For Nothing

It feels nice, to not be needed.

Nothing can be good, and this week I excelled at operating at a snail pace.  Sure work, faith, community, were tended to.

But I looked forward, to being the least important part of somebody schedule.  I don't think I'm ever anyone's highlight of the day, week, month, year.  It's nice to not have that.  And I'm grateful.  Really.

I pray.  I sing.  I weep.  I laugh.  I looked forward to buying a gift for the new associate pastor of our church.

I'm grateful.  For not needing or feeling to be be heard, seen, or sought after.

Have a great week world :D

~ Nick

Thank you- a tribute to this week

To the. . .

Homeless guy who smiled all cheesy when my lame attempt to make you laugh

The lady who marched right up and announced "I need a big hug" and threw your arms around me and squeezed real tight.  All the while smiling and rocking.  That was a pleasant surprise.

The lady who treated me to a nice evening,  Wine, art, and dinner.  A guy couldn't be luckier, especially when the husband asks me to me a gentleman and to hang while he's away.

The multiple people who threw their arms around me when all I wanted was a good ol handshake- I must be that big a softy

The chick who gave me homemade moonshine.  You'll get that jar back haha

To the little man I'm proud to call my little brother.  I hope you rock that science presentation.  And thanks for parading me around at youth group.  You're going places young man.

The people who said hi to me at church. I promise I won't be so gruff all the time.

My lovely adopted mother.  A son's most comforted state is when he's been told you've been praying for his time he shares.  Thanks for guarding my heart.

Awesome roommates who piled on a wall of boxes so I'd go tumbling through them as I walked out of my room.

And lastly . . . this record.  I swear she's singing to me

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIvT3agCjmo

Thanks. . .

self- care and feeling good

These days, it seems energy comes in bursts.  You'd think I was raising a kid.  Or a really cute little furry animal.  So when Saturday came rolling around, I was stoked and for once, it wasn't just because of the morning cartoons.  I had planned a mission for this particular day.

I was excited about being able to take care of myself.  Young men, you should feel free to do the same.  I have a new monthly ritual.  It's called going to the barber.  I love getting my hair cut.  The feel of the razor, the artistry of the scissors snipping away. The whole mantra of "look good, feel good" kicked in.

It isn't vain.  It isn't self- fulfilling.  Think about it, getting ready for the day, when you see yourself in the mirror and can believe you can approach the day looking decent, you'll be more motivated in general?  I'm learning about this, so it's still fresh and exciting.  I don't douse myself in cologne daily.  I may not have the best fashion sense, but I want to feel confident.  Because I do confident things.  Confidence is what people anticipate from me.  Confidence is what makes myself and others feel safe.

The day after, at Church, and where else to expect something of the like, I was chatting, and no sooner was one of the pastor's wife standing beside me. I thought well maybe she wanted to talk to the person I was talking to, so I gently interrupted the conversation and nodded her way.  She sincerely wanted to compliment my hair.  She crooned over it's supposed vitality, saying that even at my age, having no grey was something she was jealous of. I thanked her.  The hair stylist I could tell, really enjoyed running her hands through my mane (a cultural subject I should get into someday) and was careful and thoughtful in how to trim my hair.

The exchange wasn't sexual or perverted in nature.  It was the grace I needed to help boost my week.  Affirming beauty (I'm not saying I am) is a treasure, especially if its sincere.  I had a few rough weeks personally, and was anxious to get going again with full steam.  It was nice for someone to notice and acknowledge it as well.

Love- "At the Table". Words by Katie C.

Recently, on a trip out of town, I was working really hard on trying to be "just a guest"- you know being overly polite, unassuming, and happy to receive anything and everything coming my way.  An abrupt comment caught me off guard.  "I love reading your blog."  Crickets from me.  Bashfully I accepted the compliment.  A conversation ensued over great readings- I got nothing but books for my birthday and I loved it, and a love for great stories.  I was humbled and inspired by that comment.  So I reached back out to the lovely lady and asked her to help me.
Her Husband, has been one of the most influential men in my life.  Spiritually I love learning from the guy.  He's a Pastor and a Native.  Josh is a mentor, a tremendous blessing, and an all around interesting guy.  But His wife and family? Katie is a doll, and man can she sing!  Alex, Aiden, and Ella are the coolest kids you could hang out with.  So here to offer an amazing glimpse of family and love: Here's a piece from Kaite.



