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Non Est Hic Pt. II

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I currently have one tattoo. It’s not that I haven’t wanted others (I have), but I have always been of the belief that if it is going to be a permanent feature of my body it should at least be meaningful. If, Lord willing, my nieces are one day going to ask me about what the ugly, wrinkly, discoloration on my arm is, I want to have a smart and meaningful retort. So, I got my first tattoo last year. It’s simple cursive writing and reads “non est hic.” Latin for “He is not here.” Much joking has taken place at my expense as I relate the translation to various friends (typical jokes include: “Where is he?” or while pointing to the other arm asking “Is he here?”). I endure the jokes and sometimes choose to relate the real reasons why I chose this tattoo and not another. And that reason is also why I chose this title for my blog, because all of us have non est hic -experiences, but we just don’t have the vocabulary to put it into words.  If what I wrote in my last post is t...
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Non Est Hic Pt. I

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[A note to the reader: What you are about to read is the first part of what I imagine is a two-part story. This is not easy reading and it ends in a dark place, but like all good stories there is a conclusion that satisfies both mind and heart. In an essay titled “On Fairy-Stories,” J. R. R. Tolkien, coined the term “eucatastrophe.” Tolkien meant by this word that all great stories have a sudden turn of events that lead from an impending catastrophe to a “happily ever after.” This narrative details the “catastrophe”: it’s a partial outline of my own story and, I believe, a roadmap to understanding the narrative within which we all are caught up in. Thus, if this essay is dark it is only because dawn is coming. ]      I recently moved to beautiful Santa Monica. This is the seventh time I have moved in the last five years and every time the experience is exhausting. Old relationships are left behind, new relationships must be formed (incidentally, this task get...
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Of Bread

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An hour ago I was stretched out across my floor "prayer crying." For those who are not familiar with this term, it's the experience of equal parts sobbing and equal parts praying—prayer sobbing doesn't sound quite as good though. "Prayer crying" has only happened a couple of times in my life, probably due to lack of clean floors as well as precipitating crises calling for a good laid-out prayer cry. Yet, this is where I found myself on a Saturday evening in my 29th year of life. The essence of my "prayer cry" was this: God are you good? God are you trustworthy? Can your promises that are explicit in your Word apply to me? Mixed amongst these questions were disappointment, shame, confusion, and hurt. I have questions God, they’re not intellectual but existential in nature—Does pain tarry only for a night? Or will it be my portion forever and ever (Amen). I have brought a case against the Almighty One, like Job, the Psalmists, and the disciples I ...
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A Confession

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Does anyone blog anymore? That’s the first question that comes to mind as I warily begin this venture. With the deluge of media that one receives in a day—video streams, podcast, email, news alerts, likes, and tags—who actually spends time reading an online blog? I don’t. Honestly, I don’t. Why read something so informal—a mere amateur’s rambling on their latest dislikes and “informed” opinions—when there is a whole deluge of professional material out their to be read. So, I skip blogs. Thus, I feel that I am committing a form of treachery by venturing out into this medium that I slightly despise (even now I hear some of my friends hissing, “ Et tu, Stephen ).  In what way can I justify adding yet another voice to the cacophony of the world wide web? Simple answer: I cannot. Longer answer: I really don’t have any justifications. I don’t believe I have “something good” to say, but I do believe I have “something” to say. And one out of two isn’t bad.  If you have made i...
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