Yesterday we sat down to watch an old 80s cartoon with the kids. The whole premise of this episode was a son getting his dad into trouble because he bragged to his friends how amazing the dad is — ya know, like he can smash boulders with his barehands — and the poor father just wants to catch a nap on his day off! As the episode kept going it got more and more silly and ridiculous and we all had a good laugh.

But there is a lot of truth in that opening scene with the boy and his friends all sitting around bragging on their dads. We all want a hero who can do the impossible and if we’re lucky, that might turn out to be our dad. This is not the case for many in the world sadly, dads are ordinary humans. They have good days and bad days, and even the best of dads can only hold it together for so long before they lose it, no matter how long their fuse is. But to their kid? Most dads get a lot of grace, no matter how good or bad they are (or think they are).

I reflect a lot on fatherhood these days. It’s hard not to considering I have four kids. The thing is my views slant negative “I could have done this better” “why did I say that” “why didn’t I say this instead” etc etc. I’ve been that way since I was young, grace abounds for everyone except towards myself. The thing is, I have a really good measuring stick. My dad is exceptional, truly I don’t know many people who don’t like my dad. I have next to zero memories of him getting upset with us for no reason (cause I mean…who wouldn’t be upset if your sons covered the van in wet sand am I right?…hypothetically…) and it’s not that I’m sitting here thinking man my dad was perfect and I’m just not cutting it. I just know what a good dad looks like so it stands out when I don’t feel like I measure up.

An interesting thing happened though the other day. My wife was out of the country for two weeks, her grandmother passed away and through a whirlwind of activity we managed to get an emergency passport for our infant son in 3 business days and they they were gone early on a Sunday morning after her grandma passed on Weds. So while they are down in Bogotá it was just me and my three daughters. Now … you need to understand … my daughters have what we call in my house “big emotions” a lot … so thank you to all of ya’ll who knew and prayed for me. However, sometimes their dad (ya know — me) also has big emotions in response to these big emotions. This happened one such morning. It was a Thursday, which is when my oldest goes to school and the morning was great … until it wasn’t. Suddenly we’re both screaming at each other, she’s crying, I’m very frustrated, and my dad shows up to help take her to school. I manage a halfway decent goodbye with her but then she’s gone out the door and I’m at home with her sisters and I feel awful, lower than dirt. My daughter is six, she gets a pass — me? not so much. I’m the adult.

The morning leveled out at some point but what really set me right, what picked me up and helped me the most was a phone call from my dad. He called to ask how I was doing. “I could tell you felt awful about how that went with Isa and I just wanted to tell you I understand, I have tons of memories of leaving the house to work feeling awful cause of how I acted towards you kids.”

This shocked me. Not because my dad had memories like this but because I truly don’t. Where are my memories of his yelling at us? Of his leaving frustrated and more angry at himself than at me or my brother or my sister? It made me realize that I have a very selective memory (my wife would just say I have a bad memory but we’re sticking with my labels.) I have cognitive understanding that all humans are flawed and that my dad is human and thus, my dad is flawed. He has told me he has regrets from raising us. But for some reason I just don’t remember them. It gave me a lot of hope. While “losing it” is never going to make it into the list of the Fruit of the Spirit, it gives me hope that the power of showing up day after day after day has more staying power in my kids minds than the spikes of frustration that I seem to remember with crystal clear detail. Maybe, just maybe, if I focus on being a present dad in the small ways, of not turning away from them when they need me, that their memories will be of a flawed, but loving dad. Cause I definitely remember my “perfect” dad in that way.

Now I also am lucky cause it’s easy for my dad to be my hero, cause he’s a literal hero. While we all wish for their to be superheroes flying around he’s one of those jobs that many people think of as a hero — a fireman. His retirement party was two days ago (which is just wild) and I couldn’t have been more proud of him. His team clearly loved him, they razzed him and made fun of him and blew a confetti canon on his head when he got of the truck for the final time in my parents driveway as a send off. They kept and hid a bumper that he half destroyed on a rock (he was the driver for the biggest ladder truck in our city, no big deal) as a joke and then they fixed it up and gave it to him as a gift at his party. He was the oldest (still might be, not sure on that record) rookie to get hired on at Greensboro Fire (he was 45 when he got on and he still out performed most of the young 18-20 year olds.)

The thing is, I’m very proud of him for being a fireman, it’ll be so weird now when people ask “what does your dad do” and I can’t say “fireman”. But I’m more proud that he is my dad. He taught me what being a man of God, a man in general, a dad, and a husband looks like. He’s not the ultimate example of all those things, but he gave me a foundation. And he did it by being there. I don’t have a ton of memories of these long explanations of manhood or fatherhood or how to love your wife — he just lived it out, day in, day out and still is now, as my dad and as a grandpa. The biggest thing I learned from my dad is — show up.

On the good days — show up. On the hard days — show up. On the days you feel like trash — show up. On the days when you do everything exactly right — keep showing up.

Not just as a dad, but as a person. Show up with the Lord, with your family, with your friends, with your job, with your kids, with your church. The act of being present does so much more work than having things perfect. Another word from this which is in the Fruit of the Spirit is Faithfulness.

We all might not have the best examples of moms, dads, or mentors in our lives. We might have to learn from elsewhere and strive to be an example for someone down the line. But we can take heart that God knows what he is talking about, and being faithful is something that leads to being more deeply an image bearer of God and a name bearer of Jesus.

So, happy retirement dad, I have a feeling your grandkids won’t let you rest. But it’s cause we love you. Thanks for always showing up and for showing me how to do the same, even when I don’t get it right.

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That's how far away you, my love, are from me right now. 2200 miles as the crow flies from Greensboro, NC, USA to Bogotá, Colombia.

And as you go to sleep, our little son with you, I lay down our three daughters, begging them to stay in the bed after the millionth bathroom trip or water refill. Except …

Now when Lili comes, lip quivering, I’m less inclined to turn her away. Cause I miss you too. I understand.

You’re gone for good reason. Death isn’t convenient, and it is best to mourn and celebrate our family in times of loss. I bought the ticket and made it happen. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Except …

Selfishly, I would. Love does that to you in the end. Makes you selfish. And then true love does the impossible and makes you unselfish. For the True Lover is reflected in our separation. For He teaches me how to love with open hands. To share you with others, like your mom and aunts and uncle and cousins — all mourning right now. They all need you. So I pray with my giving of you to spend time with them — but away from me.

Except …

You’re not gone, are you? Isabella’s way of diligently working on a problem or painting until it’s perfect. Lillian’s way of hugging me, or patting my head and telling me its ok to be sad; everyone is sad sometimes. Or Olivia’s mischievous laugh as she runs away, begging me to chase her as she twirls around the corner.

You’re in all these little moments. Your fingerprints. Your DNA. Your guiding hand. Our house and children sing of your presence.

So I am not without you in whole. For as creation can’t help but sing its creator. Our daughters can’t help but mirror their mother.

So I laugh.

I cry.

I show them an art video on YouTube.

Eat a turkey stick.

Pick up all the toys, wash the dishes, and vacuum.

Not because that’s me, but because it’s you.

For what is 2200 miles in light of 11 years of marriage? We have many more to go, and these 2 weeks won’t be but a blink.

So I’m glad and sad. Both/And.

And that’s ok.

Love Your Husband

I Must

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote a line I love. Speaking on whether it’s worth the time to pursue writing …

I feel that sums up much of life in many areas.

That is the difference between a calling and a vocation.

And what you answer “I Must” to will make all the difference.

You can say yes to many things. But you only have so much time. So where your time and efforts go will show your loves.

Choose wisely.

If you want my advice — start with Jesus. He’s the ultimate foundation. The cornerstone to build on. Then go up. My list goes like this:

I Must … wear the Imago Dei

I Must … bear Jesus’ name

I Must … love my wife

I Must … love my kids

That’s it.

Four truths from which everything else stands.

There is much else I have found calling in. Creatively, I echo Rainer

I Must … write

Even if I write for an audience of one.

But if I lost both of my hands, my foundation wouldn’t blow away.

For with nothing else I can still reflect my Creator, seek my Savior, cherish my wife, and shepherd my children.

I Must … love.

