOLD ME THIS IS WHAT I SIGNED UP FOR I WOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN MARRIED

                Seriously, I wouldn’t have.   Don’t misunderstand.  I don’t mean this in a negative way.  I’m just saying if you would have told the plucky mancub standing at the altar smiling, beard blowing in the wind,  what the first year plus of marriage would entail, he would have promptly grabbed his ball and went home.  That’s right.  He would have tucked his tail between his legs and made a quick exit.

In the same vein, I love being married.  I love my wife.  I love our growing family.  In all honesty it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.  But, tbh, the mancub standing at altar had no idea what it was going to be like...and here’s the shocker...that’s actually a good thing.

                The mystery is much more delicious than knowing.

                Having it all planned out can be advantageous.  Having expectations for how things are going to pan out or are supposed to be are all well and good, but, and here’s a quick tip for all of you soon to be hitched or are in that I-really-wanna-get-married-so-bad-I-can-hardly-stand-it phase:  1. You never know what to expect.  2.  What you think is reasonably foreseeable isn’t going to occur the manner in which you think it should.

                But that’s ok.  Take the plunge.  If you’re about to say those vows and tie the knot, then you’re in this for life.  If you believe in immortality and incorruptibility then that means 100s upon 1000s of years.  Get used to it.  There is no turning back.  Who you were when you were dating is gone.  Who you will be six months from now will be different than who you are now.  The same goes for your spouse. 

                That’s ok.   

                Enter day 6 of our union.  We are driving from West Texas to the Hill Country for what is supposed to stop No. 3 of our honeymoon.  It’s raining, I’m driving fast.   The red and blues start flashing.  I’m pulled over.  The cop is threatening me and I’m in the middle of nowhere so of course my idealism kicks in and I start lecturing the cop on the finer points of constitutional law, the difference between administrative procedures and laws that apply to living persons, how since he couldn’t prove that the STRAWMAN, MATTHEW MONK wasn’t the same as the living man Matthew Monk, then he had no jurisdiction in the matter and had to let me go and if he didn’t he would be violating several of my inalienable rights and thus subject to penalties…well…he pulled me out of the car, beat me up and took me to jail.  There I was, sitting in a cell while my wife dealt with the cops by herself…and I thought I was being a hero and protecting her.  Then she had to shell out all of our wedding money to post bail.  Moral of the story:  I was still thinking like a bachelor idealist.  Getting arrested didn’t bother me…but now I had someone else to think about.  I spent the next year paying fines, going to anger management classes and trying to find steady work with a resisting arrest (Class B Misdemeanor) charge on my record.  Let’s just say this is not the best foot to start your marriage on.  I’m lucky.  My wife is a trooper.  She handled it all gracefully even though she should have let me have it.  She should have walked out the door.  Honestly I almost expected her to.  But she didn't. 

                A little more than a month later I got one of those phone calls no one ever expects to get.  I had finally landed a reasonably steady job.  Stef had booked a long term gig at her job too, so things were stabilizing and we were getting things sorted out after the arrest.  I woke up that morning and had a call from my friend that was made about 3 A.M.  He left a message and said I needed to call him back ASAP, and I quote, “It’s that bad.”  I called back.  He was asleep.  It was a few hours later, at church, I was in the middle of getting blasted by El Shaddai at church when my phone rang.  I stepped outside.  My friend said some words that didn’t make any sense.  Then I saw the new article.  It still didn’t make sense.  But there it was in black and white.  One of my best friends was in the middle of it all…something so twisted and bizarre that it belonged in a Stephen King novel.  Then the phone calls came.  Hundreds of them.  People asking me questions about my friend.  Questions I couldn’t answer.  Questions I didn’t know how to answer.  Investigators.  Reporters.  Accusations.  Assumptions.  Presumptions.  Emotions that there aren’t words for and words there aren’t emotions for.  My wife stood with me through it all.  She gave me all the space I needed to process.  And let me talk her ear off to process when I knew she was tired of hearing about it all.  She was there to comfort me through all of it even when I thought there was no coming back from it.

