Real Talk - So this was high school

So this was High School.

This is it.

The end.

This is what we have been waiting for.


I sat down to write about high school. The words came but they all came out brown and bitter, probably because that's all school was to me then. Sophomore year was a dark one.

I sat down to write about high school again, as a Junior and the words came but differently this time. It was hard. I still hated it. Darkness and disgust still dripped from my fingers and stained the page as I wrote but I was humming a different tune. Because even though School was still trying to kill me, I found something else there. Or rather it found me. Something bright. I tried to push it aside because I was too busy fighting with School to pay attention to it. But it kept coming back. And soon I realized that it was fighting School with me. So in an act of further rebellion against School, I embraced it. Not it. Them. My class, my posse, my friends, my gang, my peeps, my nerds, my jocks, my cheerleaders, my artists, my musicians, my geeks, my freaks, my dancers, my lifters, my stoners, my shredders, hipsters, tall, short, rich, poor, all of them. My friends. They were all fighting the same fight as me.


Now here I am. Sitting down again to write about High School. Perhaps for the last time.
And in hindsight I can see it all. School was a mask. Underneath all of the layers of geometry, synonyms, history and gravitation equations was the heart of Lone Peak. Underneath the mask I found the purpose of high school.

Doorsteps, dance parties, proms, preferences, friends, best friends, boyfriends, girlfriends and let's-just-be-friends, birthday parties, slumber parties, all night parties, just-cause parties, camp outs, peel outs, In-N-Out's, burgers, pizza with friends, hot dogs at games, root beer pong, ping pong and sting pong, ball games, screaming to the radio with the windows down, cruising down the road as our hearts beat to the music of high school.

To the students of Lone Peak: It's not the structure of the school, not the number of gyms or the quality of programs offered that makes our school World Class. It's the Class. It's the student body. It's all of you. And I just wanted to thank the students of Lone Peak for accepting me as an outsider. I love you.

The purpose of high school is not to fill our heads with polynomials and lit terms but to fill our hands with other hands, to fill our hearts with people we love, our memories with familiar faces and our eyes with the big, bright, beautiful future that awaits the imaginative.
And if you think for a second that high school is about earning a diploma then you've missed high school. 

Our high school musical is about to end.

And the time has come for the bass to drop and for us to dance as hard as we can to the familiar pulse of Lone Peak for two more weeks.

And then it's all over.

Then comes the part where we scatter in 900 different directions.

Maybe someday in the future I'll sit down to write about high school again. I won't remember what I learned in math. I won't remember my science teacher's name. But I will remember the golden days of high school and the people I spent them with.
I will remember you.

So this was high school.

A Thousand Miles in My Shoes

I've been told that to understand someone, I should take a walk in his shoes. But I don't even understand myself and I've been walking in my shoes for 18 years.

What is my purpose here?

What is my purpose for leaving?

Did I do what I was supposed to do in high school?

If I had just been there for them, would I have less friends who's lives are spinning out of control?

What would Lone Peak be without me?

What would I be without Lone Peak?

Will the only marks I leave be the scuffs and footprints my shoes left in the hallways?

A thousand kind hearted people have put in a thousand thoughtful miles in my tired old shoes.

And that's the mark Lone Peak left on me. 

Lion Heart

He has a faithful heart. 

She has a pure heart. 

Some have lion hearts. 

Grandma has a big heart. 

Dad has a kind heart. 

They all have steady hearts. 

I'm your heart.

And everyone says that if you just follow me, you will have peace.

Everyone says that if you follow me, you will have joy.

Everyone says to follow me.

Perhaps they say that because it worked for them. 

After all they have faithful, steady, lion hearts

That seem to know exactly what they want

But I don't.

The truth is 

I'm not a steady

pure

kind

lion heart.

I'm just your battered, lonely, wandering heart.

And although I'm glad that you've finally started listening to me

I'm still a wanderer.

But despite my lack of experience,

I'm a hopeful heart.

Despite the layers upon layers of scars

despite the times you forgot me in our pocket and ran me through with the laundry

despite the days when you came home holding me in your bloodied fist 

and rung the tear water out of me like a dirty handkerchief 

because you were never allowed to cry on the outside

despite the claw marks I left on the inside of your rib cage

despite the long nights I spent pounding on your chest

begging to be heard

despite the times you tried to drown me in ink

despite the times you tried to press me in a textbook 

or iron me flat 

or twist me into something that you wanted

despite our disagreements

I'm still hopeful

Because when you realized that only I could fill the tiny cavity in your chest

You stopped trying to replace me with other things

Because when you realized that you've only got one heart 

Imperfect as I am

You finally started listening to me

I don't know if listening to me will bring us both happiness

But I'm the only heart you've got

So let's work this out together

And learn from each other

And maybe one day I can be 

A Lion Heart

From Above

From up here, the world just seems so small. 

I sit looking and think that nearly everything that I know and love is nothing more than a greyish carpet on the valley floor. 

I look down on a child and can see his entire world in a glance, just by looking both ways before crossing the street.

I look up at the stars and think that the Creator of all those stars must see my world in a similar way. 

A speck.

But I smile to know that even though my little world is but an insignificant grey patch in an insignificant little valley,

My world

And everyone in it

Mean 

The 

World 

To Him 

So I find myself looking down on my little world and smiling. 

Also, happy earth day folks! 

I Remember Joining the Dark Side

Warning: Contains nerdiness, nostalgia and excessive amounts of fandom.

