“Love one another. In the same way I loved you . . . love one another. This is how everyone will recognize that you are my disciples — when they see your love.”

-Jesus

“Please, Lord, remember, You have always been patient and kind.” Psalms‬ ‭25:6‬

I don’t know what else to say . . . other than it’s been a rough day.

I’ve always known myself to be a bit squirrelly on the inside — moved by my feelers. It doesn’t matter what my brain says. For better or worse, it’s how I feel that, well, means anything.

And right now, I don’t feel anything. Except for the dark cloud that I swear is following me.

No anger. No frustration. But none of the good stuff either.

Maybe that’s sadness — the absence of everything else.

I don’t really know what this Psalm means — or at least what it means for me in this specific moment. But it resonated.

Have you ever had that experience when you started realizing everything you thought you ever knew about something just started collapsing before your very eyes? And not just little piece by little piece, slowly over time . . . think demolition bombs.

As disorienting as it is — not to mention crazy-ass scary — I have to believe there’s a ton of good in it all. It’d be worse to come to the end of your life and suddenly realize, as you take your last breath, that you based your entire life on a lie. Or, at least, what you’d thought was true was really just your attempt to fool yourself for whatever reason.

Not too long ago, a couple of years at the most, we had an experience with The Kid that will go down in the record books as one of the greatest parental fails of all time . . .

It was a holiday of some sort. But I’ll never admit to it being Easter, because that would just make it worse.

We were sitting down with a group of friends and neighbors for a meal (TO BE CLEAR: this was pre-Rona). And one of our neighbors asked The Kid to pray and thank the Lord for the food. It was a sweet gesture — The Kid loves any opportunity she can get to have the attention of a captive audience.

I didn’t know how she’d respond to something like this. But any glimmer of hope I had plummeted south quickly when we made eye contact and I saw the look of confusion on her face.

“Pray? The Lord? What?”

Now none of these people could be called “holy rollers,” but you could still hear a pin drop.

Yeah, we didn’t look so good. We were busted — God decided to make it clear to everyone around the table that we were raising a little heathen. Thankfully, her crooked little smile was all the damage control we needed to get through the awkward moment.

Sometimes — most of the time really — I have that same kind of questioning confusion about Jesus.

In the mass of all the stuff that has been written about Him (including the Scriptures), I still find myself wondering, “Jesus? Who is this guy?”

I mean, I “get” the creeds. And the “He will come and live in your heart if you believe” Sunday school stuff.

But it’s the humanity part of Him that’s both baffling and amazing. The part of Him that connected with the prostitutes, the rejected, the alienated, the sick, the hated and despised. The part of Him who cared about providing for the business of some no-name fishermen and made no big deal about helping out wedding hosts.

These were big, miraculous events in His divine story — defining Himself as the Son of God. But I think I have a tendency to make them — and Jesus, Himself — so divine that I forget that He loved (and even liked) people. That His mission was people-oriented.

His story isn’t just about filling in the blanks on His journey towards death and resurrection, coming full circle on the prophecies that foretold His appearance . . .

He was a good person. A caring person.

The God-ship of Jesus is important. But I’m finding that the fact that He gave a shit about the pain and suffering of those around Him is what gives me hope.

“The Lord can always be trusted to show mercy each morning.” (Lamentations 3:23)

A couple of years ago, I spent some time at a rescue organization — interviewing people who had successfully completed their recovery program.

Don’t think lounging by the pool kind of recovery program (which is fine if it works for an individual). People don’t get through this program with a whole lot of namaste . . . it’s a gritty fight. Fought within the mind and heart and soul. But there is eventually peace — typically after a long dark season.

Sometimes it’s coming to grips and accepting responsibility for past decisions.

Sometimes it’s refusing, again and again and again, to let inner demons get the upper hand.

Sometimes it’s clearing the fog of addiction to see the value of life, faith, and love clearly.

In one interview, when I asked a grizzled, middle-aged man if he could, would he go back and do his life differently, he barked out a roaring laugh that shook the cafeteria table where we sat.

“What’s the point,” he questioned with a hint of sarcasm. “This is my story. It may be fractured, it may look like it’s in a bunch of pieces up close,” he continued. “But when you look at it from a little bit of distance, it’s a redemption story.”