                We weathered that storm.  The truth came to light.  Things settled.  Then someone got murdered a few yards from our front door.  All of the sudden our cute little ethnic neighborhood is being patrolled left and right for cops on high alert for gang-activity and narcotraffickers.  Protecting my wife took on a new light.  What was I thinking moving into this neighborhood in the first place?  It was cheap.  Close to my wife’s job and in a nice central location.  (She worked on the northside while I worked on the southside.)  Suddenly none of that was good enough.  Suddenly we needed more money and a better place to live.  Maybe the mancub was learning.

                We had a plan, we had an exit strategy.  Then I got laid off.  No warning.  A measly $200 as severance.  Now we have not enough for rent and we have to vacate.  Luckily we have a place to go.  It was tough.  We didn’t know where the $ was going to come from.  But everything got taken care of.  We got settled in.  Some new work started.  Then the best news we’d ever received happened!...Stef was pregnant!

                And the day after that I got laid off again and told to vacate the premises within a week.  I filed for unemployment.  Our great State Programs awarded my a grand total of $0 in unemployment benefits because I'm too old/too young caucasian and male. 

                Some friends took us in.  I started job hunting.  Things were looking up.  I had some leads and some interviews.  $ materialized out of nowhere.  Then one day, in the middle of the afternoon, Stef started bleeding, bleeding a lot.  We go to the ER.  They tell us she’s losing the baby.  Worst day of my life so far.

                We don’t lose the baby.  Miracle time!  I start a new job.  I get a promotion.  I get another promotion.  I get promotion number three and a company car.  We have enough money to get back into our own place.  We move.

                Day one in our new place, Stef is cooking dinner and I thought she peed her pants, but the water keeps coming.  This isn’t normal.  This isn’t supposed to happen.  She’s only 20weeks.  We were preparing for this only…5 months down the road.  We go to the ER.  They tell us there’s nothing they can do.  At this point it’s a coin toss.  Worst day of my life.  Period.

                I start a new job.  We’ve made it to 23 weeks.  They said if we made it this far, then our little girl has the best chance of making it.  I know she’s going to.  It’s the strangest thing.  I know my daughter already.  Tough like her mom.  Stubborn like her dad.

                The mancub that stood at the altar over a year ago is not the person I see in the mirror right now.  And that’s ok.  Like I said, if I would’ve told him what was going to happen, he would’ve ran away scared.  But I’ve made it.  It hasn’t been easy, yet it has been easy.  The peace which has followed our little family in the midst of less than ideal circumstances is nothing short of supernatural.  Surely the Lord prepares for us a feast in the midst of our enemies.  The war is over. 

            When you stand upon that altar and present yourselves as living sacrifices to God and to one another, there really is no turning back. You have entered the threshold to a brand new reality, a new world entirely. And that’s ok.

Want to Write A Book?

Want to write a book?  Then do it.  It's that simple.  But I must warn you, writing a book is much like giving birth.  The thing will take on a life of it's own, you will pour your life into it, then it will grow legs and walk away.

For those of you out there who have ventured into the untamed jungles of the written word, those paths teeming with wild beasts for us to slay and drink their blood, you may be more well-acquainted with what I am trying to speak.  The more I hurtle through the cosmos in this intriguing physical body, firmly planted on a swiftly spinning blue and green orb, the more I seem to meet people who either already are authors, or are aspiring authors, and by that I mean they have an idea for a book.

Maybe we all have more in common than we think.  I believe we are all authors.  We all have stories to tell.  It's who we are.  It is the medium that may be different for each of us.  Whereas no one can turn a phrase quite like old Bill Shakespeare, no one can cut a deal like The Donald (Trump, that is).  I hope you catch my drift.  Some of us put pen to paper, quill to ink, brush to canvas, etc, some of us cut deals, handle money, build things with our hands, etc.  Each and every part of it, every act tells a story.  In fact, the more conscious we are of our eternal core, the more we will find that EVERYTHING we encounter, from the most insignifant speck of light, to the birth of a newborn child, all of it is talking to us all the time. 

With the ease and accessibility of new self-publishing tools, the creation of a pretty nice self-published product has put a new face on literature as an industry.  It has also made it easier for any crack-pot spin half-realized theories bind them into a volume and have them blasted onto the international marketplace.  What has emerged is that now we have even more information being presented to us in much larger quantities at a much faster rate.  With such a realization sitting over us (myself), I'm always left wrestling with the question:  Why would anybody want to read what I write?  What makes what I have to say worth anybody's time.