I woke up.
No alarm clock.
No school.
No immediate chores to do.
No worries.
Blue sunlight streamed in through my open window as the orioles and meadow larks welcomed in a perfect summer day. The roosters had been crowing for close to an hour now and I hopped out of bed.

I remember that.

In a flash of unkempt hair and Robots pajamas, I was out the front door and into the clean, Idaho air.
No shoes.
No breakfast.
No neighbors to worry about.
I spent that morning catching grasshoppers.
It was an eight-year-old's dream.

I remember that.

It was just another day, in an ocean of days. Summer break stretched endlessly into the distance, the same way my street disappeared in an eternal line of pot holes and telephone poles.

I remember my universe being comprised primarily of Legos.
I remember the day my Dad introduced me to Star Wars and suddenly a new universe was born.
I remember the day the world introduced me to Lego Star Wars and I died of ecstasy.

I remember that.

In my mind I created worlds (and later destroyed them with super lasers).
In my bedroom I created speeders and spaceships, enacting fantastic battles and chases that always ended up with Lego pieces everywhere.
In my backyard my best friend and I felled Empires and battled the most formidable of Sith Lords.

I remember that.

We were Jedi. We were outlaws. We were spies. We were Ewoks. It depended on the day but no matter what we always saved it. We saved the day. We saved the universe. We never saved any damsels in distress though; they had cooties. (Sorry ladies)

I remember that.

But then things began to change.
Jedi mind tricks didn't work on long division problems and the force wasn't strong enough to make me good at basketball. The world told me big boys don't play pretend.
Slowly I began to cave to the adults.
My Legos became decorations. My Star Wars VHS tapes began to collect dust. My lightsaber lived in the closet. I began to distance myself from my best friend, my partner in crime, my wingman. His imagination was stronger than mine so he held out longer. But a few months after I put my childhood on the shelf, so did he.
With no one to save it, the Universe died.

I remember that.

Looking back now I see that the Empire won. They infiltrated the adults and convinced us that hero work was for pansies. Imagination is reserved for kids. Big boys don't play with Legos and lightsabers.
I didn't realize it then but the day I put my lightsaber down, I joined the Dark Side.
I joined the ranks of those who live in fear of critics, crayons and creativity.
The Death Star we live on isn't a battlestation but a massive complex of little, grey cubicles filled with people who are convinced the critics are right.
They want us to believe that only other people are allowed to live their dreams.
That science fiction will forever be fiction.
And as for imagination, that stuff's for kids.

I remember when my imagination spanned the length of the Universe. Now it barely spans the page.
But it wasn't too late for Anakin so it's not too late for me either.
I will fight this Empire of fear until the day I die.
Writing. Music. Photography. Crayons.
I want my lightsaber back.

And eventually, when I have a son, I will make sure that he grows up with a lightsaber in his hand. I will raise a Chosen One. Then I can relive my childhood as I watch him save the Universe again and again.





Ps: My best friend is still my best friend to this day

To the Girl Who Didn't Get Asked to Prom

Perhaps this title isn't entirely fitting. I should have called it, "What makes you beautiful." But that sounds cliché. 

I wrote part of this from the strip in Las Vegas and another part in Newport Beach California and can I just say: I LOVE MORMON GIRLS! Ok I'm rambling done rambling now. 

Bad Kai. Stick to the script

To you lovely ladies who didn't get asked to Prom, I sincerely apologize. And to you who got asked by one of us simple minded creatures (aka: boys), I also apologize. I'm sure your mothers or your young women's leaders have told you that you are beautiful but perhaps it's about time you heard it from a boy. So for what it's worth. 

Here goes. 

Things that make a girl beautiful. 

True beauty comes from the inside out. The way she talks and laughs, or hangs back and watches. The way she throws parties or curls up in a quiet corner to read. Whoever she is, she is comfortable with herself (or as comfortable as one can reasonably be). 

She knows who she is and doesn't spend her time trying to be something else. She wears makeup but doesn't hide behind it. She applies herself to her art, whether it's a sport, dance, music or whatever it is that she enjoys. She works hard at it and loves it and so becomes good at it. 

She has high standards and keeps them for the right reasons. 

Many of these girls go largely unnoticed by the male population because we are too focused on the superficial. The outside, face value. The cover of the book. The cover is usually a good indication of the story inside but the cover is not the story. A good girl, a girl who's soul shines out of her eyes, a girl who's heart makes itself heard at the corners of her mouth, that is a beautiful girl. It is easy to spot a girl who just tries to be good. You can see it in her eyes. Perhaps her cover is worn and stained, the pages torn and faded. Some of the pages in her story may be burned a little at the edges from the fiery ending of a hard chapter but her story is no less beautiful. Her triumphs, failures and trials slowly bent and shaped her into a rose. A rose that can't be seen from the cover of the book. A rose who's petals are woven from flaws  and challenges that failed to cripple her.

 Beauty is not measured by the fairness of her skin but the depth of her soul. 

A pretty face will attract a crowd of boys but a rose will win her a knight. 

So when I study a girl, for that is what courting is, a chance for two people to study eachother, I let her eyes do the talking. I study what her eyes say. I study her heart.

In search of a rose. 

So to you girls who didn't get asked to Prom, please be patient with us boys as we learn to look for roses and read deeper than the cover of the book. I apologize for the fact that many of you mature sooner than we. 

Perhaps my interpretation of beauty is inaccurate. Perhaps this doesn't apply to all girls in general. Perhaps none of this actually makes any sense. 

Or perhaps I've been rambling about a certain rose I've found. 

Perhaps I'll rewrite this someday with her name on it. 

Perhaps. 

