together at the table.

If you haven't noticed by now, I've been away from the cardboard world for quite some time. This hasn't been intentional, but more of an accidental slip, a short break for Christmas that kept on being stretched out for "one day more." A large part of this was due to the start of the new year, when the coffee shop I was working at announced their plans to close. From there on out, most of my free time was spent on the hunt for a new job.

Life does that sometimes - rushes in when we least expect it, snatching away something easily taken for granted, something held onto with clenched fists and closed eyes. I try not to slack off on Yellowtree, even during the more hectic seasons of life, and so it's usually this blog's consistency that suffers as a result.

On a brighter note, I've also been taking a brief break from this blog throughout the month of February to join two of my lovely friends, Patrick and Anne, in starting up our own collective blog entitled, Together at the Table. This blog doesn't really have a specific theme, only that it functions like an actual table - a place where people can come to write and dream and disagree and collaborate on their ideas of life and God and art and everything in between. The goal is to have a new post up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I'm really excited for this blog, and the consistency it should provide, as well as the chance to write in a collaborative environment.

So far, I've written two posts for Together at the Table. My next one will be coming up on Friday, so make sure to subscribe to get the new ones straight to your inbox! Also make sure to check out Patrick and Anne's posts, as they're superb and incredibly talented writers.

"Meet Anthony"

My blog posts here will not be full of “I know” conclusions. They will play out less like end goal stopping points and more like breathless rest stops along the journey. For there is something comforting and reassuring about slowing down to gather at the table, to break bread and catch a glimpse of beloved community, whether that looks like classic Minnesota hot dish around a crowded apartment table, or an online conversation saturated in grace and humility. It’s in those moments when you look around, and you see the faces of those next to you, and you realize that we’re all still little children at heart, we’ve all got our dark spots grappling with the sunspots, and we’re all still trying to figure out how to best love others, ourselves, and God.

"Lessons from the Piano"

Maybe this is just me, but I tend to think there aren’t many areas where people naturally excel without effort. I’ve always loved to write, but I’ve only matured in the craft by writing pages and pages of crap before something even remotely good emerged from the rummage. Like a muscle being stretched and trained, it’s more about the dirty, daily, long-haul work of showing up versus some glamorous overnight switch. Learning to play the piano was a lot like that for me.

Seeing that I will be posting once a week on Together at the Table, my posting on The Inside Cardboard World will lessen. That being said, I still plan to post here at least twice a month, and will continue to use this site as the main source for Yellowtree updates and the like.

On that note, I am flying out tomorrow for the Re:Write Conference in Austin, Texas, and will return Sunday, the 1st. I applied for a scholarship back in January, and was notified in February that I had received one, which sent me rushing to figure out the logistics of airfare, lodging and travel. Needless to say, it all worked out in the end, and I am so very excited for this conference, focused largely on the shifting publishing industry, and how writers can best build their platforms, reach audiences, and practice innovation in their writing careers.

Expect a debriefing post to come toward the beginning of March. Until then - peace and love to you all, dear friends.

struggling to find a spark.

I've been telling myself to write another blog post for a few weeks now, and neither the words or motivation have been coming. Which is a pretty pathetic excuse for a writer, I know. Sometimes, one just has to suck it up and put the words down on paper no matter how difficult it is.

But lately, I've been feeling incredibly drained and exhausted simply at the thought of writing another blog post. It seems so much more overwhelming than it should be. And that's not exactly the feeling I went into the Advent season expecting to have. I had such high hopes. I was gonna write a post on Advent every week! And there was going to be consistent quality content on my blog and it would be AWESOME.

And then week one passed and apparently took my energy and motivation along with it. Even sitting down to revise Yellowtree has felt like a chore, sucking the life out of me versus filling me with life like it normally does

And I don't quite know why that is. I'm still showing up, and I'm still trying my best to write my book each day.

Some days there's a flame.

Most days I struggle to even find a spark.

And I'm learning to be okay with that, to accept the more sludgy seasons of life without falling prey to them and the lies they often get me to believe about myself and my writing.

I am good enough. My book is good enough. And writing IS worth it.

Anddd repeat.

I've decided to take a bit of a breather for the rest of Advent. I'm backing off from the blog and trying to make it through several pages of Yellowtree each day without getting worn down. I'm waiting and praying and seeking Jesus in the little things and the small spaces, because lately, it's been awfully hard to find him in the big places and experiences, the thick Study Bibles and church services that often seem to get even louder this time of year.

And somehow, someway, I'm learning that God is still there, even when the bright lights and the flashy MERRY CHRISTMAS signs have been stripped away and the season doesn't seem very holly or jolly anymore.

God is still Emmanuel. And He's still with us, even when it doesn't feel like it. Forever and Always.

Peace and love to you during this Advent season.

and yet: advent reflections, week one.

You welcome those who gladly do good,

Who follow godly ways.

But you have been very angry with us,

for we are not godly. 

We are constant sinners;

how can people like us be saved?

We are all infected and impure with sin.

When we display our righteous deeds,

they are nothing but filthy rags.

Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall,

and our sins sweep us away like the wind.

Yet no one calls on your name

or pleads with you for mercy.

Therefore, you have turned away from us

and turned us over to our sins.

And yet, O Lord, you are our Father.

We are the clay, and you are the potter.

We all are formed by your hand.

Don't be so angry with us, Lord.

Please don't remember our sins forever.

Look at us, we pray,

and see that we are all your people.