Love Is …

… looking for a Scooby-Doo book in a thunderstorm

… changing the dirtiest diaper

… comforting your 6-year-old without “a lesson to be learned here”

… setting up and tearing down the campsite

… forgiving before they ask

… choosing the same person day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year

… taking care of hidden details

… letting them sleep in

… showing up no matter what

… listening to a 2-year-old’s incoherent sad story

… taking care of your health

… buying extra cups of coffee

… letting your 4-year-old sleep in your bed

… showing up in ordinary ways

… swimming in the ocean with all your clothes on

cause sometimes love doesn’t have to make sense for us to show it.

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If you had told me back in August of 2006 that I would be living in NC when I turned 34, I would not have been surprised.

If you had told me back in August of 2016 that I would be living in NC again in 2026, I would have laughed politely to myself and explained — that ain’t happening.

Yet here I am …

August of 2026. Living in NC. Owning a house. Pastoring a church.

What …

It is honestly wild to be here.

The Lord has a sense of humor is all I’ll say.

So much has changed here in Greensboro, NC since I was driving around in high school days, just a pop-punk blond afro kid in white skinny jeans.

(those things were t-i-g-h-t, much too tight)

But the other day my wife sent me on an errand after the kids were down but not asleep yet, and my phone was being used to play them a podcast, so I left — with no phone.

I was immediately back in the summers of being 16 and 17. Summer nights in NC are my favorite: muggy, but the humidity has cooled down enough for it to be comfortable, not soaking you through. The perfect time to roll down windows.

We live 6 mins from where I grew up (which is where my parents still live), so taking drives into the city means I’m getting on familiar roads rather quick. All the sudden I was on my old roads, windows down, radio on playing the same songs I listened to with my dad (98.7 SIMON — WE PLAY EVERYTHING), and it was such a simple moment for me. So much of the city is the same but different; same buildings with new names and owners, High Point Rd is now Gate City Blvd, there is a Cook Out where one should be but it’s a new one (they tore down the old broken one that my college experienced in all its Cook Out 1am glory), at least the Krispy Kreme is the same.

I can get anywhere in the city with no phone but for the life of me I don’t know if I could tell you how to get there with street names. It’s always a “you know where that place is right? It's over in Battleground, near where McKays used to be.” or “Just go downtown past the park, if you’ve hit Natty Greens, then you went too far, it's near Cheesecakes by Alex.”

It’s weird taking a 10 yr hiatus from your hometown and then ending up back here and raising your kids.

And we were never supposed to be here — we should be halfway around the world, literally.

But the Lord chuckles as he takes our hand and guides us into our next steps. Like me directing my kids in cleaning up the house, knowing the next 2 or 3 steps ahead while they’re stuck focused on the immediate present, he knows where we will be and why.

Yet, I am so amazed by how well he knows me, how he knows my family. He has us where we need to be; it’s not perfect or the only place we could live (I still get sad thinking of how my kids are not living where their mom is from in Colombia), but for right now it really is where we need to be.

The Lord is faithful and sustains you wherever you are, I firmly believe that, but sometimes he does mysterious things — like derail a 8 yr plan to move to Central Asia — and he doesn’t tell you why. But as you watch your beautiful daughters grow up, a question sneaks in:

Does God love your girls enough that he would change the entire direction of your family solely to love them better into his kingdom?

I’m still sitting with the theological implications of that one, and I can’t give you the 1-2-3 reasons why the answer is “yes” or “no” but I do know he has done so many things for me personally that show his love in my heart of hearts that I fully believe he directs me, my wife, and my family as a unit.

He just did it this past month for me. He told me “wait, wait, wait” on a job for months and months and months and then planted me in a role I could not have dreamed to work out for myself — because he’s not just a faithful Father but a good one too. He doesn’t just want to give you the bare minimum but what is good and true and beautiful.

He saw a kid cruising around Greensboro, NC, headed to the Mall to Hot Topic to buy yet another A Day To Remember or Relient K or Blink-182 graphic tee and then eat at Sakura Express before going to the pool and said, “he’ll do very well; I’ll plant him in a church just a stone’s throw away from this very mall.” (spoilers).

He saw me.

I don’t have a blond afro anymore (I cut it all off for college and the curls never came back, straight as a stick now).

I don’t have my jeep, but I still play pop-punk and metal out the open windows riding these the summer streets.

I don’t wonder and worry if I’ll ever get married, but I am shocked that my beautiful wife is from a whole other country and her heart language is Spanish.

I don’t go to the Four Seasons Mall anymore, but I pastor a church where I can see it from the stoop.

Same city, different view.

Same city, different me.

Same city, same God, same me.

He knew it all along, so I guess the joke is on me. But I laugh along with with my Father. Cause he is smiling at me as I drive around the same-but-different city as the same-but-different me.

So here is to turning 34 soon.

God, you took me through 33 years. Here’s to 33 more.

out the window

As I drive the wind drifts in,

the divide between past and present

has never been more thin.

.

The sun sets over familiar sights

as I come back to a different home

to finish a different day into the night.

.

You are the same God above

that I cried to on a mountain top

asking to be shown your bright love.

.

So as I drive the wind drifts by

reminding me of truths old and stable

of faithful times long gone by.

.

How doubts in my head

that worried me so much for so long

were lies, full of dread.

.

And yet, they’re out the window

with the wind flying them as far as

the east and west winds blow.

.

You are the same today,

and yesterday, and forever, in fact

and truth in every way.

.

So I also look out the window

as I sit at this stop light red, to yellow,

to green, and I go.

.

And as I drive the wind beside

me whispers your love in memories

that deep within reside.

.

amen.

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I was recently visiting the lake with my family, passing a week in the quiet and chaos of a much-needed break from normal rhythms. There have been many changes recently, and sometimes you need space to get away to digest what they mean in your life. You could call it a vacation … but I still worked most days, so I’m calling it a trip. Either way, it broke up our normal rhythms at home for new ones we established for a week, and then left at the lake house, we might pick them back up again if we go back next week, otherwise they will stay there waiting for whenever we can make it again.

This lake house is a special place. It’s been in my family’s name since the late 80s, when my Grandparents got it, and now the calendar is filled with summer plans of not just their son and daughters, but also of grandkids and great-grandkids. All of my cousins enjoy their time just as we did, and everyone has their own rhythms. You can see them when you read the physical log on a calendar my grandma has hanging up in the kitchen.

There is a lot of my history here. Every nook and corner has memories. Memories of times with my parents and siblings, with my cousins, with my friends (high school all the way to current friends), with church groups, with in-laws, and of course — now with my little family.

My kids call it “the blue house” (cause it’s blue — shocking, I know) and they love it. I honestly get a little blown away when I see them in it. I was here when I was their age, so was the golf cart, which you now have to charge every night, or it skips trying to “little engine that could” its way up the hill. The poor thing. It’s on its last legs.

It was a little surreal playing with them in the lake; the dock is new this year, the old one finally died on us. But the view is the same. Same view of water and a little “beach” across the cove. They jump off into the same lake that I jumped into. Except they’re listening to Shakira sing World Cup songs and the songs of now-Christian Daddy Yankee (seriously, he’s a true Jesus follower, I don’t know why this isn’t a bigger deal to people. Go look up his new stuff) in addition to Kokomo. Which, frankly, the first two are much more danceable if we’re being honest.

I watched my 5-year-old swimming away from me, and I was lightning struck with a thought — that’s my daughter.

Now this might seem dumb. She’s 5 after all. We’ve been together for a while. But for some reason, I saw her this past trip in such a way I never had. My own little girl, full of fun and her own defiant will, laughing and playing and begging me to jump in one more time, and I realized I have a little girl who is learning to live her own life. She’s not a toddler anymore. She invents her own games. She gets upset when her plans don’t work. She gets anxious with storms or sketchy golf carts (valid).

And she’s mine. She’s my little girl.

I’m her dad.

Now this trip also showed me the dad life. On previous trips we’ve taken to places I haven’t been the “main dad”, you get it if you’ve vacationed with a dad before. They’re setting everything up, prepping things, getting things squared away, etc etc, and once they finally sit down to drink that coffee, it’s time for the kids to run up and ask them to jump in, and then the playing starts. That’s always been my dad’s role — but this trip it was mine.