Who am I? Yeah I don't really know either

Who Am I?

The truth is, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I'll get back to you on that.
If you are expecting some deep, artistic, thought out piece of writing then you will be disappointed. You are about to get a face-full of ME, not some deep, artistic, thought out piece of writing.
So who is this me person anyway?

For now let me introduce myself as the person who I think I am, as accurately as I can with my limited knowledge of myself.

I don't really fit the Lone Peak demographic. I'm not from Utah and I'm not a huge fan of city life (yeah I consider this a city. Weird, I know). I miss the giant trees in my yard, the beautiful sunsets that I enjoyed from my second story bedroom window and even the birds who built a nest in the roof right about my room and would always wake me up at some absurd hour of the morning with their squabbling. 

Also, I didn't get my Disney fix as a child. I grew up mostly on weird Japanese films instead and watched them while eating rice crackers, the floor littered with my little Ultraman figurines. Only later did I realize that normal Americans don't do that. I feel like I've been robbed of my childhood.

Half of the time, I have no idea what anyone is talking about. 

I sometimes wish I belonged, like everyone else. I sometimes wish I had grown up watching the same TV shows, listening to the same music, complaining about the same junior high teachers, enjoying the same rides at Disneyland and whatever else it is that normal Utah kids do. I wish I could be popular and cool. Maybe I will someday. Probably not. I dunno. 

But I do enjoy being different. 

I'm too white to be Japanese, I'm too Japanese to be white.

I'm a farm boy from Idaho but I drive like a Utard.
I don't belong anywhere and I don't care.

I love the city but I hate living in one. 

I love people. Especially female people.

I wish I was brown. 

I'm afraid of the cool kids just a little bit. 

I love old fiddles, guitars and things with strings. 

I can and will eat anything that holds still long enough. 

I've never kissed anyone. 

My name is originally Polynesian but it means a variety of things in different languages such as ocean, clams, food and puke. 

I am a photographer, not much of a writer and sometimes I play music. 

I believe that you only truly live when you don't let life happen to you. You happen to it. 

Oh goodness look it's midnight. I just hiked 7 miles, washed the dog, sat down to write this and now I'm boring you and rambling about life instead of introducing myself.

So if you must know, this is me. Sortof.

This is Facebook me. If you like Facebook me better, friend me on Facebook or Instagram.
My IG handle is life_of_ka1

This is Real Me. If you like Real Me better, add my blog to your reading list :)

(The other asian is my sister)

Oh yeah, and my name is Kai Johnson. Almost forgot.

Letters from Home

My Old House: So I hear rumblings that my family is moving into your walls this coming Thursday?

My New House: You must be the nice, old farmhouse in Idaho! As a matter of fact they are. They say it's going to be a temporary arrangement. 

My Old House: Ah, I see. I do hope you take good care of them. They grew up here you know. They spent much of their time out in the yard chasing insects and climbing my trees. 

New House: Well you see, I don't have much of a yard to offer. It's more of a dirt patch with a fence really. This part of Utah is rather crowded. 

Old House: That's too bad. They raised goats, chickens, pigs and sheep here. Do you know if they plan to keep the dog?

New House: I hope not. The last tenant's dogs chewed the trim around all of the corners inside me. And I won't even mention what they did in the yard. 

Old House: Tough life eh, sonny? You live in a different world. You see out here, we don't have fancy things like sidewalks, cul de sacs or grocery stores nearby. You gotta travel for those kinds of things. And if you think dogs can make a mess of the garden then you should see what pigs can do. I'm afraid my family will have some adjusting to do in your area. 

New House: Wait you don't have sidewalks? I don't understand. Where did your family's kids ride their tricycles when they were growing up?

Old House: They didn't ride tricycles much. The only things to ride out here are bikes and four wheelers. I hear there are a lot of churches down where you are?

New House: Oh yes they're everywhere!

Old House: Good. There are a few here so that will help with the adjustment. 

New House: The new family just arrived! They don't seem terribly impressed.

Old House: It's hard to leave a home for a house.

New House: Yeah. Do you think they will ever change their minds?

Old House: Hard to say

Leaving home for a house. 

We all leave home at some point and exchange it for a place to live. 

But you never forget the place where you played out your childhood.

Home

How to High School

I didn't write this for you. I wrote this for me. I wrote this because I just spent a very large portion of my day trying to please the gods of GPA instead of actually living life or spending time with people I love or going outside to see the sun. I wrote this because I'm mad and I need to remind myself why I still bow to the gods of tests, grades and GPA.

After all this time in the public education system, I have learned only a few things.
1: The zipper side of the pants is the front
2: I absolutely detest science
3: It is possible to perform an optical illusion on yourself to make your teacher's head disappear
4: Extreme boredom leads me to do stupid things, like make my teacher's head disappear

As far as I know, there are no career possibilities in the academic fields of science hating, pants wearing and professional extreme boredom so I begin to wonder what exactly I was supposed to learn in all this time I've spent wandering the halls of America's public education facilities.