--Isaiah 64:5-9

I'm reading through the prophetic passages assigned each week for Advent this year, letting the words sink in and linger before choosing just one word to focus on for the day. The passage above is just a part of the prophecy for week one (which started this past Sunday, November 30, and goes through Wednesday, December 24).

After reading Christena Cleveland's beautiful post on Advent and darkness, I was filled with a renewed energy for this season like never before. Her words helped me see that the Christmas season is about so much more than the festive lights and the cheerful songs. There is so much darkness in the world, so much evil and injustice and brokenness, that we miss the whole point of Advent when we close our eyes and live in a little happy Christmas bubble for the month of December.

Jesus plunged straight down into the depths of the darkness, not to ignore it or pretend it didn't exist, but to bring it into the light. To bring salvation and justice to an unjust world and speak words of life and peace that surpass all understanding. To wash the wounds of the hurting and heal the scars of the broken. John 3:20 says that it is exactly because of this light that our sins are exposed.

I caught a glimpse of this darkness while reading the passage above several nights ago. The prophecy is filled with gloomy imagery to describe the sins of the people, their infections and impurities and filthy-rags-righteousness. The first time through, I threw my hands up in the air and had it out with God a bit.

"Well, okay God, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US? How can we ever please you? Do you really just see filthy rags when you look at us?"

I ended my first read through feeling like shit. I know, great way to start off Advent, right? Because it's not like the passage resolves everything in the end - it literally ends with the author questioning if God will continue to remain silent and punish them. Cheery stuff.

And then I read it again, this time slowing down to try and hear every word (I actually listened to this passage on audio, which helped a lot. I was able to sit back and close my eyes and really pay attention to each word).

And yet, O Lord, you are our Father.

And yet.

I know this is kinda lame in a passage filled with such vivid poetic prose, but it was the "and yet" that stuck out to me the most. "And yet" were the words I chose to focus on for the day.

To me, those words said it all. They painted a picture in my head of God stepping in for his people, of taking the time to bend down in the darkness, in the muck, in the lives of these self-professed constant sinners, and look them in the eyes.

I am still your Father.

You are still my children.

I still love you.

This short section of the passage reads like a desperate, child-like plea for help, for God to look on his children with favor and not remember their sins forever. They don't deny their own guilt - they expound in rather significant detail on how they're drowning in sin, knowing fully well that grace is the last thing they deserve.

And yet.

It struck me that Christmas is one of God's biggest AND YET moments, where he sent Christ straight down into our world plagued with darkness, in the least glamorous way possible, to proclaim the good news of AND YET to the people stuck in the hopelessness of the now.

My heart breaks at all of the pain in this world. And presently, there seems to be a lot of it.

There is so much grief, so much sadness, so much anger surrounding Ferguson, Missouri right now.

For Mike Brown.

For Eric Garner, as of most recently.

For Treyvon Martin and all of the black lives before him.

For Marissa Alexander.

I'm not here with answers or happily-ever-afters or solutions. More often than not, the injustice seems rather overwhelming.

AND YET.

I know we serve a God of justice, a God of Light.

AND YET.

I know we serve a God who reaffirms over and over again that he is still our father, and that everyone is his child. We serve a God who boldly declares that black lives matter. It's not just the protesters and the activists and the bloggers who say that.

The Gospel says that.

Yes, Advent is about the AND YET of the Gospel, the AND YET of Christ and his beautiful Light that is a beam of reconciliation and redemption, giving us a way forward in the darkness that plagues our world.

For systemic racial injustice, for the Ebola victims, for the ones sold into sex trafficking each and every day, for those experiencing homelessness, for the kidnapping of Nigerian girls, for all of the people without access to clean water...


So much darkness.


May we refuse to stay silent this Advent season. May we refuse to give up, to give in, to let the darkness blind us to the true reason for the season, the message behind Christ and his eagerly anticipated coming:

And yet. 

layers and links: volume five.

"No." by Austin Channing.

I do not know this Jesus who only died for my white brothers and sisters, but whose arms could not stretch wide enough for black bodies, and therefore Mike Brown had to die because his sin was just too much for Christ to bear. No. I don't know who this is. I don't know this God of a two tiered gospel. 

 "The Pain of the Watermelon Joke" by Jacqueline Woodson.

To know that we African-Americans came here enslaved to work until we died but didn't die, and instead grew up to become doctors and teachers, architects and presidents - how can these children not carry this history with them for those many moments when someone will attempt to make light of it, or want them to forget the depth and amazingness of their journey?

"Listening Well as a Person of Privilege: Solidarity First, Collaborative Problem-Solving Later" by Christena Cleveland.

If Christian privileged people aren't careful, their problem-solving heroics can easily dishonor the image of God in oppressed people. Most obviously, this occurs when privileged people bypass the crucial stage of "weep with those who weep" listening.

"Advent/Darkness" by Christena Cleveland.

Advent isn't a holiday party. It doesn't pressure us to conjure up a hopeful face, ring bells, and dismiss the foulest realities we face. Advent isn't about our best world, it's about our worst world. I think we eat the chocolate and put on the pageants because we don't want to face the worst.

"Advent: For the Ones Who Know Longing" by Sarah Bessey.

I'm learning to be okay with the sadness that rises, with the frustration of a broken world, with longings still unfulfilled, with the profound ache in my human heart for all things to be restored, to be redeemed, to be whole. I'm learning to turn towards a third way: the one that holds both the joy and the sorrow, the one that picks up a small stone to move the mountain in small acts of faithfulness. Advent is one small stone.