I’ve never been more grateful for my dad than in that moment I realized truly all he’s always done, all he still does as PawPaw for my girls.

As I sit and write this, it’s the last night, and I’m taking a break from running through the mental checklist of tomorrow’s packing-up routine.

But something earlier today has me thinking. I was cleaning up the dock, the family had all gone up to get ready for naps and snacks, and it started to rain. This wasn’t really a problem. I was in my swim trunks and had no phone or wallet on me, so I didn’t care about myself. But it meant all the stuff got wet, the tent, the towels, the chairs, etc and I would have to wait to dry them. So I packed up what I could and put it on the golf cart (again, a questionable idea), and then I stood on the dock.

I stood out in the rain, looking at the same lake that was different. The same view, but different water. The same location, but a different time. The same me, but a different me.

I had a number of worries running through my head, usually I do when I’m alone with my thoughts. But as I felt the rain — I heard the Lord: “Zack, haven’t I always provided? Then why worry?”

And I felt cleansed a bit. Cleansed from my worry, washed away from the future but the rain of the present.

“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

So I told the Lord he had a deal, I would enjoy this afternoon of rain falling on my face and the lake’s calm rippling and splashing with fresh, renewing waters.

And I would trust him to provide. He provided when I was 5 and asking my dad to swim in this lake, when I had no idea of the worries and woes of mom and dad. He is providing now when my 5-year-old is asking me to jump in, and I am worrying, wondering, and wishing about the future. But for now, it is enough to pretend to fall off this float when “she makes me fall.”

Who knows, one day maybe she’ll do the same for her kid.

And the Lord will provide then, too.

He always does.

Fresh Rain

as I feel the drops drip down my cheek

a smile spreads on my freshwater lips

the worries swirl down the drain of my mind

they’ll be back I’m sure but in their proper time

.

as I see the ripples spread across the water

the plip plops of the clouds crying in joy

their creator’s name in every single drop

for they let the rain fall in its proper time

.

as I watch the ripples waving to me

moving out like tree rings on the water

telling tales of time lost to me

but never wasted in any single way

.

as I wait, wonder, wish, and worry

the rain soaks my hair and my heart

my mind thunders with doubts of stability

my brain awash and about to drown

.

as I stand in the rain I feel the pain

of years I won’t get back

but smile at the joy of possibilities

that live in the years to come

.

as I stand in the rain I feel the joy

of my child’s smile mid-leap

as she giggles bubbling, bobbing to the surface

and begs for just one more min of my time

.

as I stand in the rain I feel you

I see you in the clouds

looking down of me at 33

the same you did when I was 5

.

as I stand in the rain I know it’s going to be ok

as I stand in the rain I know I’ll be ok

as I stand in the rain you stand with me

as I stand in the rain I feel you next to me

so I stand smiling in the rain

with you

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Black Bean Pizza

• Preheat the oven to 350 — put the pizza crust in the oven while it preheats

• Once preheated, take the crust out. Add a thin layer of ranch, then the beans (after rinsing them), then cheese — covering all over until there are no black beans or crust showing

• Bake for 13-16 mins

• Take out, cut into 8ths, cover with shredded lettuce on top

This specific recipe comes from a dear friend and a precious member of our church body. It is her favorite type of pizza, and she was so excited to share this recipe and experience with us when she and her mom came to eat dinner with us. It has very specific instructions to it, very specific ingredients and brands to buy, and very specific ordering of all those things.

It was a blast of an evening, and we had such fun learning a new favorite food. As they were leaving, the daughter turned to us and said, “Thank you so much, I know this is more than a normal style of pizza,” and I was, of course, responding, “Oh, it’s no problem! “ and “We’re glad to make it special!” etc etc, which is great BUT … as is often the case, the Holy Spirit started tickling my brain.

How come it’s so easy to do all these things someone you don’t know as well but it’s so hard for you to do ____ for your kids? (you can fill in the blank on whatever comes to mind)

And it can so often be true.

A lot of my giftings revolve around Pastoral or Service-oriented things and situations, so I enjoy serving behind the scenes or sitting with people one-on-one. The irony is that if I expend all of my energies with strangers, ministry partners, congregants, or even friends, then I come home and am left drained — and those close to me get the leftovers.

Rather than my most loved people (for me — my wife and kids, for others, it could be extended family, intimate friends, parents, etc), getting the best of me, I find they get the dregs. Instead of me automatically responding to them in love, patience, accommodation, gentleness, service, or kindness, they often receive my tiredness, snippiness, irritability, bitterness, or frustration.

Now obviously those other people and area need to receive those emotions and fruit of the spirit from me as well, but I just can’t help but get stuck on that thought — what is my default reaction? Because that is what most usually comes out with my family.

And I’ve realized an important truth — I need time with God.

Now this seems obvious, especially to a '90s kid, I mean “read your bible and pray every day and you’ll grow, grow, grow,” right? Maybe …

More than just intake, I have found I need silence, stillness, and solitude to recoup energies and to maintain my formation into the image of Jesus.

I crave contemplation, still and silent rooms, walking in the woods alone, and coffee cooling on the ledge as I’m lost in a book. I love to Retreat with the Spirit to seek Jesus. It’s not a hard ask for me.

I love to Retreat …

Recently, I was able to go to one of my favorite places — St Francis Springs Prayer Retreat Center. This is my go-to space when I need time to reflect, especially in a time of transition and/or turmoil, which is exactly where I find myself now.

Transition isn’t always bad — this past week I finished my last presentation for my Master’s! — but transition almost always brings discomfort.

Transition is not where people like to live. Just ask any refugee, who, on average, has to live in tents in refugee camps for at least 10 years before finding their names on the list to head to a new country where they can attempt to put down new roots.

This is why most people hate moving. We’re excited to go to a new place, but the in-between moments are not fun — we can’t find anything, everything is in boxes, and what if the sale of the house falls through?

Transition brings a lack of rootedness. It brings questions. It brings those prayers as we find in the Psalms. We don’t always recognize this or take time and make space to do so. But transition is worth meditating on because, like everything in life, it forms us. If we’re intentional about giving it to God, then he can use it to form us into Jesus’ image.

Just ask Jesus, he spent all night retreating and sweating massive drops of blood before the climax of his earthly story came (Luke 22). He spent time asking God questions and surrendering to his will. He spent time in the dark just like we do. So we have a High Priest who knows our sleepless nights of wondering and wandering and weeping (Hebrews 4.)

He Retreated into God’s presence …

Now, while there is much merit in contemplation in isolation, and there are many examples of this in Jesus' own life, with his retreating to the desert to pray (Mark 1:35, Luke 5:16, 6:12, Matthew 14:13, 14:23, and more) this was not the end goal for Jesus.

This was all to serve the coming back into the community to glorify the Lord in action. Jesus did not retreat permanently into the wilderness. He went to his own people to seek, to save, to serve the vulnerable, and even to enter into the foreigner's life, as is seen with his engagement with the woman at the well (John 4). He was one of embodied, engaged presence, not of stoic, contemplative retreat. This is the danger found in disengagement if we let it be the end goal or the primary space to seek holiness.

Humans are meant for community.

Holiness is meant to be found in community.

How can one know if one is further in their love for God without the measuring stick of loving others?

In the withdrawal from the community for the sake of long-term contemplation, there is no communal pursuit to be engaged with. This is the defining problem with a life that centers solely on private faith to be first present in order to better the world around the individual or to join in the church in worship rather than one whose holiness is strengthened by finding a communal calling to holiness centered in the Body of Christ. There very much needs to be personal faith, but it’s not private.

Without community in faith to take our perspective off of our own self as the center in the formational relationship and pursuit of holiness, we are limited in our growth and sanctification. Both are needed, but there is a clear gain to positioning them in the proper perspective that personal holiness is found within community, not before it.

We can Retreat … but all for the sake of coming back stronger to love others. If I find myself drained and I go off to Retreat with the Lord, it is not strictly for my own formation alone but rather to be refilled to come back stronger into Community. It is for my family’s sake, for my children’s sake, for my wife’s sake, for my church’s sake …

Jesus Retreated …

We Retreat …

… To Return.