So here's my uneducated little opinion on the matter of high school.
First of all, good grades don't mean you are a smart person. They mean you are just really good at being told what to do. I have met with a lot of really successful guys and I have yet to hear one of them say that passing chemistry is what got them where they are. In fact, quite a few of them never finished college. Because in the real world, knowing the difference between the anode and cathode end of an electrochemical equation is not nearly as important as knowing how to file a tax return or how to invest.
Good grades don't make you smart, they make you good at taking orders. That's not necessarily a bad thing for some folks but I don't plan to take orders for the rest of my life.
Good grades do look good on college applications though and are likely to bring you money in scholarships. That's where good grades are important. So you can tell colleges that you will be a good student.
There are very few classes in high school that pay dividends in actual useful knowledge or experience, this creative writing class definitely being one of them (Yeah Nelson, you rock).
One of the most important assets that can be gained in high school is a social network. A group of friends. A support group. A group that you love, and they love you. These are the people you can hang out with, support and draw support from. Life is so much easier when you can get help from friends. Most of the summer jobs I have gotten came from a friend or associate. It's a lot harder to land a job by just dropping a resume.
High school is awesome.
High school is easy compared to real life.
High school is still hard sometimes.
High school is NOT REAL LIFE.
I love high school
But I won't miss it

Things I'm scared of

Things I'm Scared of.

This place.

And everyone in it. 

It's past.

It's future.

And how infinitely small I am compared to anything that could happen in this place.

Things I'm Not Gonna do Because I'm Scared

Panic.

Pretend I'm the only important thing that lives here.

Forget the past.

Let the future direct itself.

Let myself die without seeing this place, this beautiful place where I live. 

Abandon myself to obscurity. 

I may be small but I'm still me. I am still here. And I am still enough to make a difference in this big, big world.

Here's to Friday

Cruising down a dirt road in my grandpa's old Chevy, or flying down some forgotten country lane with the windows down.

 Swimming holes, fishing poles and fruit roles.

 Late nights, trampolines and a sky full of stars.

 Red rocks, summer sun and sand in my sleeping bag.

 Blue skies, french fries and a pair of pretty blue eyes.

 T-shirts, jeans and smiles all around.

 Her hair tickling the summer breeze.

 Grass stains, granola bars and gatorade.

 Swimming pools, sports, campfires and marshmallows.

 Open windows, open hearts.

 Campfire tales, hot dogs and laughter.

 Fighting over sleeping spots in the tent, melty ice cream, chasing squirrels out of the trail mix.

Scout camp songs, country songs and made up songs mingle with the bird songs as they rise through the trees.

 Hikes and strolls, beautiful sunsets and someone to share them with.

Snow cone shacks, dance dates, full moons, doorsteps.

That's Friday to me.

Here's to getting lost and not caring so long as she's in the car

Here's to open roads and sunny trails

Here's to our last few months of living at home

Here's to pillow fights with siblings

Here's to Mom's special dinners

Here's to Parents putting up with missed curfews and dirty laundry

Here's to being a kid

Here's to Senior Prom

Here's to the best part of our lives so far

So here's to Fridays past and Fridays to come. 

Yeah Here's to Friday

So quite doing homework for a while and enjoy your last few Fridays as a kid

The Sun Will Come. It Always Has. It Always Will.

The sun will come. It always has. It always will.

This one is for the new kid.
For lonely lunch times.
For the kid wearing the same shoes every day for a year because his family can't afford another pair.
For solitary walks to and from school. Every day. Rain or shine.
For the kid who's dreams never seem to come true.
For the kid who could never get the girl.
or the next girl.
or the next.
or the next.
or the next.
or the next.
Six times he asked to Prom.
Six times he was turned down.
This is for Johnny.
This is also for the girl who never got asked.
The one who tried so hard to be noticed but was never seen.
This is for the kid whom everyone thought was on top of the world.
But he still hurt.
This is for Terik.
This is for the kid who tried and tried but could never understand math.
This is for BYU applications, regent scholarships, AP classes and other high expectations.
This is for late-night study sessions.
This is for missing breakfast and lunch and the bus on the same day.
This is for winners.
This is for losers.
This is for taking 2nd place.
Over and over again.
For years.
This is for second rate dreamers who wish they could just once be more than, "almost good enough."
This is for practicing in the garage at 11pm because no other time or place in this world was available.
This is for the losers who have convinced everyone but themselves they are winning.
This is the kid who is still trying to like himself.
This is for me.
This is for you.
This is for us.


Even though life is often dark, and harsh and painful. Even though everyone is walking around with a Terik or Johnny or whatever shaped hole in their heart. Even though the darkness is cold and silent and unforgiving, there is no other place from which we can see the stars.
Just look up.

The sun will come. It always has. It always will.

So I'll keep walking, my eyes on the horizon, waiting for the first golden ray to break the silence and help me feel alive again.

Because I've learned to hope in the dark.
I've learned to look at the stars.

Every now and then, I'll see a sunrise.
And it's kind of like an oreo ice cream/first kiss/jump out of an airplane/road trip/birthday party/bungee jump/swim with sharks/Betos burrito/front row seat in a concert/warm hug/hot cocoa/long shower/new guitar/bowl of jelly beans/summer Saturday sorta feeling you know?

We've all been there once.
We can all be there once more.
So I hope you keep walking till your sun rises.

Because the sun will come. It always has. It always will. 

View from the top

Life is like a trail. Full of rocks, steep scrambles and just plain long sometimes. It can be hard to keep going. So turn around and take a look at how far you've come. Then keep on climbing.

#fromwhereyouwouldratherbe 

A Bible Story

Disclaimer: This is a fictional short story about a real character. Based on events recorded in Luke 23:39-43.


