People Are Like Holes in the Ground

Sometimes, when we discover someone really great, it’s like finding a well in the ground full of jelly beans.

There’s never been anything like this, ever. You’ll gather your friends ’round,  just to stare at it. As you peer into the abyss of saccharine goodness longer and longer, you’ll cogitate on the actions that should follow: Do you grab a handful? Do you jump in headfirst? Should you have even discovered this? Are you supposed to just walk away? Would it be possible to claim this plot of land for yourself?

You won’t know how deep the well is at first glance. With some quick thinking and a little patience, though, you should be able to calculate its extent. It could be a few inches deep, making it less of a jelly-bean well and more of a jelly-bean puddle. Such a puddle would be irrefutably peculiar, but not rewarding enough to warrant an investment of your dreams, emotions, or time.

You won’t know what might lie beneath a superficial layer of delectability. The whole thing could be a sham! The well could be filled with rotten rutabagas, (or worse – these things) only covered by the six-inch stratum of jelly beans that’s in plain sight. With a little digging, though, you’ll be able to assess the spectacle’s solidity.

This is a no-brainer, but a nosedive into a newly-found well isn’t advised. Plunging into the unknown is never a good idea. It could be too shallow for your liking, or filled with yucky stuff at its foundation. You’ll likely reach the bottom sooner than anticipated, that is, if you aren’t stopped by a larger unforeseen obstacle on the way down.

There are those wells, though, filled to the brim with candy goodness. They might seem few and far between, but they exist, and they’re worth thorough consideration. Their wholesomeness unprecedented; their integrity uncompromised, they’re out there. They’ve yet to be explored, and sometimes, we stumble upon them when we’re not looking.

I’m afraid I’ve found such a well. As I find myself peering into this rift in the grass, I grow both more fascinated and more terrified with every peek. There’s a hole that’s been dug along the Lawn of Normal, and I’m fairly certain this one’s chocked-full of jelly beans.

Joy As a Matter of Perspective

Friday afternoon was, in the sight of many, a disaster. Following our thrifting trip to Savers, a group of us from TCI decided to cash in on my multitude of Starbucks vouchers. We were already late for class, though, so the good Danny O’Brien and I took the girls’ orders, sent them to class, and set out on a journey to Starbucks.

Danny’s a newcomer to our great city of fountains, and I have a horrible sense of direction, so we enlisted the help of Roxanne, my GPS. Roxy either has a phobia about highways or simply a mean personality, because she likes to trick us. A lot. It was for this reason that we were marginally suspicious of her findings.

After honing in on the store’s alleged coordinates, Roxanne led us to a grocery store parking lot. We circled the grocery store, confused as homeschoolers on a field trip, for close to 10 minutes before I had the smarts to call Starbucks and ask, “Were you guys overtaken by a grocery store?”

The lovely employee, whose name was Monica, replied, “Um… sir? We’re in the grocery store. Between flowers and produce.”

We parked Danny’s 1997 Ford Windstar (dubbed “the Batmobile”) close to the store’s entrance and made a run for it. We really didn’t want to miss class, but we’re also smart enough to know what can happen when you get between women and their coffee.

As we neared the storefront, two realizations hit us like a Penacostal at a pagan picnic: #1) The coveted vouchers were in my backpack. In someone else’s car. Luckily, I had also scored a $25 gift card for $8 on eBay, so we were covered. #2) This class is in the FCF auditorium. The girls won’t be able to bring their coffee into class. They’d have to drink it in the lobby.

It was in this moment that our afternoon went from simply being lousy to being laughably lousy. So many things had gone wrong, it was funny. This is a transformation of perspective only possible in the company of great friends.

Now, let me explain Danny O’Brien to you. Posessing the unique ability to shed a positive light on nearly any situation, Danny could probably make a train wreck enjoyable. His vibrant smile is impermeable; his laughter, infectious. His hobbies include croquet, playing with children, and long walks on the beach. (Yes, ladies. He is single. Download an application here.)

We continued to approach the Starbucks… inside the grocery store. Right there, between flowers and produce, stood Monica, who I had just gotten off the phone with. As she mixed our drinks in record time, I began to apologize to Danny, whose time, money, and gasoline I had just squandered in our little endeavor.

“Don’t worry, man,” he told me,“this isn’t a waste of time if it’s an adventure.”

I realized, right then and there, that not only had I found a great friend in Danny, but I had found a mentor of sorts. I was ready to let this little escapade ruin my day, but Danny’s remark was actually a prophecy:

You are, in no circumstance, required to be a Debbie Downer. It’s okay to be bummed sometimes, but it’s never your job to deliver a negative outlook.

What if joy could be derived from any unpleasant situation, by way of a simple change in mindset? Paradigms don’t necessarily need to be shattered, but given a nudge every now and again, we might find ourselves a little happier.

Psst! I’m speaking in code.

I’m a big fan of speaking in code. I don’t have a particularly profound reason for it, other than the deep sense of unity between you and whoever understands your code.

The terrier, nuclear Christmas, the Swedish Fish, rusty pancakes, the Battle of Troy, buttons. They’re all things that mean a great deal  to me, or meant a great deal to me at one point.

The key is to speak in abstract “what-if” scenarios, maintaining clarity so as not to make them undecipherable. This way, you can talk in code among trusted friends and untrusted acquaintances alike. It may drive those on the outside batty, but isn’t that what being a clique is all about?

