That isn't a hope, it's an eventuality.

It's been nearly a rodent's life span since I have written, it would seem. I don't usually take time to write for myself. Not because I won't, but because I can't. It's funny to me that I will spend my life in the sidelines, hoping to have a story; though, everyone else has already seen what I have seen, or at least those who decide to remain on the sidelines with me. It isn't until I engage the game, charge the field, and get tackled by a tower of muscle and testosterone that I actually have something to tell the world about.

I have half killed my mind trying to figure out what I am going to do next semester. I nurtured school with the care of a mindlessly negligent mother, the CCC apprenticeship is ending, and I should probably seek out some sort of employment. Beside those things are several other options that have presented themselves. There is the Band, the Farr House, and the prospect of getting a second chance at my education. Beside those things are thoughts out from left field, things that have wrapped themselves around my heart, hugging it stronger, making blood harder to pump until they are satisfied.

The band is a huge story for me, and I think it requires another blog, but I am anxious to see where it goes this summer, and where God takes us next semester; and next year. The ending of the apprenticeship is leading me into asking God and myself about the Farr House. The basic Idea behind the Farr House (or as I understand it) is Greeley History. That sounds odd when described that way, but really it means everything about their other Goals. When you learn about Greeley's history, you learn about why there are people on that side of town and why those people showed up. You learn about hate inner city segregation. These are all things I suspect to find when learning about Greeley, which ties into why are the rich so rich and why are the poor so poor and why is the word "Mexican" a pseudo slur? When we hear that word and we feel uncomfortable, something has gone oddly wrong. Learn history and you learn the ebbs and flows of a culture, which helps understand how to appropriately deal with the complex problems at hand.

(got a little side tracked). . . So, I am thinking strongly on the side of doing that. It encompasses some things that I am passionate about. . . that God has made me passionate about.

Then we have the idea of going back to school. If I do, I am thinking about taking on-line courses. However, some of my trusted I and some trusted friends and family are beginning to believe that maybe school is not the route for me. Which is almost exciting. Not because I won't have to go to school, but because I look forward to pioneering my way through what I want to learn. Its my goal to become a graphic designer of some sort. Maybe not at a design firm, but maybe for an organization; maybe for a venue; maybe for something out of the ordinary.

and lastly...there are thoughts that I can always get out of my head, but never away from my heart. Someday I want to travel places...maybe even stay somewhere for a while. But I have too many road blocks in my mind (no pun intended?). What about this, what about that, how will I get my medication, my car is too old, how will I make money. All answerable questions. It's just...getting around the excuses, I guess. And I do have some things in Greeley that I should very much like to stay there for. But I want to leave my home. It's an odd feeling, but I need to leave so I can be welcomed somewhere else, make my own way.

It's been a rodent's life since I have written, and I have written with the sense of a rodent's organization. I am excited to see what happens this summer and next semester, though. By the grace of God, I will have the life he wants for me. That isn't a hope, it's an eventuality.

Like a Coat of Freshly Lathered Paint...

Winter fell hard on Greeley yesterday morning and the warmth of the indoors wrapped us in the ways of hermits as we filed into Margie's walls for coffee that sustains our summer souls. Margie's is a beautiful place that has always been cooler to me than Irish pubs or classy tobacco and pipe shops. Her most recent coat of paint accents, in the shade of rouge, the fleur-de-lis engravings in her archaic ceiling. The walls wear cracks like wrinkles and carry the smell of Coffee and pure, unadulterated pretentiousness of collegiate and artistic lives. As much as Margie's has become more of a treat, or a vacation spot from Zoe's, I really love It's building, it's coffee, and it's people. Ha, Margie's is the coffee shop that I will never be cultured enough to attend regularly. It's a good place.

There is something beautiful about it too; the insides echo back the old and familiar song of renewal that emerging Evangelicals harken to and jaded artists guiltily pleasure in. The building's tired walls hold works of beauty, like weathered, fading hands of a new grandmother holding crying new birth; the old, under-appreciated furniture sits staunchly upon the eroded hardwood planks and invites regulars to revisit it's historic parameters; the new meets the old.

The new year is going to ring in like a coat of freshly lathered paint; covering the old, but leaving the subtle cracks and bumps that give life a sense of story and character. There is no escaping the fact that I have had seasons where my life hasn't looked very appealing, but that is the beauty of restarting. I love that our culture makes that a big deal. I love that we have new years.