This is the point.

We Retreat into God’s bosom for comfort, for answers, for a quiet space all so that he can send us right back into the community we come from to show his love. He doesn’t even promise us the answers to our questions; he only promises himself.

But yet,

He is enough

He always will be

I walk on the edge of a razor, in the hands of a complicated Savior, harmonize with the earth below me

I sing your glory

I wish you were a little safer, you don’t taste like an eucerist wafer, you’re all bloody like a blood red steak, you’re just more than I can take

I sing glory with no answer to the question, I sing glory like an angitated freshman

I don’t care if you show up or ignore me

I sing your glory

All I can do now is believe

All I can is exalt you

“Sing Your Glory”

He is both our quiet strength in the Retreat and the strength in our hands and feet on the Return. He will give us the quiet strength to do the daily struggle of loving well at all times. To love our neighbor as ourselves and thereby show our love for our God.

He won’t drop us.

He is the Alpha.

He is the Omega.

He is the Beginning.

He is the author of our Saga.

He is the Gentle & Lowly.

He is the Shepherd of the Sheep.

He is the King of Kings.

He is the keeper of our sleep.

He is.

How could we not come back refreshed to love after being in the presence of Love itself?

We might not get all of our answers, but we can exalt him and walk back into our lives ready to do his will.

We Retreat …

… to Return.

So that our default reactions are to love others.

Maybe you are in a moment of needing some Retreat. I pray the Lord gives you some. How do we make space for this reflection? We do what Jesus did and get away with God.

This can be something huge — like a 24-hour silent retreat — or it can be small and chaotic — like Susanna Wesley, mother of John and Charles Wesley, who allegedly would throw her apron over her head to signal to her many kids that mom was seeking time before God.

Ideally, Retreating means a time of silence & solitude, but it doesn’t have to be fancy; it just needs to be intentional.

It could be at the foot of a tree in a city park.

It could be on the stoop of a church.

It could be in a friend’s house, in a spare room that you don’t have at home.

It could be in a car in a Walmart parking lot.

As long as it is intentionally seeking God’s face.

And then we take a deep breath and go back into community to love those around us. Especially those closest to us. Especially those God has called us to love deeply.

We Retreat …

… to Return.

May God grant you space to be refilled this week.

As The Deer

As the deer sits in the cool shade

So do I long to rest in you

As the deer snuggles and settles

So do I long to release this tension

As the deer pants in the fading light

So my breath comes in panic quickness

As the deer seems to understand

So do I long to know your rest

As the deer pants for you

So do I long for your presence

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CONTROL

A word I heard over and over as I sat there in the hospital room with our new baby and my post-delivery wife. From doctors, nurses, and lactation consultants, it was subtly there in the whole medical system — a controlled environment.

Even the illusion was present in the wide and varied food choices from the catering menu, and yet …

I felt none, not an ounce of control.

I could not birth, feed, or control really anything about my baby, and honestly, neither could they. I think back to our “picture-perfect” first pregnancy that turned into a nightmare so fast as we delivered our baby over to the emergency care of a helicopter airlift to the state hospital NICU. But, just like the sitcom detective playing along with the gag in the Golden Girls rerun I watched in the waiting room, I’ll let the doctors believe it is true. I do believe they do everything they can.

I trusted them fully.

We actually had one of the best nursing teams to date for a delivery, particularly the one who first attended us.

But I trust them …

Only because I trust Him.

Having had one NICU baby is enough to know how quickly control slides to out-of-control.

And yet, God never is.

Out of control, that is.

My faithful God.

So in this season, I am reminded and relearning.

Life is never out of control for me; I was just never in control to begin with.

Thank you, Lord, for my blessed new son.

Thank you for being in control — always.

1st born boy — a haiku

I sit in the sun

After a long, cold, dark night

My wife feeds our son

Gabriel’s Song

“But don’t worry, with this

we are in complete control”

The nurse assures to the bright choir

of machines prepared to welcome a soul.

How tame we try to bring this to bear,

this wild time of vibrant life a flame.

This vibrant, bloody, loud affair.

How beautiful we to make this room,

with equal chance a nursery be

or in despair become a tomb.

“but don’t worry, with this we

are in complete control.” Indeed,

I worry and fret and beg

and pray and watch and plead.

For though the chances are quite slim,

the chance of death, a zero is not,

and so I raise my prayer to Him,

my baby’s Master Maker King.

For in He alone is control complete.

The one for whom the Angel’s sing.

Hark! I now hear my son’s praise rising too …

Naps — a haiku

The rain on the glass

a natural lullaby

as mom and son sleep

Hidden In Love

Your tiny hand reaches up

As you cry out for shelter

As you seek to find rest

You have no idea the world turns

You have no idea the woes of life

As you feed at mama’s breast

—

Mortgages, sickness, & bills stacked up

Jobs ending with no new options

And yet — on and on you sleep

Your parents worry, fret, & wonder

What will come through even next month?

Yet you rest in green pastures as his sheep

—

Oh! How I long to rest as you

Oh how, my son, I long for your faith

How you lean totally on your mother

I long to lean and rest as you do

I long to trust and sleep so deep

And rest in the arms of the Father

—

I look down at your slack-jaw smile

Your little cheeks breathing so soft

Your faith as small, frail, and pure as a dove

I think of all my fears, worries, & pain

And how I struggle for control and stability

While you, my son, remind me I’m hidden in love1

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These reflections came out of a sermon I was sitting under from a mentor/leader in my life. I’m drawn to reflections on the remaking, remodeling, reforming, reimaging, and restorying of our lives by our Creator Redeemer King, and these spin out some themes about fighting against the lies we can be told, or we tell ourselves, and the truth about how the Father looks at us as he is holding and shaping us.

If this is an encouragement to you at this time, then I am so glad. I pray it is a blessing on your day in Jesus’ name.

the potter’s love

I sit in a heap. Broken

pottery to be mended. Stained

glass indeed but not with colors

worth shining light through.

.

Your rough callus hands are

so gentle as they caress my

sharp edges. Not caring

for the nicks and cuts that

cover your hands from our

interactions. For these,

you say, are simple additions

to your scarred hands, feet, and side.

.

Suddenly, this blinding light

is healing as it is revealing

your loving grace-filled redemption

in turning me into a Kintsugi piece.

the artist’s centerpiece

A cracked mirror still reflects.

Yet you might feel that you're collecting

dust sitting on the shelf of

the Secondhand Store.

and yet …

Mankind’s Human trash is

Creator God’s Divine treasure.

For God, there are no leftovers,

only clay to be used and prized

for his creation of a centerpiece,

a masterpiece,

a family heirloom to be guarded and displayed forever.

at the table with the Father

I bring my arts and crafts

project. The Lord claps and

exclaims like Van Gogh just

dropped off a new addition.

He drops what he’s doing

and makes space on the fridge.

He squeezes it in next to

Monet paintings and Shakespeare poems.

He gives me a hug and tells

me how proud he is and then

takes me back to the kitchen

table to instruct me

in his ways so that next time

I can be closer to the mark

of his creative beauty. For

it is in his presence and care

that we become more fair.

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My life has changed forever.

That’s not hyperbolic.

I’ve been a Girl Dad my entire 5 years of parenthood, and I’ve loved every minute of it. I am, of course, extremely excited to welcome our first son, our fourth child to be born, into this world, but it is an excitement of the unknown. I know more of what to expect from having another girl and the tenderness of what I would receive and give. The way she would look at me at age 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. The questions she would ask. The screaming she would utter in outrage or sadness. The way she would say “dada” with her sisters. The kisses and the hugs and the tender, shy glances she would give when I tell her she looks pretty.

What will it be like to be the Father of my Son? How will he see me? How will I model manhood for him? Will I be his idol? His failure? Eventually, a mix of both, I guess. I guess time will tell … for now I’ll write a poem-etic (can that be a word?) letter to myself … I seem to write a lot of those lately. Not letters, but poems. Really, that’s out of exhaustion more than anything. I’ve just not had mental space for much else. I have many, many drafts of other, more long-form things I want to write, and I’m sure I’ll get to them, but it’s been a difficult season of juggling a lot of plates, balls, and at times, chainsaws, in the air.