Drawings in the Margins

I’ve had the same Bible since I was 11. I’ve been favoring the ESV iPad app recently, but nothing beats paper, especially when it’s paper with history.

The thing about reading the same book daily for seven years is, you find a lot of stuff written in the margins that you don’t remember putting there.  Somewhere between 2003 and now, this little guy showed up on the same page as Psalm 22.

If I remember correctly, I was watching the Brave Little Toaster with my brothers while reading my Bible, and my creativity got the best of me. It’s this kind of querky annotation that’ll keep me with the same leather-bound NKJV my whole life, no matter what kind of technological alternatives arise.

What I Heard in Sacramento

I went through a season a few years ago where I wanted to be musical. If you know me at all, you’re probably snickering at your computer screen. It’s just not very Jackson, is it? I’m aware now that I’m good at other things. I’m confident in the identity the Lord’s given me. I’m probably not going to be a musician. Ever.

I was meditating in the prayer room one day, singing through Hosea 5, when my voice cracked. Now, I’m seventeen. My voice isn’t supposed to crack. I’ve been through puberty, alright? I’ve paid my dues. Walked that road, been there, done that. I was discouraged before the Lord, because I have no music to offer Him.

In a community of musicians, it’s easy to feel like a dork if you don’t play an instrument. There’s something about the spectacle of the teenager with the guitar, singing to Jesus. It’s evident to everyone around: that kid loves Jesus. The Lord challenged me, though, on how desperate I was for recognition:

Are you looking to move the heart of the Living God, or simply to impress your surroundings? Love Me. It’s alright if no one sees you, or if they don’t enjoy it when they do see you. The attention of all mankind isn’t worth My love.

I found myself in the same spot this weekend at TheCall Sacramento as I hopped up on stage with my my class from TCI. I was prepped to grab the microphone at a moment’s notice to pray, but alas, the moment never came.

I wasn’t just mic-happy, I had a real message on my heart. It simply wasn’t my time. The Lord was intent on speaking to me like he had ten years prior at theCall’s original event in Washington, DC. I was eight years old, and it was the first time I remember hearing God.

TheCall DC in 2000 was pivotal in my parents’ prophetic history. (You can read my dad’s account of that day here.) As their son, I was along for the ride. I knew that the Lord was up to something with them, but until that day, I didn’t think anything of it for myself. As rain began to pour that afternoon on the National Mall, though, my little brother and I danced in the mud to Jason Upton’s song, Freedom, with a sense of victory only known among those who’ve won a war.

You see, for forty days, between homeschooling and binge-watching PBS Kids, I had been praying alongside my parents for rain. Interceding specifically for rain, and here it was. At some point that day, I remember the Lord of Hosts speaking to my little heart, clearer than I had ever heard Him:

“I don’t just answer prayers, Jackson. I answer your prayers.”

Through countless LIFE sieges, Worship With the Word sets, and solemn assemblies alike, I’ve carried that word with me for ten years. He’s proven it to be true, time and time again. It’s become the foundation of my relationship with Him, and this past Saturday, that foundation was solidified.

I stood behind the keyboard player and the drum-cage, which isn’t exactly prime real estate if you’re looking for an opportunity with the microphone. My classmates in front of me were handed the mic for 20-30 seconds a piece, and I quickly became offended with Jesus. “Why would you put something on my heart if you’re not going to let me pray it in front of all these people?” I was embarrassed of my question as soon as I asked, but that didn’t stop Him from answering:

Let your heart be the stage; the secret place your platform. The song of your heart will always sound better before His throne than before man. He doesn’t just tolerate it; He wrote it. Because it originated in His heart, it’s in sync with His heartbeat. What does it matter, then, if you don’t get the microphone? Sure, it’s peculiar on a Heavenless earth, but when Ephesians 1:10 comes into fulfillment at the groan of Romans 8:22 – in that moment – God will re-define “weird.”

I don’t know why You’ve put me where I’m at, Lord. It’s a little weird, but as I delve into the study of Your kingdom, I realize that it is, too. And “weird” is coming to earth. Praise be to the Son of Man.

When Peeing at 30,000 Feet

Two things struck me as humorous this afternoon in the airplane’s lavatory.

#1) notice the interesting use of quotation marks in this sign, affixed to the mirror. Maybe holding the trash can “open” is airline jargon for something different. (Maybe holding it closed?)

#2) As ardent supporters of the TSA’s no-smoking-on-a-plane rule (SUCH legalism), Southwest Airlines reminds you twice not to smoke, with identical plastic signs placed… above the built-in ashtray.

Pre-Flight Update

Blogging from my phone in the back of Southwest Flight 1012 to Sacramento, by way of San Diego.

Since the last time I flew,  KCI has added a couple of these confounded body-scanning chambers. They’re pretty invasive and leave the passenger feeling violated. It’s enough to get the pat-down from a security officer, but now they have X-ray vision for my clothes. Yuck.

Also irritating about the security process? When they refer to my TOMs as “slippers.” They’re shoes, alright? Welcome to 2010.

Real Coffee

Here’s the deal. If you’re going to drink coffee, drink it like the good Lord intended: straight black, strong and unadulterated.

Don’t add forty-two kinds of syrup, blend it with a pound of sugar, and call it “coffee” because of its solitary shot of espresso or scoop of artificially-caffeinated mocha powder.

Let’s call a spade a spade here. That–what you’re drinking right there? That, my friends, is sissified coffee. And I will not stand for it. If it doesn’t cause the hair on your chest to grow noticeably, and within the hour, it’s not real coffee.