My Name is Daniel. 
In Hebrew, my name means, "God is my judge."
I've lived a hard life. Jerusalem is not the place it once was now it is under Roman rule. I am a fishmonger, or rather, I was a fishmonger. With my partner, Amit, I would catch the fish by night and sell them on the street by day. This left little time for my family or for sleep. We had always been good friends, although we didn't always see eye to eye. It was after all, him who introduced me to thievery. Business had been hard and we were struggling just to feed our families. The Romans, with their taxes and discriminatory practices, were no help either. They humiliated us in the streets, just for sport. But worse, they took what they pleased and the law held little sympathy for the Jews. Once upon a time I had 2 daughters. A year ago, a Roman soldier took my eldest at night. My wife and I got outside just in time to see a Roman horse riding swiftly away from our home. He threw one furtive glance back at us as they rode away. My eyes will never forget his face, nor will my ears forget her screams. We never saw either of them again. The law did not help us.
Our families lived in a small set of run-down shacks on the outskirts of Jerusalem, while Roman guards lived in the city barracks, well fed and even entertained. When they gambled, laughed and made merriment in the streets, they would often leave their horses unattended. These horses often had a few valuable trinkets attached to their saddles. Coinpurses, little flasks of wine, sometimes daggers. In a crowd, and when the Romans were preoccupied, it wasn't terribly hard to quickly untie one of these valuables and slip back into the crowd. Amit did it all the time, casually, automatically, on the way back from the market. He had to press me to do it the first time. I knew what the Law of Moses had to say about stealing. But I hated, despised, loathed these Romans. It got easier, the more I did it. But then it happened. The day I ruined my family, Amit and myself with nothing more than a simple brick.
That day, there was an unusual stir in the crowd of people on the streets. I asked a passerby what the commotion was and he told me that they were trying a heretic. In hearing this Amit and I exchanged glances and without a word, left our fish stand to join the crowd. Trials always meant distracted Romans. It would be a good chance to fill our pockets. We entered the square where the trail was already taking place. I saw the man standing next to Pilot. He had a strange air about him. He looked exhausted, as if he had born the weight of the world on his shoulders. He definitely didn't look like a crazy heretic. But no matter. There was business to be done. I found a near-by guard and carefully pilfered his coin purse, which was in one of his saddle bags. Amit parted from me and casually followed a Roman who had just arrived. I moved to the next guard and found a beautiful bracelet in his saddle bag. But something kept drawing my attention to the trial. I worked my way closer to the front of the crowd and asked a man who it was that stood before us on trial. The man turned to me, his face lined with worry and tears streaming down his face and said,
"It is Jesus Christ. The Son of God."
My eyes darted up to look at the man next to Pilot. And I was surprised to find him looking at me. Our eyes locked and in that split second I saw my childhood, heard my name, all of the lessons I received from the Rabbi, the time I spent learning the Law of Moses from my parents, the day I was betrothed to my wife, the years I spent working for her and my family. And I remembered the times I had stolen from the Romans. Every angry, vengeful thought I had for the man who had stolen and killed my daughter. Those thoughts still swirled somewhere in the back of my mind. I hated him. I had not forgiven, nor would I forget. Christ's eyes saddened.
Daniel.
The coinpurse suddenly felt heavier. My conscience churned and my soul shrunk within me. I was ashamed to hold his gaze and looked down at my feet.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. It was Amit.
"Everything ok?" He asked.
"Yes" I lied.
And then something caught my eye. A Roman standing over by the outer wall. Something was familiar about him. No. It was THE Roman. It was him. How could I ever forget that face. He was standing by his horse, watching the trial. I turned and strode through the crowd toward him, my eyes focused only on him. The experience I had just had suddenly behind me, all I could see was revenge, all I could hear were my daughters screams. Somehow, a brick on the ground caught my attention. It appeared to have fallen from the wall. Since I was unarmed, I picked it up and continued toward my target. A few feet from him I lifted my weapon, aimed for his stupid, surprised face, and paused. Forgive him. I felt a voice.
Forgive him Daniel. He doesn't know what he's doing.
My emotions raged inside me and I stood frozen in indecision, my brick raised high, tears running down my face. I saw terror in his eyes, his hand reaching for his sword.
I love him like I love you Daniel.
My arm collapsed. I dropped the all-important brick of revenge. The guard looked confused for a moment, then drew his sword and held it to my throat. He obviously didn't recognize me. He didn't know what had just transpired. Amit, who had followed me, hastily tried to intervene by conversing with the guard but to no avail. Other soldiers were called to us and we were searched, our crimes discovered. I saw the rage and indignation on their faces when they discovered our stolen goods. Our fate was sealed.
What happened next was a blur of shouting, beating, and dragging until we were thrust into a temporary prison. We sat, huddled in terror, for a while. Then we were called before a Roman official, judged of our crimes, and condemned to crucifixion. Upon condemnation, Amit snapped. He turned on me and began screaming obscenities as he strained against his bondsmen. I had betrayed him, blown our situation, ruined our families. But for some reason I felt different. Lighter. The burden of my hate for that Roman seemed to lessen. I felt sadness for him. And confusions as to our situation and what I was feeling.
"Traiter! You betrayed me! You got us caught! If you would have just stuck to the plan, neither of us would be here right now!"
Amit writhed in the grip of his guards until a blow to the head cut him short.
We were stripped, beaten, humiliated. Each of us carried our cross to the hill Golgotha as blows rained down upon us. There we were raised up into the air, swaying precariously as we prayed for death to relieve us quickly. Amit was in a state of absolute distress. He cried for his family. He cried for his sins. He cried that we had gotten caught. He cried till he was short of breath. I was in as much pain as he was, the reality of my sins bearing down upon me. But I had forgiven. For that one deed was I hopeful.
The world was buzzing with pain, my head swam and I could barely see. But I noticed that Amit and I were arranged on either side of another man, condemned to a crueler fate than we. He had been nailed to his cross, his head cut and bleeding from a crown of thorns. It was the man they had called Jesus Christ.