As I have sat and mulled that over time and time again a couple of answers have remained consistent.  1.  I don't care if anyone wants to hear what I have to say or not.  The process of composing and creating breathes enough life into me on it's own.  2.  I can't stop myself.  These two answers are in constant conversation and crossing one another's lines.

But often, over the past two years more frequently and specifically I have been approached by several people in this manner:  "I have this idea.  Do you think I should write a book?"  My answer is always a resounding yes.  Write it.  It is never going to get written if you sit there constantly and simply just talk about it.  Ideas have to be anchored into something manifestable on this plane of existence, otherwise they just simply remain ideas.  Yes, an idea can change the world, but an idea devoid of any means to be communicated ultimately turns to dust. 

In the midst of wrestling with your creation, (aka the writing process) you will discover whether the idea is enough to carry a full-length work, whether you need to stop and take a few steps back and let the work breathe to give the ideas new life, or you may even discover the idea you had in the first place was just one link the the chain to a list of much bigger ideas, thus spurring you onto a much bigger, greater and/or different work. 

Point being...Go for it.  Be open to everything.  But ultimately, for me at least the creative process and the discovery it brings forth is the ultimate reward. 

Prime example: Over the course of the past 10 years...I've written 3 full-length novels.  8 Collections of poetry.  1 full-length play.  2 one act plays.  1 novella.  Exactly 15,235,874 blog articles.  Of which only one poetry collection and one novel have seen the light of day, and those two only to an audience of a few hundred people.

Is it worth it?  Yes it's always worth it.  If you're asking that, then you're asking the wrong question to begin with. 

Go, get on it.

Also, you can purchase my books Lambs that Howl and Outside Time and the Voice in Your Ear by clicking on the titles. 

WHAT DOES TODAY LOOK LIKE?

   Don't ever worry about your past rearing it's ugly head.  The past is not a garden to eat from, for its fruits are already dead.  Looking back with fondness and a thankful heart is ok, but try to go back there and you will get pulled apart, blood, guts and all.  While the man who plants a garden must first till up and turn over the soil, remove the weeds and clear the ground to make a nice patch for planting, so is the past.  It has been there and been prepared for you only as a springboard to launch you into more growth.

     You are alive.  Living things grow.  Get the picture?


     Call it God, call it The Source, the Energy, the Force, The Sworce, The Aura of all Auras, call it what you want.  He's not offended by the different names you may have for Him.  Ultimately, He meets you right where you're at, beckons for relationship and shows you who He is.  Without fear.  Without conditiions.  Without reservations. 

     If there wasn't so much negative stigma attached to the term "Christianity" would so many of us still be reluctant to call on the name of Christ?

     He is the master of time and space and He has placed an eternal seed within you.  You too, are not subject or bound to any definition time may try to dictate.  Instead, time is a substance you can use as a tool, but time is by no means the governor of the realm (earth) as so many are convinced.  It is the worry that there may not be enough time (like currency or resources) that has so many beautiful humans striving and at war with themselves or each other, or heaped under a weight of condemnation and unforgiveness.  Maybe, on a large scale we have yet to meet God, to meet God in us and to meet us in God, to meet God outside of time.  Maybe that's why we still view time as our master. 

     It's sort of backwards, though.

     He made time.  Surely He will use it to our advantage if we allow it to happen. 

     Therefore, do not look to your past and wonder, "what if??..."  This is why Lot's wife got turned into a pillar of salt.  Stop trying to inhabit a land that no longer exists.  Stop trying to sustain yourself on farflung ashes.  Stop missing the great harvest that is stretched before your eyes, right now.  Today.

Do What Gives You Life

Do What Gives You Life


          Write, my son!  Write as if your life depended on it.  No, better yet, write because it is your life.  Write because it's what you do.  No, better yet, write because it's who you are.  And nobody can take that from you.  You create, you pour straight from that place where reality is unfiltered and let it take shape through your vessel, to escape and show the beauty from which you are made.  Write as if you don't have a choice.  Write because you are.

     People often ask me what I do.  For the past few years I have been hesitant to to answer that question because I am not the sum of my deeds.  Honestly I can do absolutely anything and any box any one person tries to put me in will be smashed rather quickly.  I don't always answer that I'm a writer when asked such a question, because really I just hated the box that such a name creates, and to be honest, there are certain assumptions people make and attach to the 1st world small talk question of "what do you do?"  What people really mean, is "what do you do for a living" and sometimes if people actually make the entire statement, I answer, "I live".   