I was almost going to apologize for it, but I’ve rather come to like this side of me, so I think I’ll just say ‘it is what it is’ and ‘thank you for reading’. I was reading Rainer Maria Rilke the other day, and he says in Letter 1 of Letters To A Young Poet:

With nothing can one approach a work of art so little as with critical words … more inexpressible than all else are works of art, mysterious existences, the life of which, while ours passes away, endures. … You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before. … I beg you give up all that. You are looking outward. … There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether is is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all — ask yourself in the stillest hour of the night: must I write?

To put it another way, from another Zach:

I create from the belief that if my work has an inner resonance for me, that it’s more likely to find a resonance with you, too. —

I have decided ‘I must’. So I will write as I can.

Dear Father-of-a-Son,

You have made it to this point. You have three beautiful daughters and now a handsome, perfect son. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. You’ll still love your girls. You’ll love this boy anew. You’ll kiss your wife and say, “That came from us,” the same as 3 times prior.

Don’t freak out too much. Mary raised a literal perfect son, and he turned out alright despite his imperfect mom and dad.

Just keep going day to day and learn what he likes. What does he dream of? What makes him giggle? What makes him sad? How does he look at you? At his mama? At his sissys? Y cuando él habla español, ¿cómo suena a tus oídos?

But don’t worry. You turned out alright cause of your parents and their prayers, so pray a lot and keep working to imitate Jesus.

Will you lose the title “Girl Dad”? Kind of? But not really.

You’ll always be the dad created for those girls. The one who held Isabella all through the night, feeding her drop by drop when she couldn’t eat on her own. The one she asks for poems and stories from.

The one who cleaned up Lillian’s vomit when she was whimpering in confusion. The one whose beard she strokes at night and says, “I’m going to give you a Spa for your beard.”

The one Olivia rests her head on when she’s tired and doesn’t want to go to bed. The one she giggles to and says, “Dada silly.”

You’ll always be a Girl Dad. But now you have a boy, and he needs you, too. It will look different. It will look the same. And that is ok. Just as the Father loves us all differently, every kid is different and needs a unique love from the same parent who loves their siblings.

I know you’re tired of people asking, “Are you so glad you finally got a boy?” Like you’ve finally won the lottery. Like the little giggly girly voices are less than. They don’t mean that, of course, but words have weight no matter the speaker’s intentions. So you choose to say “Yes, I’m very excited to have a new life in our home and, of course, I’m excited to have a boy, but I’m also nervous, and a little scared … plus we had the miscarriage, so I feel guilty? It’s a lot of feelings to be honest.” At which point, close friends lean in, and those there for chit-chat check out. That’s ok, your Father hears your heart.

Just remember this — he was created for you as a son, and you were created for him as father. Now go enjoy this new chapter. Here is a haiku to send you off:

The Father and Son

Hand in hand walking this road

til Life’s warm twilight

— The Girl-Dad-who-won’t-be-gone

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Not going to lie …

This week has been a “hard ministry week,” as one of my fellow Pastors puts it, and it is only Weds …

It makes perfect sense, Spiritual Warfare wise, that the same week I’m preaching on Community and the need for us as a Church, local and global, to be a place that is Intentional, a place that is Incarnational, a place that is Invitational, a place that is Interdependent (don’t laugh, it’s not a sermon without alliteration) that someone comes who is inbetween a pile of rocks and hard place.

Will you leave too? They ask.

I had to sit there with no answers. Everything I tried was useless. Not for lack of trying, that’s just how it is. Literally all I had to offer was presence and prayer. I give promises to be there as much as I always have been and to be honest and open about what I can and can’t do. I say “overpromising never helps anyone, I’ll always try and be honest,” but to be frank — I felt so helpless.

We pray, I pray, they pray. I promise to pray more and follow up on one or two things, and then, there they go … to who knows where, and I’m left with nothing but questions for the Lord.

I realize this is a very vague situation to describe. But unfortunately, I’m only too sure many can relate to this feeling. Live long enough, pray enough, trust the Lord enough, and you eventually get into situations where you have no “feelings” helping out with your faith.

You believe.

You trust.

God is a faithful God.

He is slow to anger.

Exodus tells me so.

I can say anything to him.

Psalms tells me so.

I can trust the Lord in the valleys of the shadow of death.

The Bible tells me so.

So why do I not feel it?

Why do you feel so far?

Why is my friend falling off the cliff?

Why is my family in uncertainty?

Why did Hope die?

Why do I go home to warmth, food, and family, and others don’t?

Why Lord?

Why?

How long, Lord? (Psalm 13)

Will you forget me forever?

One of my favorite styles of Psalms as I age is the Psalms of Lament. Not for fun reasons, it’s in the name after all, but for all the pain I see and have to pass the Lord before my knees buckle and my back breaks from trying to shoulder it all.

How long will you hide your face from me?

I sit there on a bench, in the sun, feeling like a terrible Pastor. How can I lead, guide, comfort, encourage, or exhort if I’m the one with the questions?

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?

How long with the Devil and this World beat and bruise my little portion of your body that I’m supposed to steward in your name? How many defeats and demons must come? Where is your delivery for them?

How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, Lord my God. Give me light to my eye, or I will sleep in death, and my enemy will say “I have overcome him,” and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

And yet …

… you have saved me, Lord. Without you, I know I would not be alive. Without you, this world of chaos is damningly dark, and I would be lost. Your Light breaks through. You hold my Hope. Please hold me too. Please hold them too.

But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.

Lord, you have been good, be good to me again. Be good to the hurting again, for your namesake.

So is this it then? Are we out of options? I say

Yes…but thank you for your words, for your presence, for you and your wife being there. It doesn’t fix it. But I appreciate it. They say

… you’re welcome … I just wish I could do more … I say.

They half-smile. Then they walk away … and I watch.

Sometimes all we have to offer is presence, all we have is ourselves. We can’t find the right resource, the solution, the path forward, and we want to scream at the injustice of someone being thrown into the dark.

So we pray.

We pray, try to sleep, and wake up the next day to show up again.

Because sometimes the best we can do is not disappear. The best we can do is show up with a hot meal and a listening ear. Sometimes we feel small and terribly helpless, but we show up again to face toward our friend in need and sit in the ashes with them.

And maybe that can be enough …

Maybe sometimes that’s the best we can do in Jesus’ name.

A song of lament:

Lord, you have promised so much

Literally just by having certain names and titles

But Lord, in this time I feel the crunch

of more frowns than I have smiles

I’m down in the mud and hear the devil laugh

as I try and lift my brother out of the trench

as I try and guide my sister to the Path

it’s like pulling a car with a hand wench

it feels like a fruitless effort

it feels like pointless nonsense

I feel my body contort

under the strain of pain this dense

but you promised and I believe

Lord help my unbelief

but you promise and don’t deceive

Lord help my unbelief

You parted rivers and red seas

You provided water out of rocks

You brought giants to their knees

You gave that unhoused lady a pair of socks

You paid that bill out of thin air

You saved my firstborn from the grave

You met me in my doubt and fear

Your name has always been to save

So Lord I lay down in front of your throne

with my cares and burdens large

Lord these days my faith do hone

but I know you’re still in charge

“Great is thy faithfulness oh God my Father

There is no shadow of turning with thee”

so I will walk out on the water

because you, Lord, have been good to me

If this struck a chord with you, 1) I’m sorry, and 2) I hope it was a call to know you’re not alone. We care for people deeply, and sometimes that means experiencing pain with them that we can’t relieve or shield. But God is good, I believe that firmly. So I applaud you for showing up for those you love. Keep doing it. It doesn’t get easier, but it is seen. Hopefully by those you love, but definitely by your Heavenly Father.

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My dear friend Vania asked me to write a poem for a Good Friday worship/art display that our artist collective (Make Good Art) was putting on, and Parts I, II, and III are what came out. I came back to them over Holy Saturday and Resurrection Sunday of Holy Week and wrote Part IV and V (and tweaked the first three Parts.) I hope this has stirred your heart a little. I wrote in a sort of Lectio Divina style to invite meditation through imagination. The series was called “Last Words,” and I pulled most of my Scripture inspiration from the Gospel of Matthew. I would highly encourage you to go read it in full if you never have.