Luke 23:39-43
And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him,saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.
But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation?
And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.
And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.
And Jesus said unto him, Very I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.

I closed my eyes, my heart lightened, my cross forgotten. I had dropped my brick.

A Hopeful Missionary

I've searched for you every day. Ever since I turned sixteen I've looked high and low, dated girls I hardly knew, broken the ice thousands of times.

Some of them had your smile. 

Some of them had your eyes. 

Some of them laughed the way you do. 

Maybe one of them was you.

 Whether or not I've met you, I will continue to search. And not just search but prepare. Because I know that you are looking for me too and I'm scared that our eyes will never meet in the right way if I'm not everything that you dreamed of as well. I'm taking a two-year training course on how to live with another person for twenty-four hours a day, how to serve and how to work. I'm told that these are qualities that you will expect from me. 

I'm told that you will have high standards. 

I hope to meet them. 

I pray that I will meet them. 

And I pray for you. 

Nearly every day. 

It's hard for me to keep searching at this point, knowing that whatever relationship may arise will have little time to grow before being put on hold for two years. 

But I don't want to miss you by giving up now. 

Just in case.

So I keep looking for a pair of eyes to get lost in, a laugh that will take me above the clouds, a smile that will melt my heart. 

Someone who loves to watch the stars, try weird foods and have pillow fights at one in the morning. Someone with so much personality that she is bursting at the seams.

Someone who talks all the time and sings out of tune.

Someone who isn't afraid to try ziplining or yoga or Thai curry.

Someone who gets lost in a good book and is late for school.

Someone who will stay up all night with me while we make cheesecake just for the heck of it.

Someone who talks to God every night.

Someone who respects herself.

Someone who is praying to find me.

To that girl: Perhaps nearly everything that I've said so far doesn't describe you in any way. That's ok. Because the song is always better in concert, the book is always better than the movie and you will be so much better in person than anything I can conjure up on paper. Just know this: I won't rest until I find you and can hold your hand for Eternity. My heart doesn't know it's lonely yet. But it will see what it's been missing once I've found you. I think I love you already. If I've already met you, please be patient with me. Two years is a long time. Wait for me. Search for me.

I will find you. 

Ramblings of an Insomniac

When sleep won't happen, I leave myself lying there in bed and go for a walk. I go downstairs, grab a packet of fruit snacks, strap on a backpack and head outside. I break into a jog. As I turn the corner on my street, I speed up. As I do, I start keeping pace with the cars on the road. So I join them, weaving in and out of lanes as I continue to accelerate. Pretty soon I'm at a dead sprint and I'm whizzing past cars, hurdling over-passes and swinging from streetlights as the night slides on. I hop up and catch hold of an airplane with both hands. It's not much bigger than a large chicken and so I just hold on as we dodge stars and fireflies in the night. I look up and realize that my airplane has changed color. And grown feathers. It really is a chicken now. It looks down at me, gives a brief squawk of alarm and then we tumble down through the wispy, cotton-candy clouds as we plummet to our deaths. As we fall, my chicken/airplane ejects an egg that gets in my hair and makes a mess. We land in a jungle. Somehow there is now a nest in my hair with a baby chick inside. I remove the nest, leave it and the chick with the chicken and continue to run. The leaves of the jungle wave at me, beckoning me to come and play but I continue to run until I reach a cliff. Without a hesitation, I throw myself over it and dive headfirst into the ocean of fruit punch waiting for me at the bottom. My friends, the dolphins, toss me up on the powdered-sugar beach. To say thanks, I grab a piece of the moon out of the sky and throw it to them, then race a shooting star back to the jungle. But after the race, I continue to run. I crash through hazelnut trees, papaya bushes and marshmallow weeds. The sweet smelling coconut grass sticks to my feet as I continue to sprint. My backpack became a sloth. I paused to set it down and watched it wander off. More running. Presently, I reach the sunset. Curious, I walk up to the sun as it slowly descends between a few stray clouds. I realize that the sun is nothing more than a hole in the sky. The light from the hole looked warm and inviting so I crawled through and stood up. It was cozy but the light was dimmer than I expected. Probably because the light was emanating from a small nightlight in the corner. I felt myself being drawn up the stairs and soon stood at my bedside, watching myself lie there. I was rather disappointed by what I saw. There was little light in the face that I saw before me. But no matter. The already dim light in the room faded even further, the warm stillness of the night wrapping it's arms around me like a blanket of stars. I bid the chicken, sloth and jungle goodbye as I finally began to drift off.
Tomorrow I would awake to a world where airplanes were big scary things, marshmallows didn't grow in the jungle and I had never actually seen the ocean, but I imagined it wouldn't be much like fruit punch. I would no longer be able to run on the freeway or race shooting stars. I was only 7 years old after all. I would dream of my sloth backpack and all of the wonderful things like the stars and fireflies while the day lasted, then I could visit them again at night. Because life is so much more exciting when one isn't tied down to reality.

Logically

Logic.

Logic says that I need to be a politician. 

A lawyer. 

An engineer. 

A dentist.

A surgeon. 

A student. 

I must program myself to become something that will make a lot of money. Because money buys food. And food is batteries. Therefor, logic says that I need math and science and binders and notes and a haircut and college prep classes and to just forget my dreams so that I can fit in with all of the other kids that will be going to a college, getting a job and working so they can buy food. Logic tells me I shouldn't dream of cotton candy sheep or run through the forest barefoot or spend my time trying to invent the perfect pancake. 

