What I meant to say is that all this means far less than it might sound, and will probably not any dreams but my own. But, this is my exchange for a confident future for Mad Mondays.Few people manage to watch, listen and read every ounce of content I put out. No one will mourn the dreams I am letting die on lists of projects left uncreated in my dustbin but me. This is my Lenten humiliation, and for it I am glad: I am but one man, and the sole arrow in my quiver is an eight-year-old boy who is quickly growing up.YouTube isn’t going to change. The Mad Christian podcast, it’s going to get even better. And Mad Mondays will be in your inbox, swift and sure as putting your trust in princes will fail you every time.I can’t promise you the content of the content. I can only promise that it will be from me, and it will be real.
I have a whole bunch more I put in my 2nd draft, but this is my 5th draft now…
Like how I decided to give up email for Lent. I’m going to be ignoring 95% of my email, and all of Facebook and Twitter and Snapboy and Finglefart and whatever other latest greatest may-may squirrel bait is being tattooed on the orange man’s Easter eggs (because I just can’t take that much crazy anymore).Remember, I’m doing crazy things so that you don’t have to. Whether all goes well or poorly, I’ll report back after Easter.
In 2020, each attempt to step forward feels like dancing knee-deep into a bayou. The obstacles have run the gambit of my life, ranging from wild ironies of fate to subtle moments of honest reflection. Most of them have come with a solid pinch of pain or fear, (like having to write something twice because the first draft is buried in a pile of Post-it notes dedicated to inventing the world’s greatest personal management system. [Strike one to that idea, I guess.])What game am I playing again?That is what all these Lenten ordeals have served to do so well: remind me of my mortality in a most inspirational and gratifying way.Lent as seasonal experience of everything is amassing to preach to me in stark contrast the glorious songs of the road to Zion: the new land where Jesus has set his throne.What matter are the weeds and thistles now? They are but more faithful preaching of the fact that leaving this muck ain’t worth mourning over that much.
All this often makes me think of you…
You, my reader. You, my fan (hopefully.) You, my blood-bound brother or sister in the body of Jesus Christ.These thoughts fit well with the warm sunshine and cold breeze of a Friday afternoon in early March, just northwest of the Rock River in the land where the Illini roamed. Barren trees and last winter’s dead leaf piles dance with a Blackstone grill on a driveway overlooking a road that seems to lead to peace.It’s a scene right out of Fallout 4. And that makes me smile over my cigar.
I just looked forlornly at the lonely Post-it note (singular) scribbled on my wall, as I dug through a notebook full of tough mental questions.If I ever am going to write again, while also managing both a podcast and a YouTube channel, serving as a blessing to a local Christian congregation, and fulfilling my duty as a father and a husband, then there are some things in my life which I’ve been calling goals that I need to start admitting are just dreams.This is wonderful, friend, in the most inspirational way. In fact, it was so wonderful that for the first time in years upon years I busted out my pen randomly at a cigar shop, and wrote some poetry.(For lack of other interesting things, I thought you might enjoy it.)
Poor in spirit, and rather depressed about it, I am finding that Lent this year is kicking ass.
To kick a donkey in “the king’s” English is not the point. My King speaks English, but he has also cursed it to Babylon and back again.
The point is that arguing mootly about the morality of Shakespeare’s vernacular is not worth comparing to the deep pathos of Christianity’s annual celebration of the arduous excesses of our fall into darkness.
I mean, may I suggest that if potty words make you angry, then you might be doing Lent wrong.