Needless to say, I am brimming with excitement and anticipation of the coming year.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in Roma's, just down the street from Margie's. At the Bar, my friends Daniel, Jeff, and Tim sat around and watched the football game. Interspersed in our conversation were voluminous amounts of pauses, followed by widening eyes and yelling, but sometimes sighs. Then, a short recap of what just happened, and a short explanation to help me keep up (after all, im just an aspiring pseudo-hipster/Indie musician...what would I know about sports?) As pure testosterone continued to shine down at us from the flat screen, Tim and Jeff leisurely threw around advice concerning life and spirituality.

"Too many people let life happen to them, not enough people take initiative...", they said.

Glaze still covered their eyes as they afforded half their attention to the game, and half to my presence. I gained a lot from that day. And I think that I hold more than hope for the new year, but need to forge a way in life. Tim and Jeff are right, too many people let life happen to them and honestly, too many people sit around and let God happen to them. I mean, doesn't a relationship denote that two being interact with one another? God's will is very important, but I think that we view the will of God as a regimented itinerary on a missions trip to earth and that if we find something good to do on free time, then no harm, no foul. Honestly, I feel like God's will for our lives has more to do with who we are, than with what we are doing. Yes, there are times when God calls us specifically to certain places and tasks, but I think that is the exception to the rule. God created a creative creation (excuse the redundancy) so that it could forge paths and ideas and movements inspired by him.

All that to say, this new year is going to be one in which I hope to take steps, to take initiative to venture outward in what I do, and to adventure into who God is to make me who I want to be. I love God. And I love life. By no means do I want to pay God any disservice or disloyalty, but I can't keep expecting that somehow my calling is going to show up in my mail-box or in a text message.

May we forever be sensitive to the movement of God, whether that be a specific calling or a call to just move. May we revel in the beauty of our cracked walls covered by coats of new paint.


That is all.

Staring at Walls.

Winter hangs heavy on the days, dying its blonde radiance to a deep cloudy brunette. Breath suddenly has so much more life when you can see it drift from your mouth and dissipate into the cold; and sometimes I wonder if winter is my worst enemy or my most needed season. The snow and the cold makes books, and rest, and long walks seem so much more attractive. It also makes me want to smoke my pipe, so winter must also cause cancer.

The snow is quieting in so many ways. Not only does it absorb the ambient hiss of the city, but it slows down production. Animals hibernate (except for that one maniacal squirrel that always breaks into my house and eats my trash), people call in sick and stay home as much as they can. Things just...slow...down. I love the cold.

But I hate winter driving.

This season has left me in an oddly nostalgic and sentimental state. And also (not oddly) in a very poetic mood.

I'm spending these next 2 or 3 days at my parents house. Last night I found myself, among other things, staring at the walls in my old bedroom, the, now, guest/sewing/antiques-we-have-neither-need-nor-room-for/crafts room that I am staying in. Much that sums up my high school experience is freckled across the textured walls. Holes in the shape of fists and random objects are both patched and exposed, and the carpet is tattooed with fading black spots and randomly placed paint stains. Endless nails hide along the dry wall, and I can just see my old bed, that purple table that I took out of Christ Community's dumpster, and endless collection of random instruments which has now dwindled to a couple of guitars and a violin.


I love winter because it seems to bring me to a place of solitude and, eventually, back home. I sat remembering all these things and then it brought me around to thinking about my parents. What lovely and horrible creatures parents are. For 18 years they are everything from your heroes to dictators. But I really love them, and I mean to stress that now that I realize how much I have taken them for granted.

My Dad did a lot of great things, and still does in very quiet ways. My mother, haha, I am so much like my mom. My Mom, I realized, talks out loud about what she is doing around the house. Which I often do with...just about anything, but especially when I am trying to get stuff done. Sometimes I think God created genetic inheritance just so that he would never feel the cavity of good jokes far gone. My mother is, above all things, a very sweet and enduring woman, with a gift of hospitality like I have never seen.

Then I think about my brother, David. This house is the house where we finally stopped trying to kill each other and realized that maybe we had a lot to give each other. We used to break out of the house late at night and go to the store. David would buy me all kinds of unhealthy frozen food and candy and we would sit around and watch movies. He taught me how to cuss and drink. David is a wise man. He's resourceful, and smart, and sometimes even a little fun to be around. I think I look up to my brother a lot more than he realizes. But I like him. He's a good one.

I think over all, I am just, yet again, very grateful for the people that I have been sewn together with. This is going to be a beautiful Christmas, I think...and not because I have managed to keep all forms of Christmas music out of my head until yesterday, but because I am going to make it a good Christmas.

