Life during this period hasn’t been easy by any stretch. 

There have been many sleepless nights, many episodes of inconsolable crying and screaming. From both children. (Possibly from some adults.) Minor spats with the wife because we’re both worn-out, overworked, exhausted. 

And in those moments I’ve cried out variations of “Lord, I’m so done. Can you take me right now?" Like, it’s all good if Jesus just came back and raptured us. I hate to admit it, but that’s what I was feeling. In my flesh I sought to be rescued from hardship.

I told all this to my friend Eric over dinner. He took it all in. Then he replied, "A clean manger means there's no oxen." 

My father is getting older.

I’ve always known this in my head, that this day would be inevitable, but this is something that’s been hard to come to terms with.

The other day my parents had asked me to help install their new washer.

A coin of all things had been lodged into the spinner of their washing machine, and my dad couldn't dislodge it, so naturally my parents needed to buy a new one.

He said the delivery was coming at 3:00pm.

I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to grab lunch with my dad. As it turns out, from the call we received, the delivery truck just so happened to show up right as we arrived at the poke stop.

Yesterday I said goodbye to my cousin Edwin.

His heart gave out one Sunday afternoon, unexpectedly, while he was doing one of the things he loved most, bike-riding. His friend tried to revive him on the spot, hoping to buy time for an ambulance to the hospital. But it was only enough to keep him alive in the technical sense. He sat motionless in a coma at UCLA medical for nearly a week, until it was his time to go.

Ed was in his late fifties, had no signs of ill health. He was a phenomenal athlete by all accounts. He loved life and the people who lived it with him. And he still had so much to offer.

Life can be cruel that way.

I visited an old friend today. It had been 9 years since I had last seen her.

That last time, unfortunately, was at her late husband's funeral. Life had called me to a different place to serve, and though we had lost touch, I would not forget about people like Carole.

I heard she wasn't doing well as of late—her memory's been fading and her energy weak. Most days she's confined to life on a wheelchair, being helped by her caretaker Francis. When the pastors asked me if I wanted to join them in a visit, I did not hesitate.

I’ve been thinking about
all the kids whose lives have stopped
before they ever really started,
and all the families drowning in their sadness
regardless of whether laws are changed or not—
it won’t matter, because theirs is now a world
forever etched in the pain
of those whom they loved—now martyred.