the end of the beginning.

I don't like referring to this as the end.

It's not, really. Just the end of a piece of my life, a period at the end of the sentence, but not the paragraph, giving way to something new, something different, something fresh. The end of the beginning, if you will.

I've decided it's time to close the doors to The Inside Cardboard World. I've been keeping quiet on the blogosphere for the last few months, writing posts sporadically and inconsistently, and I think it's time I face the truth that I'm just not in a place to keep blogging on a regular basis right now.

This is not to say that I'm giving up on blogging. On the contrary, I know I'll come back to it eventually. Part of what I've realized as an author is that in order to reach the most people effectively, it generally helps to create a website based off your actual name, versus something vague and obscure like a world made from cardboard.

When I'm ready, I plan on returning to the web with a brand new website and blog, one that's more easily accessible, while still retaining many similar elements of this blog. Hopefully I'll have more information then on my other writing projects, and it can serve as a stepping stone to the next leg of my journey as a writer.

What I know now is that I still plan on devoting quite a bit of time this summer to writing and sending out query letters for my novel, Yellowtree. I can tell you that I will continue to work on my writing, to be critical of it, but also show grace to myself, in hopes that I can continue to grow and mature in the craft.

When I'll be ready to move beyond the behind-the-scenes work and start putting it out there again for people to see and read and critique and discuss is still a mystery. It has nothing to do with other people and how they've responded in the past. The readers of my blog have always been incredibly gracious and honest and kind, and for that, I am eternally thankful. I know conversations on the Internet can turn hostile and vitriol rather speedily, and I'm so glad I never had to have that experience on my blog.

But I need some time to figure myself out, what I'm doing now and in the future, where I'm going and who I'm becoming. And if that all sounds super fluffy and vague and distant, it's because it is right now. I don't know much more except that what I'm trying to figure out can only really be figured out with time. Time spent being vulnerable with myself and with others, in person and over phone calls, in solitude and in company, but not online through a blog post.

Not yet, at least. I know that time will come again, that I've witnessed too much goodness and Light grown from the interactions I've had on this blog to ever give it up for good. Writing is a part of me, and it's one of the very few things I know right now, in the deepest depths of myself, that writing will stay with me through the rest of my life.

That's what I've got right now, friends. I'm sorry if it's not enough, if it's muddled or confusing or lackluster. I need some time away from blogging, away from even the pressure of needing to write another post, and I know it's time to move beyond The Inside Cardboard World. It's been a good run, and I'm thankful for that day not so long ago I decided to just go for it and write an introduction post back in 2012. I saw the world a lot differently back then, fresh out of high school, often times painting in black and white versus the glorious world of watercolors I'm slowly coming to realize.

In the end, though, I was still pretty much the same. Still awkward, confused, often times clueless me, trying to figure out how to not only catch glimpses of beauty in this world, but take part in God's Kingdom Work of creating some ourselves. Still trying to figure out how to love others, and also myself, and find the courage to say help, please, and learn to laugh at myself, and be brave and be kind all at once.

So I guess this feels like goodbye because it is, in a way. But I'm also stepping forward into whatever happens next, and that makes it seem less like goodbye, and more like, I'll see you again soon, right?

---

Here are a few highlights from this blog over the years:


-My blog post, identity crisis: man up, was published in the e-newsletter, Arise, from Christians for Biblical Equality!


-I published the most vulnerable piece I've ever written, i don't always tell you, and received incredible, supportive feedback (the exact opposite of what I was expecting)!


-I published a series on romance and singleness within Christianity, starting with my own feelings toward singleness, and branching out to several fantastic guest bloggers on both marriage and dating relationships!

• the post i swore i'd never write (on singleness)
• the romantic cardboard pedestal by Jamie Miller
• why i am getting married young by Shelby Grosser

-I started the layers and links series (beginning with volume one) in order to highlight a diverse range of voices on various topics each month.

-I hosted a two-part vlog series, behind the cardboard camera!

• walk forward (with myself)
• don't be afraid (with Jonah Venegas)

-Last but not least, I had the poem this site was named after, the inside cardboard world, published both in print through Coeval, the literary magazine for Bethel University, and online through The Sterio Studio. The Sterio Studio also published my poem, i am not a man.


Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your support, dear friends. Until next time-

Anthony.

my maybe resurrection.

I don’t often think about the weight of Holy Saturday, that stretch of tension between the darkness of Good Friday and the rising light of Resurrection Sunday. I like my Easters served well done, no blood in the middle, a side of loud worship and french toast breakfasts and bright spring colors, please and thank you.

I’ve no time for the gloomy stuff, the things of the in-between, the shades of gray that seem to taint my rose-colored lenses every other day of the year.

As children, Easter was always a time of peanut butter cups and festive egg hunts, of honey baked ham and hot apple pie. Holidays equaled extended family dysfunction shoved under the table, screams and fights and bubbling bitterness bottled up if just for a day, glossing over the hard truths of this life with a half-hearted He Is Risen and a slightly shorter sermon than regular Sundays.