Crap...I need to go Christmas shopping.






that is all.

An Ode to my Father

I realize on many occasions how much I love my father. I remember a time when my dad was my hero. There was no thing cooler to me than growing up to be a music teacher, having a wicked awesome mustache, and being Mr. Fix-it. I can't say that my Dad and I have always shared the most wonderful relationship, but I think that is beginning or has already begun to change. Part of that starts with me. My dad, from a glance, is an ordinary man, but I feel that such a word as "ordinary" not only forsakes this man the justice he deserves, but it is wrongful to say. I am Grateful to have been raised by such a great man.

My dad has faced a lot in his life. Much of which, I feel is wrong to share without his consent, but there are things I can and would like to share about him. He was a music teacher for 29 years, and when I look back to what I can remember about those years, it brings me great joy to remember my father loving his work, and getting to express himself through teaching and music (things that I believe I share with him). He retired when i was about 12. Being a man of great love, and of great care for his family, he started looking for work again, and after some time, he found a job at Star Tech. If my dad and I are anything alike, I can imagine how much "fun" it is to work there. My dad spent, I don't know, a month in training? He has been at Star Tech now for a good 9 or 10 years. This is what I love about him. He is a responsible man that I look up to. He grinned and bore the weight of a job that really isn't all that fabulous.

My Dad, for a short period after his retirement, worked a job at the Villa. From what I remember...it was something of a trial. I remember hearing a lot of stories about a resident named Laraine. Which we happily parodied the Jonny Nash song, "i can see clearly now" in a joyous refrain: "I can see clearly now LARAINE is gone!"

My Dad has done a lot of work in his life, a lot of changing, and taken a lot of burden upon himself. But the thing I admire most about my father is not his ability to pick himself up by the bootstraps, but his willingness to surrender. I am grateful that my dad is a man who earnestly wants the heart of God to collide with his own. He has always wanted this for his children, and I hope it brings him great honor to know that I have the same desire as he does, to know the heart of God, to know his desires and to pursue them with a ferocious tenacity.

My dad is protector, a lover, a joker, an artist, reserved, prayerful, compassionate, and admirable.

My dad is a sweet man. He used to let me make his Folger's coffee in the mornings, he liked it extra strong, so I would always put three or four spoonfuls of instant coffee in his mug and fill it proudly with water from the coffee pot. He would politely drink and tell me that it was perfect! My dad would always hold me, and I think if I wasn't 6', 300 lbs, he still would. I remember watching Saturday cartoons with my father at 6 am. I remember working on boyscout race cars and spending all morning in a weird building. My dad knew my car wouldn't win, but he always supported me...i think once he bought me a trophy, I wish i still had it. In plastic labeling tape it read, "Paul Beveridge, #1 son". I remember just sitting with my dad in the garage at the old hillside house admiring his hands at work. I remember that he painted everything with red, green, and gold spray paint. My dad built a tree house with, or perhaps "for" is a better word, me and my brother. He put food on the table, and loved my mother (still does :]).

Now I am moved out, but the creed of my father's life has not been quenched, he still prays for me, he still loves me and my brother and my mom. He mentors young men, and is more than a valuable resource. My father serves with quiet reserve and I love him.

My Dad in many ways is still my hero, though he may not know it always. He is ordinarily extraordinary.

You should meet him. It might do you some good.

Love you, Dad

That is all.

Faith Like Broken Glasses

Mathew 21:22 "'If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.'"

Windows half retracted, inhaling the bittersweet autumn air into my frustratingly hot car, I tore road in my 1991 Honda Civic. 40 miles per hour...hot stuff. The hopeless hand of dusk began to slip off of the edge of wafting clouds that veiled the mountains. Every familiar curve of the road alloted me a certain ability to zone out and think. "'if you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer'"...my heart boiled.

Questions fell over me like the curious night sky that had begun to form through my windshield but were quickly hushed when I asked God to heal my vision; my physical eyes. Call me crazy but this is what I heard: "You want your vision to be healed? Throw your glasses out the window..."

I was approaching the Aims campus and for 45 seconds I pondered nervously. Within less than a minute, I had thrown my glasses out the window and hurtling over speed bumps, I prayed fervently for my eyes to be healed. I don't think I had been praying because I wanted to see again...but because I thrown myself out that window with my glasses. I had taken a step of faith, and I expected God to follow through. In a manner of speaking, God had told me to "jump" and I had hurled myself headlong off a $200 cliff (which was, indeed, a steep fall). I spent the next few moments trying to recreate the Sunday school miracles I had heard about. "Spit and mud? no...ummm...crap. GOD. Heal my vision! I just tossed $200 out the window"

Well...nothing happened. I still have crappy vision.

and this is where things get truly muddy. This is where people stop believing in the miracle, and start looking for the moral. And maybe that's ok.

