The sun is high and hot in the afternoon’s empty sky.

To you I say, This has never happened before,

this feeling.

And somewhere above the mountains the clouds rise dark and rumble and shatter.

You say, I miss you.

And now I’m afraid to move. The walls flash white and the smell of dirt rises to meet the falling rain.

I say, And when summer is gone?

And you say, I’ll miss you.

The clouds move pass the mountains and fall on other towns. Perhaps yours.

I’m afraid to go outside. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. I’m afraid of what you’ll say.

You like the mountains have power. You create and move the storm.

And I am down below, looking to the sky, wondering if you’ll come down, or if I can go up.

It is only miles between you and I. Only mountains and dirt and air.

I want to destroy them. Suck them into the vacuum of space.

But what are we without the distance? It defines our movements and shapes our words.

Mine are simple words. Unlike the storm, they go on. Like the mountains, they stay the same.

You are the morning birds and wake me with a kiss

You are the afternoon rain and call me with hellos and goodbyes

You are the evening stories and I’m the dashing prince

You say, Happily ever after

And you smile because that is what I say

You just smile and smile and smile

I died once, long ago

I no longer need the sun or stars or moon or shadows or time

I need the sound of your voice in my ear

Your long, lulling breath of life

I want to feel the edges of your see-through dress

And taste summer’s heat on your upper lip

And swim in the motion of your prophesying hands

Your soft, fulfilling hands

You should check out my guest post over at Man of Depravity…(click here). It’s a part of his blog series on the Sovereignty of God.

I don’t like chit chat. Or to put nicer, chit chat is hard for me. I’ve heard this is a characteristic of introverts.

So yesterday, when I’m sitting at the baseball game, and the two single, middle-aged women, who are season ticket holders, attempt to “chit-chat” with the opposing team’s on-deck batters (and every other breathing soul that comes within one-thousand miles of them), I become frustrated.

I prefer quality rather than quantity. Deep rather than shallow. These are just preferences. I tolerate the extroverts’ gabfest. At times I dabble in it myself.

But sometimes just shut up.

I really mean this when it comes to other things other than talking. Like books and movies and songs and art. Just because you made it (or can make it) doesn’t mean you should publish it or sell it or even share it.

Some things, most things, like words and stories and thoughts, need time to grow, to mature, to deepen and strengthen. They need to be edited and worked on.

I want the best story possible from a set of words. Not just a story. I want the best movie and conversation and photograph and book. Not a bunch of them that I’ll throw away and forget.

Whether it’s one word, one color, one shot, one note, take the time to make it the best, most amazing thing ever.

I’m reading The Necessary Grace to Fall by Gina Ochsner. It won the Flannery O’Conner Award. Gina actually called me yesterday to congratulate me for getting into Seattle Pacific’s MFA writing program. She, along with Bret Lott, will be my fiction teachers. Or maybe they’re called professors. I’m not sure which. Gina actually lives in Keizer, which is where I’m from. She was very nice and described some of the things we’ll be doing at the first workshop this summer in Sante Fe. There are 7 other fiction writers in the program.

Right now the weather in Portland is wet. It’s a constant mist, not a hard rain, and it’s annoying. I don’t often long for the sun, but I am now.

The Hockey House Wiffle Ball League stars talk about their steroid use.

Part 5 of the Hockey House Wiffle Ball League. Team Faith plays a night game and tries to figure out who’s the toughest guy in the league.

Another wiffle ball extravaganza. This week it’s an offensive barrage.

Joe gives up 6 home runs to Team Faith. And Ross takes off his shirt…again.