I used to believe that holidays had to be perfect to be good, that Easter meant no more fighting and no more sinning and no more heaviness. Just light. Just a fresh spring breeze, blowing through the house of cards we built neatly on top of our walls, our ruins, our fires.

This past Saturday came heavy for me, the death of my grandpa only days before, on the precipice of Good Friday, where death seems to be all the rage, all the pastors talk about. The death and the darkness and the brutality of the Crucifixion, thousands of years ago, always with the hope of Sunday’s coming resurrection.

But this death was more than a recited passage, more than another sermon on the night is darkest before the dawn, but a tangible mess of things broken and bleeding, dangling loose ends and chipped paint on the walls. Death is a permanent fixture on earth here, at least. Inevitable, and brutal, no matter how expected. And Friday walked into Saturday, promising the maybe hope of Sunday, and I repeated that over and over to myself, through the haze of what I was feeling, encrypted moments of impossible heaviness, weighed down by my sudden inability to sort through thoughts and feelings.

This, I suppose, is a wobbly attempt at doing just that.

Maybe. Just maybe. Maybe there is more.

And I circled back to my maybes, that although Grandpa’s death was an always thing, somewhere in the recesses of my heart I felt that Jesus’ wasn’t. Somewhere down there, cradled in the immense depths of the deep, I knew that Jesus was there, that he was still showing up today. This death is a temporary thing, beloved one, your lives complete in the blink of an eye. But I have brought eternity down into this world, look, I have brought eternity right into your beating heart.

And even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was in Grandpa’s heart, too.

And so Saturday was a back-and-forth kind of day, a day of running in circles right when I thought I had jumped out of them. A day of wanting ever so fiercely to be surrounded by people, laughing and sharing and being ever so present, while wanting to curl up by myself with a blanket and some Netflix at the same time. A day of clinging to the hope of tomorrow’s resurrection, this notion that we all will rise again, that Love really does win in the end, while feeling so weighed down with questions and fear, anger and guilt, sadness and doubt, that maybe this whole Easter ‘thing’ was just a watered down attempt to make us feel good about where we are now, where we’re going later. A day of searching for glimpses of light and retreating back into the dark.

Holy Saturday was the blood in the middle of a not-so-well-done Easter, an Easter stripped of the candy and the festive bright colors, an Easter with bare bones and silent spaces.

I found myself in those silent spaces often, gazing out the window with cloudy skies that seemed to mirror my heart and mind rather poignantly. It was there that I kept re-discovering and repeating the maybes.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow will bring a little resurrection. Maybe this whole Easter thing really is a glorious radiant reality we’re called to live into every day. Maybe. Just maybe.

And Sunday came with dim lights and flickering flames, booming worship that rattled my ears but not my heart, and a probably powerful sermon where I struggled to stay awake. And we declared he is risen, and I said all the words, and even when they felt like cardboard on my lips, I realized that this might be what the hope of maybe is all about.

That I was showing up, that I will keep showing up, because maybe that’s how we rise again.

And we sang a song with easy lyrics, we believe in God the Father, we believe in Jesus Christ, we believe in the Holy Spirit. And those simple words rang the most true to me, in the end, that I didn’t hang onto these beliefs from an island, wrestling with the light and the dark by myself, but that we all believe, as the Body of Christ, through disagreements and flaws and scars and fights that get too loud, we still believe and struggle in all of this together, as family.

And maybe it’s day after day of continuing to show up, of asking hard questions and being not afraid to lean into that uneasy tension of not-always answers and crowded silent spaces. Maybe it’s fighting and fumbling through the dark, grasping for true redemption before facing the truth that we’ve already been redeemed.

The Cross has already redeemed us, covered us, showered that eternity down into our hearts.

Maybe it’s that still small voice saying, Be still and rest. Redemption is right here, right now, right away. Maybe it’s about leaning into that reality, that Jesus always was, is, and is to come, and that somehow, someway, through constellations and galaxies and light years, I still believe. Grandpa still believed. We still believe.

This is my maybe resurrection, our maybe resurrection, a life lived in the Light that still feels like a slow crawl out of the dark grave sometimes. Maybe that truly is enough.

I'll miss you, Grandpa. I Love you Forever.

palms and thin places (together at the table).

While I don't plan on linking all of my posts for Together at the Table back to this blog, I thought I'd share an excerpt from yesterday's post, centered on Palm Sunday and the start of Holy Week. This is such a special, important time of the year, and I pray for Christ's presence in your lives, sweet friends. Here's to a blessed Holy Week.