     More recently I've felt more comfortable with telling people that I'm a writer.  Well, really most of this has happened over the course of the last year since I've been married, and Stef, my wife, is quick to tell people I'm a writer and I've published two books because she knows I'm not going to say anything about it.  Usually then, there's a money question:  "Do you make any money doing that?"  Personally, no.  A couple hundred dollars here and there.  The more artsy types usually ask about my process or what kinds things I write. Even in the realm of writing I don't stay contained to one genre or experience.  So when the question comes, "what do you write?"  I don't know.  I just write.

     Why do I write?

     I write because it's who I am.  I write because I enjoy it.  I write sometimes even though it drives me mad.  I write because it's who I am.  I write because I can't stop.  I write because God has given me a gift and it is my honor to share.

      For a sneak peak to those of you who are curious (or may have actually read one of my books:  Lambs that Howl or Outside Time and the Voice in Your Ear both available at amazon.com), here is an example of something that I write:

Once Upon a Time I Stood on a Beach, Stared at a Burned Down Hotel and Thought about Fishermen:

I eat degrees for brunch

I boil hypertext at 481 Kelvin

I have a line in the mouth of a giant great white

I am the ojo del tigre, the crop of the cream, the cake sitting under the icing

I sting like a scorpion and suck the poison out

I am what drugs are afraid of

I am the trip to end all trips, the hallucination and the jump to hyperspace

I am a tree of life

I am the ark of the covenant

I run barefoot and perpendicular to the horizon

I sing like the desert at night and hiss like a hard rain on winter’s edge

I am every silver city and ashes in your mouth

I am the lake of fire

I burn so hot that it’s hard to see me

I am he and she given new eyes to make new eyes

I roll hard

I eat bugs sometimes

I find boredom to be an interesting topic,

and again,

I burn so hot that it’s hard to see me.

 
  
     Do what gives you life even if no one else notices. 

When Sh*t Gets Real

     What do you do when you want to scream at the top of your lungs and break a bunch of stuff?  There’s a tv and a golf club within arm’s reach.  Smash.  That would be satisfying.   Amidst the den and chatter of personal revelations shared publicly, everyone has a voice, everyone has something to say, everyone wants to be heard.  The mountain is shaking.  Can you feel it? (Heb 12:27)    

     What you have to say is important.  Know that.  You don’t have to prove it to anyone.  You are perfectly loved and accepted whether you utter another word.  You don’t have to prove it to anyone.

     Sometimes when people get too close to me I want to punch them in the face.  Glory to God I don’t actually do it.  Sometimes Christians talk too much about what God is and is not, instead of just walking it out and demonstrating His love (James 2:15-17).   Most of the time I have more fun hanging out with the drug dealers on my block than I do with most of the people I meet at church.  I can’t explain why.  They have good stories.  They’ve seen some stuff.  And surprisingly, though maybe not, they know God.  They know the power of God.  They have a healthy fear of God for the most part, it’s just they haven’t pledged their lives to Him.  It’s funny.  I would just walk through my apartment complex or walk down the street absolutely schnockered on the Holy Ghost and I would either get asked, “hey man do you have some weed?” or “hey man, do you want to buy some weed?”  I usually tell them that I have weed that they know not of.  The fiends immediately want me to share, which I do.  When I tell them that my “drug” is really the presence of God and they have it living inside them in unlimited supply.  This normally draws out a surprised look or two, but whether they believe what I’m saying or not, they can’t argue with the proof that I am way higher than they are and they want it.  So we’ll end up praying together, which is really more of a conversation in getting to know one another, and usually I won’t see this person/people again.  I have to trust Holy Spirit to lead them into truth.  I am an ambassador to my Father’s kingdom.  I can point people in the direction, tell them about my Father and His kingdom, I can even demonstrate to a degree what that kingdom is like, but...I cannot make the choice for them.  This goes for anyone at anytime.  No amount of revelating, arguing or hitting anyone over the head with my bible is going to make the steps for them.  The choice is theirs, the choice is yours.  This is the foundation of unconditional love.