Logic says I can't be anything other than a little, grey piece of paper in a grey, paper world. 

But what's life if I'm only a single digit in a hundred terabytes of other sad, unfulfilled people? We spend our lives worshiping this god of money because money tells you that it is your best friend and that you need a lot of it to be happy. Money tells you that you must give more time and attention to it than your friends, family or dreams. Money is made of numbers. Numbers mean statistics and business calculus. 

Pure logic.
But say I don't want to be a bit in a terabyte, a drop in the ocean, a little, grey piece of paper. Because I don't. I want to live, rather than just exist. I want to feel rather than calculate. I want to be noticed rather than just be seen. I want to be human. But not just another human, in a world full of humans. That would just make me a statistic. A grey piece of paper. A robot. Just like all the others.

I want to be an anomaly. Abnormal. Different. Weird. Myself. Human.

So what if it's illogical? Just because the other humans aren't doing it doesn't mean that you can't. In fact, I think you could become more human by pursuing things most other humans don't. That is a defining trait of humanity. Doing stuff that others can't or won't do. Whether that's being a better doctor, or just being a doctor with a very unique skill set. Or being a skydiving trainer or a volcano photographer. So long as you're not like the others. Unique, special, illogical even.

Praise for Waffles

Praise for Waffles

When you think about it, waffles are among the most perfect things to ever exist. Well made ones that is. Nutella ones especially. 

Let us follow the life of a waffle. Just for fun. First the batter is created. Created from the simple ingredients of life: eggs, flour, butter, milk, love, vanilla extract. This heavenly mixture is then poured onto a waffle iron and cooked to perfection. The steaming, crunchy product is then removed, smeared with happiness (aka: Nutella) and eaten. The average waffle only lives for a couple minutes. But they cause such joy in the lives of everyone they touch. Just think, if a something as simple as a waffle can produce so much happiness and do so much good to everyone in it's short lifetime, what kind of lousy waste of space have I been? 

I came off the iron 18 years ago. Have I made as much difference as a common waffle? Do I make people as happy as a crunchy, delicious, syrup-dowsed confectionary delight? Granted, I have been slightly more useful than a waffle in my long existence I suppose. But with all of the negative things that I have brought with me, does my good still measure up to even that of a simple waffle? All of the hard times I have caused my parents, all of the insensitive things that I've said to my siblings, my selfish actions that have left my friends in the dust. Do my positive qualities even equal the sum of my mistakes? Do my goods measure up to my bads? Probably not. If I could break even and then some, maybe cause a little more good than I have bad, perhaps I could cause as much happiness as a waffle.

Ps: Is it true that if a girl makes you waffles that she likes you? And if she makes you CHOCOLATE waffles that she's crazy over you? Maybe I watch too much YouTube... Anyway, let me know in the comments!

Kids with Laser Guns

I crouched low in the tall grass, a bamboo staff strapped to my back and a stolen laser gun in hand. Next to me lay my trusted comrade as we watched the enemy camp through the jungle underbrush. The air was hot and sticky, bizarre fungi growing next to us on the monstrous trees that formed the jungle canopy. The small moon that we called home was almost entirely covered in thick rain forest. Home had been a happy place, only marred by the occasional tribal conflict until these new intruders arrived from other worlds and began to build their gleaming, box-like homes in place of the massive trees in which we lived. They came in large, walking machines and flying scooters. They came armed with laser guns and other powerful weaponry that we had never even dreamed of. We were nearly powerless against them with our arrows, reed dart guns and fire bombs. The war had until recently been very one-sided. But slowly, we started to win battles as we implemented better strategies and advanced weapons stolen from enemy camps. In that lay our greatest hope. Stolen weapons. Which is why my companion and I were watching this camp, a small outpost, guarded by only 8 men. They would each be carrying a handgun, 5 plasma grenades, 10 charges and a radio which we could use to listen in on the enemy's wireless activities. My comrade turned over his shoulder and nodded. It was time. I lit a cluster of fire bombs (dried seed-pods of a certain plant tied into a bundle) and threw them into the camp. In the same instant my friend and I both jumped up and fired as the enemies turned to see the fire bomb bounce across the ground. Our blasts each found their marks, hitting two guards in the back of their heads and bringing them to the ground. As quickly as we had jumped up, we each spun behind a tree as the fire bombs went off. Bits of burning sap, like napalm, splattered the surrounding area and stuck to our enemies shiny, synthetic armor. It would only stun them for a moment at best. We each darted out from behind our trees and charged the camp with a war whoop, whirling our staffs. I leaped into the air and just as my bamboo was about to connect with the first soldier's helmet, I heard a familiar voice in the distance. A female voice. My Mom's voice. "Braden's mom called! She says it's time for him to go home now!"
The jungle suddenly melted. The flames disappeared, our enemies vanished and my laser gun became nothing more than an L-shaped stick in my hand. The jungle trees were just a patch of tall willows in my back yard, the enemy camp nothing more than some logs around our fire ring. I turned to look at my friend to see disappointment in his eyes. We had battled hundreds of enemy soldiers, rescued countless villages and braved quests that not even Gandelf could boast of throughout the course of the afternoon. We had defied the rulers of the most formidable intergalactic empires. We didn't fear their legions of terror. But all it took was a few words from a grownup to change us from the bravest of warriors to simple 9 year-olds.
That was a normal afternoon in the life my 9 year-old self. 9 years later, here's how my day usually goes: wake up, go to school, try to stay awake, come home, eat, do homework, go to bed, repeat. In 9 years I went from living an action movie, to spending most of my waking hours at a desk. I'm growing up. Perhaps that's why I'm unhappy most of the time.

