I sit here on Maundy Thursday and I think about Peter. I wonder if he had any clue that afternoon that his world would be turned upside down. He certainly didn't know that someone would be thinking about him on this day nearly two thousand years later; that his cowardice would be written down in a book and read by millions over the years. Was he excited about Passover? Did the foreboding words of Jesus predicting his death haunt him in the daylight?

I see him panicked in that courtyard. The walls closing in on him. No, he doesn't know Jesus. No, he has never met the man. For God's sake, he doesn't know the man! Then the rooster crows and the shame floods over him as he remembers the words. He remembers his words: his boasts and promises. He remembers the words of his teacher: three times he will deny their relationship. How could he not break down and cry?

When you're a parent, you're exposed to a lot of cartoons. Most of them you tolerate. Some annoy the fool out of you. Some have a seemingly innocent premise that becomes sinister once you start thinking about it (I'm looking at you, Thomas the Tank Engine). And then there are a few that you enjoy just as much as your kids. That cartoon right now is Phineas and Ferb.

Phineas and Ferb is about two brothers who come up with wildly imaginative ideas to pass their summer vacation. They build rollercoasters, set out to become a one hit wonder, play a game of volleyball with jet packs, fix a time machine, and so on. All the while, their pet platypus Perry is a secret agent waging a never-ending skirmish with the evil Dr. Doofenschmirtz and their sister Candace tries to bust them for their outlandish adventures. It is full of optimism, imagination, and is whip-smart funny in a way that adults appreciate. It delights me so much, you guys.

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.