---

The church I currently attend sings quite a bit of hymns, and often ones that I don’t recognize. And while I’m loving this change of pace, I’m still not entirely used to it. Church often entails me clinging to my bulletin for dear life, not realizing we’re singing a hymn until halfway through the first verse, at which point I frantically scour my bulletin for the accurate information, then spend nearly the rest of the song searching for it in the hymnal.

Yesterday was Palm Sunday, commemorating Jesus’ peaceful and triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and marking the start of Holy Week, one of my favorite times of the year. I have the fondest memories of this day at my old church, where the children would all circle the adults in the sanctuary, eyes lit up like spotlights with palm branches soaring above their heads. It was such a simple, meaningful, and quite literal expression of child-like faith, and it always reminded me of how much I have to learn from children about Jesus.

But back to my current church. We were all given palm leaves upon entering, and were invited to circle the sanctuary with them during the processional. Per usual, the organ started, the congregation sang, and I found myself scrambling through the first verse for the right page in the hymnal. Add this to the fact that we were encouraged to leave our pews to walk with the processional, and I found myself actually growing anxious.

I finally found the right page, processional creeping ever closer, and decided flat out to stay where I was, to let the processional pass on by and simply focus on singing the right words of the hymn.

But then they passed by, palms high above their heads, and there was a still small voice saying, Go. Forget the rest and go.

Click here to read the rest of the post!

together truth at the re:write conference.

I wrote a little post last week over on Together at the Table about the Re:Write Conference last weekend, tapping into just a few of the identity statements that were spoken over the audience during our time there.

I've been trying to write this debriefing post for a while now, but my thoughts still aren't melding together coherently - rather ironic for a post on a writing conference, I know. So, just as a warning, my thoughts will probably jump all over the place. And I guess it's strangely fitting for how the conference spoke to me - little bits and pieces of Truth and Life that hit me at different times and for different lengths. 

That's the thing about the conference - for as much as it was an all-out writer's conference, filled with speakers and information about the publishing industry, plotting one's novel, and building a platform as an author, it was almost equally an identity conference - one where the goals of publishing a bestseller took a backseat to writing just to WRITE. To write to tell the truth, to bleed on the page, to search desperately for meaning and life and light in the world.

I told my dad that I had never been so content with the possibility of not getting published after the conference - mostly as a joke to get him riled up.

But at the same time, it's so very true to my experience at the conference. I listened to author after author speak about the struggles of the writing journey, and how placing one's faith and security and identity in nabbing a book deal will always lead to disappointment and rejection. Because the writing journey is often times filled with rejection. Lots of it. (I learned that C.S. Lewis was rejected 799 times before being accepted on the 800th submission! Talk about crazy.)

I listened as author Mary DeMuth talked about writing as "soul work" to find out the Truth that each person is called Beloved by God.

I listened to author Ted Dekker as he explained his Superman analogy - the fact that most of us believe that we're Clark Kent, despite the fact that with our identity anchored securely in Christ, we are Superman! I chatted with him ever so briefly after he spoke, and he pointed straight at me, reminded me to never forget that Superman was right there. And then he was gone, off to converse with another writer. A few seconds, and yet it was enough to breathe fresh air into my self that often tends to fall back on lies of "not good enough" in times of insecurity.

I listened to bestselling authors speak candidly about how they still struggled with similar feelings of doubt and insecurity, that they still have their dark moments of seriously believing the lies.  You know those demons? The ones that curl up in the back of our minds with their demeaning whispers like

justshutupandgiveupalreadyyou'renotagoodwriterandyou'llnevermakeit.

But then we were all together, writers and poets and dreamers and artists, some well known and some just beginners, showing up together to sit through the lies and call them out as exactly that: lies. 

More than anything, this conference was about Truth, about writing as a form of searching for truth in the dark, in the cracks and crevices of our own hearts, hoping to catch glimpses of something Brighter along the way.

Clark Kent.   SUPERMAN.

Not good enough.   ENOUGH.

ACCEPTED.

BELOVED.

These truths are what the conference ultimately came down to for me. Yes, my brain was filled with different strategies and tips and exciting new ideas for my next steps with Yellowtree and my own journey as an author. I made connections with different writers, speakers, companies and publishing agencies. But none of that makes any difference if I don't believe the core truth that I. AM. SECURE. No buts about it. That truth will stay the same no matter where my writing future leads.

These aren't truths solely for writers, either. For we're all Truth Tellers, in a way, no matter our artistic ability. At our very core, image of God selves, we're really all the same.

Halfway through the conference, Ted Dekker was talking about this mysterious phenomenon of loving your neighbor not "like" yourself, or "similar to" yourself, but literally "as" yourself. He had us turn to the people around us and greet them with, "Hi me." And he challenged us with how different we would treat others if we saw them as ourselves. A revolutionary thought, indeed.

I left the Re:Write Conference feeling the most encouraged I've ever felt as a writer, but also as a human being. For although I am a writer, I am a child of God first.


You are a _________, but a child of God first.


We are ____________, but children of God first.