Redemption story . . .

I’ve been thinking a lot about that experience, and that grizzled, middle-aged man, lately.

Tonight the Goddess and The Kid were working on a puzzle. And after an hour or so of some intense focus — and reminding The Kid that the puzzle was her idea — the last piece was snapped into place. And the image before us matched the image on the cover of the box perfectly.

This is how I’ve always understood redemption. Jesus enters into our story, and He takes all the pieces of our lives and snaps them into place — with each piece fitting nice and snug. And then suddenly, there’s a perfect image.

But I don’t think that’s what the grizzled, middle-aged man meant when he talked about his redemption story.

In one instance, the Scriptures compare people to “jars of clay” (2 Corinthians 4:7) — chipped, cracked, lowly, and easily broken. But it’s the vessel that bears the “treasure” of Divine light, wonder, and glory.

That’s the essence of our redemption story — a massive mosaic of broken pieces that showcase wholeness. Of radical imperfection that displays perfection. An intermingling of joy and sorrow. Pain and hope.

Beauty in the pieces.

At the beginning of this week, I paused for a moment to get my breathing just right. I knew the days ahead were sure to be overwhelming to say the least — requiring the always daunting process of shaking off the last remnants of the holidays and searching for focus.

I mean, it’s good to be back at work with the holidays in hindsight. It’s good to reconnect with coworkers — and work together to solve all the world’s problems.

And it’s not like this was the first time I’d ever experienced coming back to work.

But it felt different.

In the morning dimness of my office, feeling the trepidation of the day and week ahead, I bowed my head and whispered, “Dear God . . .”

But then I suddenly stopped.

I’ve been a Christian for awhile. Like the experience of most people in the Christian faith (or at least I tell myself that), it’s been a journey that’s taken countless random turns — or turns that appeared random. And I’ve given God the silent treatment for a few seasons. Typical of just about everyone else, right?

But prayer for me has always been a little . . . blah. I don’t know why. And honestly, I can’t even really describe what that means. I know it’s important. It just feels so empty.

Brené Brown, in one of her lectures on the “Gifts of Imperfection,” talks about how we have this tendency to, when we experience something really good in our lives, immediately look up in anticipation for the “other shoe to drop.” As though the inevitable conclusion to something good is something bad.

Do you do this? Even on a small scale? I do it all the time.

And this morning, as I began my little prayer, I found myself channeling that sentiment.

Speaking the opening lines to begin my plea and ask God for help to get through the day — for positive energy, good vibes, and to make it exceptionally easy to be kind — I had this sudden suspicion that I wouldn’t be talking with the Divine as much as I would be giving the universe permission. Permission to unleash its very worst.

In my limited capacity to remember anything, it seems like (at least this morning) when I ask God for help to get though the day — that day ends up being more grueling than what I’d originally anticipated.

Obviously, that’s just stupid thinking. But maybe there’s something to it.

Not that the universe is actually against me or anyone, but that the “shit hitting the fan” is really God simply providing “opportunities” to see how genuine we are in our prayers for help. And if we’re willing to sit back and just let Him handle it. Whatever “it” is.

Prayer is easy. But prayer is not EASY.

Maybe that’s the point.

I don’t believe in magic. Not really. But if I did, I’d swear we had a sweet little joy incantation sprinkled all over us this week.

Sandy beaches. Sunny skies. And throwing The Kid from one end of the pool to the other — again and again and again.

I listened to a handful of books — and read a few more. The week’s reading selection was all about “the word” — both the Scriptures and the word that became flesh. When it comes to faith, these are the two areas I love and hate the most: the Bible and Jesus.

Maybe it was all the vitamin D. Or the ice-cold Bikini Blondes. Or the lack of a daily 10-hour grind. Likely some of all three. But I felt a departure in my soul this week — a departure from my frustrating need to know and believe all the right stuff.

I think faith is less about “rightness” and more about trust. Trusting in Jesus. Trusting in His Gospel story.

Trusting doesn’t make any of this easier. But it’s different. It feels different. The areas of friction I feel don’t have to be resolved. I don’t have to feel guilty for not being sure. And the Gospel is about more than managing the shit in our lives more effectively. All that is good news.