At the Table by Katie Charette

I remember my dad frying bacon…all the time. I remember sitting at our massive wood table, our cozy double-wide surrounded by tall trees, in Lincoln, MT. I remember hoping that I would have enough bacon to scoop up my cheese eggs so I wouldn’t even have to use my fork. That picture sums up a lot of my childhood for me. Our home was warm, loving, and I was well cared for. My dad was a Principal/Superintendent and we ended up in that tiny, mountainous town for his job. My mom, a dance teacher and shopping phenom, was seriously unsettled at moving to such a tiny dot on the map but managed to start a thriving dance school and haul us all to Helena enough that she still received Thank You cards from the local retailers at Christmas. It was because of her dance classes that we ended up with our humongous table. My mom would trade for classes. She has traded well. My high school vehicle (a dun-c olored Saab that won “Ugliest Car” my senior year) was acquired through trade. Good bread, cleaning, and our table all came our way because my mom brought something fun, creative and beautiful to a small town that needed something to help brighten up winter. I remember arguing with my dad about eating things like stew and dancing around with my brother and sisters while “doing dishes.” I really don’t know if I even liked the table. It was too big, too geometric, too yellow. It was just there; solid and unpretentious. Ready for anything you could throw at it.

When we moved to Laurel (Close to Billings! With a movie theater!) the table wouldn’t fit in the new dining room. I’m not even sure where it went. Garage? My grandparents’ garage? I forgot all about it. I was busy. Falling in love with the man who fought with me on our first date. Following him to Tulsa, Colorado Springs, Cody, St. Louis and eventually back to Billings. Hallelujah! We were home. We now had 3 growing children and eventually purchased a house, rescued a dog for our backyard and started looking for furniture to fill our beloved money pit. My mom called. “Do you want the big table?” What table? “The one sitting out on our patio because no one has room for it?” I don’t know. Doesn’t it have a strange geometric shape? I don’t like those corners. “But you have the perfect dining room for it and you are planting a church! Think of all the people that could fit around it! I have benches and old chairs from the Night Owl.” Well, maybe until I can afford something rectangular. .. My husband was thrilled. You have to unscrew each of the tree trunk legs to move it and it still weighs hundreds of pounds. It was cut from a solid piece of wood that was halved and joined together. It is 8 ft x 4 ft and when we finally got it in our dining room I crawled on top of it to lay down and marvel at the sheer size. Josh was practically hopping around. He kept saying things like “break bread with friends” and “feast together.” He was speaking in some kind of medieval tongue that the table inspired in him. I love our table. Our kids sit at it while I fry them bacon and cheese eggs. They whine about eating deer meat all the time and dance with me in the kitchen on occasion. They try to hide their video games on the bench beside them and pretend they are awake when their dad reads them a Bible story each morning while they pick at their cereal. We play cards, dice and have lots of friends over to break bread and feast together.

At the table, we are building a family, planting a church and, sometimes, it is just me and my love: fighting, talking and praying together.

Humor, for whatever season

We come from opposite ends of a spectrum.  Culturally.  Generationally.  Ethnically.

A married man.  And a single man.  The one, a Shepard.  The other, a sheep in a flock.  You got to ask, "you young man, are you bored?  Are you okay?"  Am I striking out with my own?  No luck impressing the ladies?  What is it? The dark skinned man should be berating the light skinned man.  For history, for piety, for semantics.

Love is a verb. I've meditated on this  a lot lately.  Love is- an action, it moves, has a pulse, can grow, can wither, can be nurtured, and neglected.  And it takes thoughtfulness, time, and energy.  Verbing, as it turns out, is loving.  And you can pretty creative when it comes to verbing and loving.

I have this Pastor.  He prays for me.  He mourns for me.  He grieves for me.  He encourages me.  He challenges me, hopes for me, and recently admitted to be willing to put up a decent enough fight for me.  I guess this man of the cloth is a pretty good representation for a lot of the people in my circle.  I must have a lot of pastors in my life.

People you love can come with the biggest, catchiest slogans, "isms", and fortune cookie wisdom.  But how many pray for you, sit with you, muse with you, and at the end of the day, send you off better off than when you arrived?  And the bigger question is, how can you possible begin to return the gratitude?

I came to this point recently.  And yeah it's corny, like we Christians are always in some kind of love fest.  Truth is, we're not.  I cried a lot last week because I was frustrated and broken over my own choices, and the fact I was finally convinced loving the people who'd been hurting me, would be the best way out.  I lose focus.  I get distracted.  Am prone to exhaustion.  I'm no better.

I want my leaders to age well, gracefully and full of life.  So I made it a point to once a week, to send my pastor an email, in which I one simple goal- to make him laugh.  Humor is the medium I'm most comfortable with, and I love telling ridiculous stories.  I sit down, with wit and goofiness as my only guide and write.  Mostly it's the family cat being a larger than life figure with some funky accents.  This pastor suffers from migraines, and a pretty big sized congregation.  So the least I can do is alleviate some of the lingering, and provide a worthwhile distraction.

I won't ever be a comedian.  I'm not trying to be a "teachers pet" and mostly I don't think about it after I'm done, but playfulness is a much apart of life than anything.  Aristotle encourages us to strive between a healthy balance of comedy and tragedy.  Humor is the unspoken spiritual gift Paul never talks about.  And at times, it's the unspoken sermon we all need to hear.  And if faith is all about living life well, not being a 'good' or 'bad' person, then I guess its time to get pretty serious about the sacredness of making someone else smile like an idiot.