I had a little help on the last Stanza from two of the cutest girls in the world. I pray this was as much a blessing to you to read/hear as it was for me to write. May the Lord bless and keep you.

Part I

Can you picture it?

The room decked out in colors and styles

Aromas wafting of foods spiced rich and mild

.

Can you picture it?

The servant King, whom we should all live to please

Is down on the floor on his hands and knees

.

Can you picture it?

12 men and their King sit down to a feast

But they argue about who is best and who is least

.

Can you picture it?

A snake-filler heart has wormed its way in

Already committed to a road marked by sin

.

Can you picture it?

The Life-Giver takes bread in both hands

Breaks it apart like the body of the Son of Man

.

Can you picture it?

The Well of the Living Water that never runs dry

Pours out his bloody wine so that we might not die

.

Can you picture it?

His last words a reminder of a time to come

When a reunion will happen in the Father’s Kingdom

Part II

Can you picture it?

Approaching the garden in the dead of night

When most all others are turning out the light

.

Can you picture it?

The trees and leaves lean in to see their maker

The King who leads with peace, just love, and prayer

.

Can you picture it?

The atmosphere set like a familiar mystery

The air wrapped thick in a fog-filled reality

.

Can you picture it?

The Savior goes on to pray and to plead

That the Father might yet still intercede

.

Can you picture it?

While the Master’s skin red blood does weep

His disciples are collapsed in a deep, dark sleep

.

Can you picture it?

Shadows of men march beneath torches that spark and hiss

Led by a betrayer who will lie with a kiss

.

Can you picture it?

His last words allow for his arrest, to be killed

In order that prophetic words may then be fulfilled

Part III

Can you picture it?

The crowd seems sad, confused, afraid

Unaware of a deep, dark plan being laid

.

Can you picture it?

Lies are hurled making his friends sob

whipping the crowd into a full-blown mob

.

Can you picture it?

A scene that moments ago was still

In outrage, they cry out “KILL KILL KILL”

.

Can you picture it?

The Rabbi who healed all their wounds without lack

Is now naked, bruised, being beaten blue and black

.

Can you picture it?

The long road filled with people chock-full

As he wanders, laid heavy to the place of the Skull

.

Can you picture it?

The terror of the dark swallowing up the sky

To showcase the Lamb King lifted on high

.

Can you picture it?

His last words shouted out so that all may hear it

“It is finished,” he cries, and then commits his spirit

Part IV

Can you picture it?

A clean, fresh, unused family tomb

The reverse welcome into the Earth’s dark womb

.

Can you picture it?

Friends and family struggle to celebrate Shabbat

Consumed with sorrow for the Lamb without spot

.

Can you picture it?

A day reserved for such blessed rest

has put every Follower’s faith to the test

.

Can you picture it?

His mother, with confused, angry tears in her eyes

Turns her treasure-filled heart upward to the skies

.

Can you picture it?

The murderers with hearts soaked in deep fear

Station guards on a dead man lest he sudden reappear

.

Can you picture it?

His body wrapped in spices bold and linen pure white

Even in death, a regal King befitting his birthright

.

Can you picture it?

His last words still ring with his pure innocence

Yet inside the tomb is nought but gentle silence

Part V

Can you picture it?

The shockwaves sent throughout pitch-black night

As creation is reborn into brilliant bright light

.

Can you picture it?

The rock rolls away in humbled reverence

As the Earth itself bows down in deference

.

Can you picture it?

The Garden is alive and fruit-filled again

As the Creator crushes the deathgrip of sin

.

Can you picture it?

The fog on his breath in the cool dawn air

As he strides victorious into the crisp sun’s glare

.

Can you picture it?

Spices crash from hands into dew-drenched grass

As ancient prophecies have now come to pass

.

Can you picture it?

His friends stare with shock written over their face

While the angel expounds on a message of grace

.

Can you picture it?

His first words intimate ones, erasing all shame

He called her “Mary” — now his gentle voice calls out our name

.

Can you picture it?

There we go, dear friends. It is the end of Holy Week. May you be blessed as we enter the celebration of Eastertide!

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Tomorrow is my daughter Lili’s birthday. She is currently the middle child, and I don’t want her to ever feel forgotten. I don’t think she does, but hey, can’t hurt to write as many poems as possible to make sure!

The good news for her, and all of us, is that we have a God who never forgets us and made us on purpose. If you don’t think so, check Psalm 139 (which is most of the inspiration for this poem). So when this thought came, it was easy to find and draw from the truth of how I feel in his presence. I hope this resonanted with you, and if this is the first time anyone ever told you that you aren’t an accident — then let me say it again — you were made on purpose and were not an accident.

Joy,

a little word we crave,

will

it ever arrive to save?

Come

I’ll tell you a short tale

and

I promise to regale

you

with words beautiful and sweet.

Will

you dare to feel complete?

Know

just what is your true form

when

you have become reborn.

It

doesn’t have to take all day.

Does

your eye see the Imago Dei?

For,

that is what you are,

my

middle bright and shining star.

Love,

it’s what God formed you from,

you

were knit while in the womb.

Were

you ever to try and doubt,

always

remember what life’s about:

Made

for God, by God, to God — fact,

On

Christ’s foundation and redeeming act,

purpose

rests and hope is found.

Lili,

as one planted in true ground.

Happy birthday Lili, I’ll make sure Mama reads this to you.

Love Dad.

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We recently went through a mug purge. Yeah, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You go to sleep having a normal-person amount of mugs, and you wake up out of nowhere — swimming in mugs; they’ve taken over every cabinet, and the mason jars are on strike while the plates just mourn how they used to be so prominent.

But truly, we looked at our mugs and made the hard call: whatever fits in “this space” can stay; besides that, we have to purge. Duplicates go first, then doubles of a sort (multiple mugs from our Alma Mater, for example, till it’s just one or two), then mugs that were gifts but hold no deep sentimental value, then it gets tougher; it’s about comparing memories and stories.

Story is important. To quote quoting (a little quote-nesting for double-word-score points):

A friend of mine told me once that one of the most sacred things someone can give is their story, because no matter their pain, background, economic status, gender, success, failure, spiritual maturity, or stability in life — their story is unique to them and them alone to tell. They are Imago Dei, and God works on an individual basis with every single one of us on this planet. Personalized 1:1 care from the Creator King of the Cosmos.

So when someone shares their story, I need to listen, because God is telling his story through them.

So, back to the mugs, what story did I want to tell? I know this seems very existential for a spring cleaning topic, but you showed up, so here we are.

I think at this point we only have mugs from our marriage. I don’t have mugs or items from pre-marriage left in the cabinet, which makes it easy in some ways cause then there are always two voices giving input and voting.

So how do we decide? Well, we don’t have sprawling rules or guidelines, but neither are we Marie Kondo (although I don’t dislike her stuff, I definitely read her book when it was all the rage); we basically started retelling each mug’s story.

• The yellow smiley face mug that says “Chicago”? — That’s all those summer days of our early marriage years, taking day trips and biking around Chicago to drink coffee and sit at the Bean with no money for anything else.

  

• The Double R cafe mug I’m drinking black tea from right now? — That’s when I made my wife drive to a tiny WA town called North Bend to get some Twin Peaks Cherry Pie and a cup of “a damn fine cup of coffee” ( knows what I’m talking about). We did see a huge herd of elk as well, which was pretty cool.

  

• My favorite mug? It’s one that is my fav style with a flat top featuring some beautiful flowers. It is my favorite because when my oldest daughter was 3, we took a cross-country road trip to Dubuque, IA, in the middle of a blizzard and all the joys of driving 18 hours with a 3-year-old. I’ll never forget that trip. We got snowed into a hotel, found some pizza, went swimming in a heated hotel pool with all of our clothes on, made it through the crazy snow the next day, just to leave a couple of days later after I preached, and go home — priceless.

  

• Then there are some obvious special ones from people and places: College mugs, a Dubuque, IA mug that a friend handmade (we lived there for 10 yrs), mugs we have given each other for special days (Honeymoon, Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, birthdays, etc.), and the list goes on.