     The dealers and mafiosos are usually at first are a bit more standoffish, simply because if they know you’re pushing another product, you could very well put them out of business.  There are also rules pertaining to territories.  If another dealer thinks I’m dealing on his territory things could escalate into a very dangerous situation very quickly.  When I tell them it’s just Jesus, they won’t try to come against it.  More often than not, a lot of these guys were raised in church, but their gifts were prostituted out for the “ministry” and so religicized that they got burned out, or they saw Christ and His people as nothing but a bunch of ritualistic hypocrites.  When the world seems to be crumbling down around you, going to a service one day a week and listening to some man in a suit talk down at you doesn’t seem to make a much sense.  In fact, it had no practical application to the world in which most of us live and find ourselves every day.  I know this, Jesus is not afraid of their crap and the dark world they choose, thus He is not afraid to meet them exactly where they are at, right there on the street in the middle of the chaos with blood and guts strewn everywhere.  Ultimately, people want something real, and raw.  People need a savior and they know it.  But a savior that can’t identify with their pain and darkness is just another false idol.

     Real talk:  Most of these guys, if I walk up to them and say, “You have a tremendous anointing on your life, brother.  Receive the kingdom of promise,” they will probably laugh at me, or punch me in the face.  The language is laced so much with the religiosity that probably turned them off in the first place, that the odds of them HEARING anything I said are slim and none.   If God told me to say that, then I would say it.  What I’m attempting to draw out is that most of the time, this is how we approach evangelism and we wonder why our success is so minimal.  Usually 90% of the time or more, when I’m talking to one of these guys it goes more like this: “I’m high as sh*t on Jesus, dude.  No lie.  Jesus is the baddest motherf*cker in the universe.  He’s the original king of f*ckin’ sh*t up.”  In our normal religious box, most would think that I have just blasphemed the Holy Spirit and stepped outside of the purity, letting my untamed tongue slip the bit.  But I assure you, Jesus is not offended by this speech.  He invented language and is sovereign over all communication, I’m pretty sure He can use it any way he wants.  Although I could be a preacher of some big church and well-respected as a matter of general public opinion, if the Holy Spirit has me cussing like a sailor just to reach one dealer or crackhead on my block, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  He is not afraid to meet anyone exactly where they are at.  Try to put the lion in a cage and see what happens.

     So...What do we do when sh*t gets real?  Do we offer a word of prayer?  Do we post a bunch of status updates on facebook?  Do we hide behind a sea of words because we know our joy is supposed to be the measure of our inheritance?  Can we not be honest about how we feel?  Joy is a fruit of the spirit, yes.  But if I’m not feeling joyful I not going to muster up some fake joy for fear of the judgements of men.  Let’s get real.  Sometimes things just suck and the first step in breaking the chains is being honest and saying, “Lord, this situation sucks and I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.”  Sometimes despite our best efforts, we take things personally even though we shouldn’t.  For instance, when a neighbour of ours got murdered 50 feet away from our front door, I took it personally.  I was pissed off.  I was mad at God for letting it happen.  He didn’t have a problem with it.  In fact, what He told me was, “Thank you for being honest with me, son.”

     One Sunday morning I was at church worshipping, when I received some of the worst news I’ve ever received in my life.  I stepped outside, cried for a while in the parking lot, composed myself and went back into the sanctuary, but the tears started to well up again, worse this time, and I just had to let it go.  All I wanted to do was cry and talk to my wife.  So I’m sitting there, crying, really just wanting to be by myself, when some charismatic lady comes up to me and obnoxiously puts her hand on my head and starts praying in tongues.  Bless her heart, but that was the last thing I needed at that moment.  She had no idea why I was crying or what was going on.  I needed a good cry and someone to listen.  I didn’t need any prayer or a word of knowledge, or a prophecy.  In that moment I needed someone to be real and meet me where I was at. 

     When sh*t gets real sometimes there aren’t any answers.  All we can do is let the other person know that we are there.  Ask them what they need instead of using a spiritual gift as a cop out.  When sh*t gets real, more often than not, people need to talk in order process whatever it is that has happened.  The greatest gift we can give them is by being there with them through it and listening.  We don’t always need a word of advice or a list of suggestions or should and should not do’s.  Sometimes we just need to be quiet and listen to what our brothers and sisters are going through.  

     How do we respond when the mountain is shaking?