Liam,
This morning I got alert on a social network of a picture that I took four years ago today. It was you, newly born with a hospital blanket wrapped around you and a cap on your head. Your eyes peered out of your adorably pudgy face. It was like you were still trying to take in this strange new world into which you had been born.

It's hard to believe that was you at one time. Especially considering what happened just now. I am sitting in you and your brother's room as you guys try to go to sleep. The word "try" is our sticking point. It's been a busy day. Your grandparents, my mom and dad, came into town from South Carolina. We had church this morning and then a birthday party this afternoon. I think you both are still a bit wired from the day's activities.

Crappy first drafts. Anne Lamott phrases it slightly more colorfully, but that's the gist. Can't write? Don't wait for the Almighty to hand you a perfectly formed manuscript from the sky. Put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and just write. Will what you write fall somewhere beneath the quality of a poop emoji? Often yes. But you're trying and that is a heck of a lot better than not.

And maybe, just maybe in that crappy first draft is the seed for a slightly better second draft. Maybe that buds into a not terrible third draft and--if you cultivate, water, and care for the words--maybe it blooms into something beautiful. Maybe. But you have to start writing before any of that is remotely possible.

I was buttoning my shirt in our darkened bedroom when I heard the first tornado siren. Rain poured down and a fierce wind pushed around the branches outside. There were flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. And then there was that siren and its foreboding wail. 

All of this felt substantive, maybe even a little ominous, on Ash Wednesday. It was like creation was sounding some sort of warning alarm at the dawn of Lent. Remember that the storm could come for you at any moment, o mortal. You can rage at a tornado all you want, but it will consume you. You are dust and to dust you will return. This is me and my overactive imagination, but that's all I could think about as the siren blared through the middle Tennessee morning.

There is something sacred to me about good art. A film can be a homily. A stroll through a bookstore can be a prayer labyrinth. Walking the halls of an art gallery can be like flipping through a hymnal.

This last weekend, EA and I went down to Savannah so that she could attend QuiltCon (No, you do not cosplay as your favorite at QuiltCon. I thought about that too. Although my favorite quilter is my wife, so…let’s not venture any further down that train of thought’s track). I do not know exactly when I got the sense of sacred walking through the many quilts that were on display, but at some point I got the feeling that there was something good and beautiful.

Have you ever read something that hit so close to home that it was unnerving? That's how I felt a week ago while reading about Enneagram personality types in a book called The Road Back to You. I got to the chapter type nine and I felt like someone had been reading my mail. It bordered on freaky because it was illuminating a lot that goes on inside my head and how I have interacted with people my entire life. After the initial weirdness, I became excited. This would help me grow as a person. Learning this information was awesome.

It has not been awesome. Not yet. After that initial burst of self-discovery, it has put me in a existential funk. I see the shadow side of this personality wherever I go. I see mistakes I have made in the past that became patterns. Type 9 puts a lot of effort in maintaining equilibrium between internal struggles and external circumstances; they don't want their internal calm to be disturbed. That perfectly describes me and, as the book says, that practice is exhausting. I am more aware of everything, but it's overwhelming. I think this knowledge is going to help, but it's obvious there is going to be this precarious adjustment period to the truth.

Every year (but more accurately every other year), I celebrate President's Day by posting Pseudo Facts about the individuals who have served in our nation's highest elected office. They are Pseudo Facts in that all these individuals did serve as President and some stuff around the edges of the facts may be true, but the heart of it is silly nonsense which I made up. Unfortunately in today's political climate alternative facts are a thing. So I have to add a disclaimer that I have never had to add before. Lying and peddling intentionally misleading information is wrong. It's immoral. These are fictional flights of fancy for fun (alliteration!). Below are all of my President's Day Pseudo Facts from today. Enjoy!

Our boys have been looking forward to The Lego Batman Movie for months. They watched every trailer that came out over and over. Our oldest memorized the release date and each day asked how many more days until February 10. This is the most excited they have been about anything since Christmas. Finally on Monday, we picked them up from school, gave them matching Lego Batman shirts that EA had found, and went to see the movie.

They loved it. Our oldest asked as we left the theater when the DVD is coming out.

Yet for me the most memorable moment came towards the end of the movie. I'll try my best to avoid spoilers because the third act of the movie is an express shuttle to Crazytown that you wouldn't anticipate from the commercials. But the basic breakdown is this: Batman finds himself in a prison while scores of bad guys are wreaking havoc on Gotham. In order to be able to go save the day, Batman promises to return to prison after he has captured all the villains.