The miracle is that I found my glasses two weeks later, dried by the sun and gnawed on by wild animals (or possibly dogs). The moral of the story is that God desires that we have faith like broken glasses. That we are willing to, at any moment, throw our dreams, agendas, vacations, or savings accounts out the window regardless the outcome. Sure, my vision wasn't healed, and there is something to be said for that. but ultimately, the process I had to go through, and the gathering of experience, was worth far more than being able to see across the room without my glasses. God is powerful, but I think that those miracles that Jesus performed were not meant to heal the body as much as they were meant to bless the heart. Remember Lazerus? He died again. Remember the blind man? His vision probably degenerated. Remember the old woman who touched Jesus' cloak? She too passed on at some point.


Still, there is something to be said for the verse. Didn't god say that anything I pray for in faith, I will receive? And does it not also follow that God knew my intention was that my eyes would be healed in the physical sense? That's dumb, right? yeah, probably. though, I think ultimately, I am glad that my vision wasn't healed...because I gained more than I would have if I had just been healed.

Admittedly, I can't say that I completely content. Some pieces don't add up.

in the midst of that, I pray that we be a people with faith like broken glasses...may we be perplexed by the gnawed ends of unanswered questions and find peace in our inability to understand.

That is all.

Dying for the Ordinary

When I was 18 and 19, I had spent a lot of time throwing myself into circles that showed empathy for issues of social justice. I grappled a lot with the idea that I am significantly richer than most of the world, hell, than some folks that live right here in Greeley. What do you do with a fact like that when you read scriptures like Matthew 19:24 That says, "Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” I started to ache over the poverty of my affluence...knowing that I was happy, and that I had what I needed, but that there were men, women, and children that God cared and cares very much for that didn't have the essential necessities of life (or even if the essential necessities are, in reality, much more modest than we make them, those people at least did not have what I had). So, my life twisted inconveniently, but with love. I went to Denver on a few occasions, sometimes bringing hesitant but gracious friends to help me pass out socks, and learn more about the homeless. I actually gained a lot of cool stories.

It was more than just going to help some homeless folks out of love; my heart was slowly ripping a hole. I was broken over the concept that said I was not living a "radical life". Where was the adventure? Where was the risk? Why didn't I just become a homeless man? Why not abandon all thought of having a family some day? Great apostles don't marry! I wanted to do something crazy, but I wanted to do something monumental. With all that was in me, I couldn't understand why I wasn't DOING anything.

Who gets to define "radical"? And furthermore, is it my job to seek the radical? I think when it comes down to it, it's not the job of the man who calls himself Christian to seek after a drastically different lifestlye, but to take drastic measures to seek after God; and if that is true, doesn't that denote that we cannot determine our social, financial, and marital status? When did we stop dreaming about the ordinary? We are a culture that is so full of dreams, and it is beautiful, but it seems that we have boiled our options down to a potent dose of "radical". Where is the ordinary?

Sometimes, I am just dying for the ordinary...

Not so long ago, I went to a conference in the mountains where I met a new friend. He lives in Texas and manages concerts for a local coffee shop. I became more interested in this coffee shop, being that I volunteer at Zoe's Cafe, and started to make plans to road trip down to see him and play a show at Avenue L Coffee Shop. Adventure, raging in my heart, had for some time been cracking through the walls of my chest and finally the creed of years 18-19 bled through to my mind and begged for instability. How wonderful and romantic! Though, I realized there was a problem here. I had no concrete foundation on which to rest this leaning tower of risks. I had been shedding money like a dog trades it's fur to the ground for the simple convenience of comfort. I had been neglecting school and shirking home responsibilities.

I NEED STABILITY BEFORE I CAN BE UNSTABLE!

The beautiful thing is that I think God has radical and ordinary things for us to do, be, or achieve. In the face of what seems like a perfectly honorable endeavor, be that seeking the ordinary or the extraordinary, it is crucial to realize that both roads lead to the same place. My prayer is that as we venture through life, that we leave ordinary and outrageous behind us, that raising a family and vows of poverty are viewed as equals, that full time ministry and working a full time job are not so different and above all, that whatever thing we are called to by God is ultimately the greatest adventure that we can brave. It is simply beautiful to me.

That is all.