Talking to God

Talking to God: Sickness

by on January 12, 2017

This whole week, I’ve been a mess of sleepiness and snot, coughing and congestion. Basically, I’m bringing sexy back one tissue at a time. Some sicknesses are a thing to be powered through while others make me question the value of my own existence and that of everything around me, too. This time around hasn’t quite been like that, but as usual, I had some questions for The Almighty about this. The following is a transcript of our conversation this evening:

Me: Why on earth am I sick? What did you do?

God: Wow. You went straight to finger-pointing. You sure you want to do that? 

Oh Jake.....

The Price of Beauty -OR- Exegeting O Holy Night

by on December 27, 2016

It’s no secret that I hate winter. I announce it whenever I arrive anywhere after I’ve been out in the cold. I tweet about it. I tell people I’m not a fan it when it’s 110 degrees outside in the summer and they begin to reminisce about cooler weather. Winter makes my body ache as if I’m an old man. I can’t tell you how much I slip and fall on ice. I very recently landed both my tailbone and my iPhone immediately after exiting my car. Normally, I can at least laugh at myself when this happens, but the shattered phone screen made me irrationally ragey.

I share all of this because, in spite of my immense disdain for all things cold, I have to admit that I love Advent and Christmas. I love tacky Christmas decorations like the hard plastic Santa Clauses that can probably only be found at thrift stores anymore. I love giant inflatable reindeer and snow globes that have to be staked into my neighbor’s yards, else they might blow away during a winter storm. I love tinsel and garland and angels and stars atop trees. I love string lights. So much so that I’ve been bundling myself up to the point that I can’t put my arms down and have been braving the weather to wander my neighborhood each evening, filling my thermos with either hot tea or if I’m honest, this nice merlot I’ve been enjoying lately.

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