It only took a few words from a grownup to change Braden and I from crime-fighting assassins, from formidable battle robot pilots, from master Jedis into children. We all spend our lives in a world created by adults. From a young age they sit us down in desks and deluge us with grownup words like, "finance," and, "career," and, "future." And every time a child looks out the window to get a glimpse of the monkeys in the trees or starfighters in the sky, the adults snap their fingers and tell them to focus on what's real. But the reality they ask us to focus on is not the present. It's the future. Someday I will use geometry. Someday I will use a kinematics equation. But they are so focused on, "someday," that they lose sight of today.
To quote a wise turtle from my favorite kid's show; "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery but today is a gift. That is why it is called the present." I fear that most of the imagination has been educated out of me. I hope my preparation for the future doesn't rob me of the present. I want to enjoy every moment. Real or imagined. On Earth or the jungle moon of Endor. As an 18 year old student or kung fu master. I want the childhood me back. The one that wasn't afraid to imagine himself as a hero. The one that fought with ninjas, the one that never grew tired of Don't Touch the Ground, It's Lava. My life used to be an action movie. And if I can't fly for real, then I will fly in my mind. I want my childhood back. I want my crayons back. I want ME back.
I'm now on a mission to find my imagination. Somewhere in that 9 year stretch, I lost it. But I will find it. Piece by piece. And once I rebuild my imagination from the scattered lego pieces and the lost scraps of colored paper, my imagination can build me. The things that you can do when you are a six foot tall child with a driver's license are closer to the things I imagined as a child. It's already starting to come back. For instance, I recently ate lunch inside a cloud. Not an imaginary one. It was real.

As a child I stole from the enemy and used their weapons against them. The adults didn't trust us children with things like cars or cell phones at young ages because we would use them like children. But as we appear to become more like them, they grant us access to these fantastic privileges. Privileges granted on condition that we use them to become adults. Using these privileges to live like a child would be treason against adult nature. If I were a 9 year-old in 18 year-old skin, my car would be a weapon stolen from the world of the grownups. A weapon as potent as my laser gun, only this one won't disappear at a word from an adult. With my laser gun I could kill legions of bad guys. With my car I could go see some of the fantastic places that I imagined as a child. Beautiful places with massive trees, jungles who's canopies are bustling with monkeys, mountains that touch the clouds. I could pull a string of radio-flyer wagons behind, loaded with friends. Or take those friends far away  on a road trip. Why play pretend? Why day dream? Why stare out the window when my imagination isn't in my mind at all but happening in front of me? What if I used the weapons stolen from the adult's to actually live my dreams?
I will continue to steal from the adults. Bigger, badder weapons. A diploma. A college degree. A job. A passport. And I will use these weapons against them. I will use these weapons to build an empire. I will skydive in New Zealand. Play with monkeys in Nepal. Race fast cars in Tokyo. I will wage war on the grown up in me.  I can't help the fact that I will grow old but I refuse to grow up.

I'm Leaving This City Today

I would introduce myself
but I will be someone else by the bottom of the page.  

I am afraid.

Afraid of lots of things.

Afraid of what the other humans think of me. 

Afraid of germs. 

Afraid that I might fall in love. What then? 

Afraid she won't like me back. 

Afraid of the dark.

Afraid of wasps. 

Afraid of tests.

Afraid I'll make a fool of myself. 

Afraid that I will fail my parents. 

Afraid that I won't get into college. 

Afraid of the notice in the mail saying that we are at war and I've been drafted. 

Afraid that I'll get hit by a drunk driver and die. 

Afraid to die. 

But the thing I fear most is far worse than death. Worse than a thousand deaths. I'm afraid that I will step through the iron doorway of this life only to discover to my absolute horror that I never lived. I fear a life of mediocrity more than the most violent of deaths. And I don't know when my road will end. That's another thing that scares me. 

I want to die knowing that I did it all. I want to die as Michael Jordan. I want to die as Buzz Aldrin. Or as Steve Jobs, a famous artist, a rock star, a skydiver, or a gymnast. I want to travel the world. I want to fish for piranhas in the Amazon River. I want to fall in love. I want to make a million dollars. I want people I don't even know quoting my words and marveling over my adventures. I want to be in a magazine. I want to be loved. I want people to like me. When my road ends, I don't want to be the Present Me. 

I want die as someone other than myself.

Someone braver, smarter, stronger, kinder. So starting now, I will begin my journey. My journey out of this city that I have built from shame, crushed dreams and a million past regrets. My faded hopes and crumpled ambitions stick to my shoes and wrap around my ankles, telling me to be content with who I am. But I don't want to be the same person I was yesterday. So I am loading up my pack and setting out, not to find myself, but to create myself. The last and final post written by Nutella Waffles will be written by a very different Waffle from the one currently writing this. Yesterday, I was afraid to sing because my voice might crack. I was afraid to dance because I didn't know how. I was afraid to talk to the opposite gender because I didn't know what to say.  

But I'm leaving this city today. 

I invite you to join me. Together let us leave our cities of the same old habits, the same limitations, the same comfort zones that have been with us so long they have grown stale. I'm still terrified. Perhaps I always will be. You probably are too. 

But I'm leaving this city today. 

I want to live in every moment of my life so when I die I will die free. I will die a brave person. I will die as someone other than the current me. So I ask you to decide now. Will you face your fears as I face mine?

Because I'm leaving this city today.