Basically, I’m just killing time here before the weekend hits. What do you really do with those last 20 minutes of the work week, anyway? It will probably go exceptionally slow, since I’m so much looking forward to tonight.

I’ve got a bottle of Chateau de Beaucastel that’s just begging to be opened, and that kind of wine only deserves a good meal, right? So I’ll be cooking up Braciole. Which I’ve never seen nor heard of before, but it sounds like a fun little adventure. Imagine large strips of beef wrapped around a creamy bread crumb stuffing.

And I’ll get to cook again this weekend, since the Venezuela team will be over at my place Monday night. I’ll be digging up my mom’s old recipe for Albondigas Soup, aka Mexican meatball awesomeness.

And I need to bring dessert treats to Bible study on Tuesday. Since I’m already at it in the kitchen, I figure I can’t just settle for chocolate chip cookies. Cherries sounded good (actually, at this point they sound utterly delicious), so iced maraschino chocolate cookies will have to do. (This isn’t from the same recipe, but they look something like this, plus maraschino chocolate icing on top.)

I love weekends.

I can’t believe I forgot to bring my camera to the concert. It’s been seven years since Derek has performed in Spokane. I could at least have taken a photo of the show and of me chatting with him afterwards to tide me over for the next seven, or however long it will be.

However, if I had taken a picture, it would look something like this:

I think I’m going to be a fan of Sara Groves now, too. I’ve got a couple of her CDs on the way.

Thanks Derek. Come back soon!

Having just disclosed the address of this blog to a “real-life friend,” I found this “Weblog Manifesto” to be incredibly accurate to the feelings that surround such a thing. Interestingly enough, the name of the blog is “Undisclosed Location,” which I think is just brilliant. And I have no idea who the guy is that writes it.

Why is it so odd to share raw emotions in person the way we do over the internet? I write all this stuff, publicly available to the whole world, and yet when a friend who knows me well asks for the address, I stop and do a mental inventory of everything I’ve ever said. Is it OK for someone who has interacted with me in person to read this stuff?

Why wouldn’t that be the case? It’s not like I’m gossiping. Maybe it’s because blog entries talk about my emotions regarding people I really interact with. It’s like talking behind their backs.

Well, here you go, my librarian barista friend. This is my online self. Even if I don’t know yours.

Life is all about me. Everybody is a bit actor in my play.

That is why they all read my blog.

I just realized that I’m never going to figure it out. It’s a strangely freeing thing to discover.

Maybe I’ve learned this little nugget before. Though if I have, I must have lost it somewhere along the way.

I think I can identify a pivot point in my life: five years ago, almost exactly, the night I decided to start doing something about my interest in a girl. She was my first serious romantic interest. Or at least the first I allowed myself to do something about. I clearly remember that night. It was like God just said to me, “You want to do this? Then do it. What’s keeping you back?”

For some reason, I’d never really thought about life that way before. I always thought I needed permission to do what I wanted. And yet, here I was, a sophomore in college, and I began to realize for the first time that in life, you just have to make decisions and then act on them. There is no magic path paved in gold.

I began to feel like I had finally figured life out. Or if not, the final answer was just around the next bend. All the pieces would fall into place any day now. This all happened deep inside. It was never a conscious realization, but more of an emotional shift in how I saw life. But I knew life was going to make sense soon.

And when that love interest didn’t work out, I dealt with it. It hurt—I wouldn’t dare claim otherwise—but it was OK, I still had enough of life figured out. This was the one piece left, and it would make sense soon.

Except that a year later, “soon” was still around the next bend. My life fell into a pattern of months of raised hope followed by months of confusion and sorrow when that hope didn’t work out. Often in the realm of relationships, but not always.

Tonight I find myself at the end of one of those periods of sorrow. I hope it’s the end, anyway. Because I think that pattern is being broken. You can only have your hopes taken out from under your feet so many times before you start to question their foundations.

Life doesn’t make sense. I thought all this time that there was some answer, some thing that would just fall into place and the pieces would snap together.

But it’s not there. I am not going to figure it out. Life isn’t going to make sense. It’s not supposed to make sense. I’m still just a kid. I still need my Father’s hand to hold on to, to show me where to go. I still need my father to understand life for me. Because I am never going to.

And I’m okay with that. I am very okay with that.

It’s these times you do the right thing
It’s these times you never learn
It’s these time that you deny Me
And ignore everything I’ve done
It’s these times you crucify Me
It’s these times you’re still my son
And it’s these times I love you
And it’s these times I love you
And it’s these times I love you
It’s these times

I love you, too, Dad.