• There are some cheesy, priceless ones we will never ever get rid of that my wife’s cousin made us with pictures of us all from when she came and stayed with us for 3 months when she was like 16.

• There are even some cool, unique ones that just made the cut cause they’re fun: tin ones, handleless ones, etc.

  

See, when I drink my coffee or tea, or offer a mug to someone, I often have a piece of me to remember and share. When you ask for a drink, I let you pick out your mug (a standard rule), and then if it comes up, I’ll share with you why this was “the perfect choice”.

One of my all-time favorite mugs is one I don’t even own. It’s at my grandparents’ lake house (Nannie, I know you’re reading this, if you ever get rid of this mug, it can only be given to me, actually pause right now and just jot this in the margins of the will or something, thanks — love you) and is a 80’s pink mug with a grid on it and a splash font that says “Baltimore” — I have never been to Baltimore, but I grew up at this lake house and since going now as an adult I drink coffee there exclusively from that mug.

Memories.

Stories.

Humanity in physical items that talk if you listen.

Now, mugs might not be your thing. Maybe you have a ton of books (also guilty), or ukuleles (the Luthier across from my parents), or maybe physical items aren’t your thing, but you have stacks of photo albums you can laugh and cry over (my in-laws). But everyone has a story, even if they have nothing else. Sometimes society labels them as “useless.” Mr. Bill isn’t useless to me when he tells me about how he loves to paint and still sells his paintings downtown despite not having a stable housing situation. He honestly centered me on an early Sunday morning when I was asking, “Lord, what am I even doing?” I went to a coffee shop to pray, and God sent me Mr. Bill as the answer to my prayers for seeing humans and their stories. “Just listen to this beautiful son of mine talk about painting” was what I heard that morning. He is the Imago Dei.

So next time you get the chance, ask someone why they have so many porcelain cats or wooden ducks. Why do they have so many pictures of people from all over the world? Why do they have those rugs? Who were they before they came to this city? Why do you always have a book? A person’s little details matter. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’ll be everything, maybe it’ll just be a good reminder of why you are in that person’s presence and that God is there too.

Cause we all have a story, and it’s a privilege to sit and hear it be told.

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She calls from her crib for me to come

“Dada” is what I hear around her thumb

She giggles and chirps as I walk in and arrive

When she brings home a boy, I don’t think I’ll survive

~

My little baby girl is turning two on this bright day

She speaks her own language with so much to say

She tells us her stories and makes herself known

We would be much poorer if this wasn’t her home

~

She waddles in the room, grabbing anything in sight

She won’t put down the veggie straws without a fight

She pushes and shoves her big sisters with glee

A little bundle ball of pure ecstatic energy

~

She might not talk much at this point and time

But she makes up the difference by being a mime

She makes her point heard and known to all in the room

To not meet her demands spells out certain doom

~

But one thing I do know of my littlest little girl

She captures my heart with every spin and every twirl

She’s daddy’s little girl, and I’m her biggest fan

She makes me want to be the best version of a man

~

God help me to be the father she needs in her life

I won’t be able to shield her from doubt, death, and strife

But God, you’re the model I want to follow after

With the wisdom of Proverbs and the passion of the Psalter

~

So Lord on this birthday so grand

Please grant me this wish, I have ready at hand

Let me be a good dad to this daughter of mine

Let her grow up with your truth in her mind

~

Let me be a good dad to this beautiful little one

Let me be a model of your only precious Son

Give her a clear vision of you, the Good King

At your feet, let her voice eternally sing

~

For now, just today, as she is turning two

The only thing I really, truly want to do

Is hold her so tight for her own little sake

And sit on this chair with her to eat a little cake

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I’m constantly convinced that “this year can’t be wierder/harder/stranger than last year” and … I keep being wrong. It’s only Month 2 of 2026, but this year has already been so much like 2025 was.

A lot of good

A lot of hard

A lot of questions

A lot of trust

So

Here is a poem I (mostly) wrote at a conference for Pastors while I was in LA. It’s called “Imposter Syndrome” — Enjoy.

Lord, I ran 4 miles today

“Felt Good,” I heard my body say

Lord, I ate a fantastic smoothie

To aid in my recovery

Lord, I met an Oxford man

His name was James, and gave us airport plans

Lord, I sit with thoughts a jumble

My contemplative prayer all mumbled

This cold coffee, Lord, is bitter

As a surprise NC snow winter

And Jon Guerra sings me a song

“Don’t you worry, child,” — do I really belong?

At a conference full of Pastors

Preachers, Teachers, and Net Casters

“Be my help again,” Jon G croons

As Lord, I ask just one more boon

Give me space for joy Lord

Give me more space for joy my Lord

Imposter Sundrome I may feel

But I live for the Trumpet’s peel

I lean on the Rock of Ages firm

That keeps me whole within all harm

“Holy Holy Holy” I cry

As no tears fall from my eye

They’re welling up in my soul

As I beg to be made whole

But I know your truth you’ll show

Why? Because the Bible tells me so

I sit here like Phoebe Palmer

Knowing you are the good Father

Nothing can tell me otherwise

Your love is my eternal prize

Yes, I know your truth you’ll show

Because the Bible tells me so

I may not feel like I’m chosen

I may feel stiff and frozen

Not full of wind and fire

But you hold me as I tire

Yes, I know your truth you’ll show

Because the Bible tells me so

So while my feelings are all valid

and I may look faded and pallid

I go up to the front with Phoebe Palmer

Knowing you are the good Father

Me and Phoebe listen to Jon

Sing about the only true one

We worship, and we pray

Though we don’t know what to say

We know we can trust when we’re low

Cause the Bible tells us so

There you go, I hope you enjoyed that one. I don’t know if “enjoyed” is the right word for how I felt writing that one, but I definitely felt it pour out. May it bless you in some way or shape. It kind of felt to me a little “Psalm of lament” style, which is appropriate cause those are my most read Psalms (except Psalm 23). If you’re not familiar with Psalms of lament, they often bemoan a situation and then, at some point

, pivot to focusing on God’s strength, faithfulness, goodness, and truth outside of the Psalmist’s situation and feelings. I have found great comfort in them. I hope you might as well here — Here is a list of some if you’d like to explore them.

Psalm 3

Psalm 4

Psalm 5

Psalm 6

Psalm 7

Psalm 10

Psalm 13

Psalm 14

Psalm 22

Psalm 25

Psalm 28

Psalm 31

Psalm 32

Psalm 38

Psalm 39

Psalm 41

Psalm 42

Psalm 43

Psalm 51

Psalm 54

Psalm 55

Psalm 56

Psalm 57

Psalm 59

Psalm 61

Psalm 63

Psalm 64

Psalm 69

Psalm 70

Psalm 71

Psalm 77

Psalm 86

Psalm 88

Psalm 102

Psalm 109

Psalm 120

Psalm 130

Psalm 140

Psalm 141

Psalm 142

Psalm 143

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yesterday brought whipping winds through

clouds of whirling white that blustered and blew

yesterday was cold and dreary and dark

with nary a sunbeam to shine or to spark

yesterday was time to huddle close together

to wait out the cold and dream of warm weather


but today


today brought pleasures of snowy day treasures

of squeals and peals of laughter from giggling girls

and cries and guffaws from bright eyed mothers and fathers

the sleds were tried but the snow was all fluff

so white and powdery but not sledding stuff

it was perfect for tunnels and hideouts galore

beneath bushes and branches and in dugouts and more

the snow, so rare for a NC winter day

was more of the midwest, like IA persay

the youngest lasted a respectable time

the middle the second to abandon snowy climbs

the oldest, well she could not be dissuaded

not even with hot coco persuaded

to leave the white tracks and adventures alone

to let go her quest to build a snowy home

till finally she, even she, my bravest one

said "daddy, I think it is time to be done"

then we both bundled back into the heat

where mama and sisters were waiting to meet

us with drinks filled up to the brim with delight

and blankets to fight off that wicked frost bite

and so the day closes, the clothes all hug dry

the towels mopping floors, the boots to the side

waiting for the cheery little morning faces they'll see

when more of the snow fun is happening with glee

for while there is rare snow in NC spaces

you'll find sleds, toboggans, and red rosey faces

of children (and parents) out playing in the snow

with their faces all smiles and their hearts all a glow

For many years, my wife and I lived in Dubuque, IA, where it is not rare at all to get a good 10 inches of snow in one go. However, in Greensboro, NC, this will be one of those weeks and storms that gets remembered as “the storm of ‘26!” by … well, me, I guess, since by then I’ll be the little ‘ol grandpa at the coffee shop.

I had an entirely different post in mind for today, but travel, sickness, and snow days had a different idea.

So here is a simple reflective evening poem for a simple, beautiful day of fun.

Enjoy.

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I’d really love to know

where all these people go.


   Do they have families and/or friends

   with which to share their stories and confess their sins?


Do they have future plans

   to meet up later for dinner or drinks?

We bombed another country,

   did it make them pause and think?


“Order’s up — Pink Matcha, unsweet”

Who are these people here to meet?


   That mom coos to her brand new baby boy

   while he nibbles on his teething toy.


Do they have stories I'll ever know?

Did they see the sunrise glow?

Do they go to bed feeling human?

Do they know God has a plan?


   That man has a physical pen and notebook,

   rare and beautiful when you care to look.


When they see me what do they see?

Just another boxed-in worker freelancing?

Just another Apple computer clicking away?

Do they see any evidence of creativity?

   
   Do I see them as they are?

   Each soul a bright and shining star.

   The headphones lady with brown hair.

   The mother / daughter chatting there.


Imago Dei on full display,

'Divine Intelligence Generated'

Original as snowflakes,

Impossible to replicate.


  I'd love to know where all these people go,

  they unique as clean fresh fallen snow.

  I'd love to ask if they happen to know

  what Love looks like. Cause in this soft white glow

  of the overhead lamp light, it shows

  in the Creator's fingerprints. We seem so slow

  to understand the beauty found in this coffee shop window.

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If you have been following along with me through 2025, then you have been reading from Zackary’s Scratchpad (or “the Scratchpad” as my grandma calls it). I started in early 2025 with a prayer to the Lord to just let me write more; he answered in spades. I discovered Substack through my friend, , and decided — why not?

Why not start writing more? I was halfway through my Master’s and feeling like I wanted to produce something of substance. I’ve always been an avid reader, so why not just start this whole writing thing instead of admiring others from afar through their words?

So I set a rhythm — two posts a month; one on formation (on the 1st) and something more creative oriented (the 15th). Turns out I loved it, and I successfully kept to my goal! I had no idea what to name it, though, and ended up landing on Scratchpad, Zackary’s Scratchpad:

Scratch Pad: a pad of paper used for jotting down ideas, informal notes, preliminary writing, etc. — Dictionary.com

It seemed to fit perfectly. I didn’t have a specific direction for this. I just wanted a space to dump my thoughts in a semi-cohesive manner for anyone to read. However, the issue is that that is not the case now.

Fast forward through 2025:

Jan:

— Arrived home from Colombia to find that all Refugee immigration was halted immediately, which, since I was a Pre-Arrival Manager for a refugee resettlement agency, was pretty terrible news. My very first true post reflects my mood from that time.

— Half of my org is cut in 1 week’s time, all of my team except me is cut within the month of Jan.

Feb:

— My family is approached to join a church revitalization effort on their newly forming Pastoral Team.

— My oldest daughter (4 at the time) and I are T-boned in a car crash that totals the car and, by God’s grace, leaves us whole and unscathed

— My brother has his first child! I’m an uncle!

March:

— We officially join the Pastoral team in part-time roles at our new church. Bittersweet as we leave our amazing church.

— I’m offered a small contract role at Practicing the Way

— I’m offered a spot on a small freelance writing team

— We buy our first house in a whirlwind (while still walking on pins and needles at work with funding being cut left and right, every day/week expecting to be let go.)

June:

— We find out we are pregnant with our fourth child, and then lose our child early on in a miscarriage. I wrote a poem during this time, but it took me till Dec to be able to share it.

— My wife and I visited Portland and BibleProject to end her 2 joyful years working there from afar.

July:

— Mainly just survival through some intense emotional times for our family.

August:

— My job comes to an end, which was much longer than I could have asked for, and I thank God for it greatly.

— Fill in with part-time work and keep looking … and looking … and looking … for work.

Sept:

— Through a change in a friend/coworker’s life, I end up being offered two part-time roles that make up “full-time pay” mostly.

— I’m offered contract work with 24-7 Prayer USA

— We find out we are pregnant again (this time with our first boy!)

Oct:

— I transitioned into many part-time/contract/freelance roles and lifestyle officially as the main provision for our family

— My wife’s aunt comes to visit for 3 weeks, and her cousin comes and stays (and blesses us!) for 2 months.

— My wife becomes terribly sick in this pregnancy, unable to get out of bed.

Nov:

— Dual time of fun with our visiting cousin and tough times caring for my wife.

Dec:

— Our cousin leaves, only to be surprised by my mother-in-law coming to stay for 4 weeks!

— I’m offered another spot on another freelance writing team!

— My wife finally, after 15 weeks, turns a corner and starts to feel better (she’s completely better, praise the Lord.)

And thus we come to the present. Truth be told, 2025 had some pretty dang cool things in it, with major provisions from the Lord, but it also had some of the deepest valleys, from which I still bear scars.

None of the amazing things on that list could I have manifested or materialized for myself. Of course, I had to show up, to do my best, to try — but I didn’t bring those things to be.

None of those truly terrible and gut-wrenching experiences could I have weathered without God being my rock and my salvation. As my dear friend says in his fantastic song Kiss The Wave — “I guess I’ll learn to kiss the waves that crash me into the Rock of Ages.1”

So here we are. With me trying to figure out this whole “creatives” and “Pastoral” work life, trying to wrap up my Master’s, trying to be a Husband and a Father most of all. In the midst of it all, I have been deeply impacted by the Imago Dei — that we are all made in the beautiful image of God2. You, me, my family, your friends, our neighbors, our enemies, the houseless man on the bus, the coworker who stole your promotion, the single mom working weekend shifts while her kids play at friends’ houses so she can homeschool them during the week — all of us. But it doesn’t end there, we can also be Name Bearers of Jesus, we can be perfectly redeemed, our broken beings restored to a relationship with the God we are imaged after. I took a vow to love God with everything I have and to love my neighbor as myself, and this is the best way I know how — by remembering they are all made in God’s image.

One of the things I’ve learned from my freelance friends is that you can have a different business name without opening an official business — a “Doing Business Under” name to help yourself sort out finances, taxes, and such. Plus, it looks more professional oftentimes.

So when I sat down this year to plan for 2026, I decided I should do this, I mean, organization is good … but what to call it?

Enter Icon & Ink.

Icon: any picture, image, or other representation. — Dictionary.com (among many more specific definitions)

Ink … well this one seems a bit obvious.

I’m very privileged to work with words and people for a living in this season of life, and mostly within the Spiritual Formation & Theology realm. I wanted a name that conveyed my deepest values to anyone I worked with or wrote for, including anyone on here who takes their precious time to read my words (thank you for that). So this is it.

Welcome to Icon & Ink.

This is when you say, with Ralph from A Christmas Story, — “A crummy commercial?!”

You’re not wrong! But no, this isn’t self-promotion (well … not all the way). This is my way of keeping the main thing the main thing. It is incredibly easy when you work with people (especially as a Pastor) to become numb to the beautiful truth that everyone is uniquely created in God’s image, that underneath all the problems, joys, struggles, songs, screams, curses, and celebrations is just a person who is broken and in need of restoration.

This is my way of reminding myself and you that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. That life is worth living, and it’s worth living on purpose in Jesus’ name.

We are all crafted after a Creator who loves us dearly. So if I get to spend my time on this earth with words, exploring beauty for the Kingdom of God, then I want to do it as well as I can.

If you’ve been with me in 2025, thanks for reading Zackary’s Scratchpad.

And if this is your first post from me that you are reading …

Welcome to Icon & Ink.

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You will know them by their fruit. Do grapes come from a thorn bush or pears from thistles? Will a sick tree give good fruit or a healthy tree bad fruit? No! Healthy trees give good fruit and sick trees give bad fruit. It is the trees with bad fruit that are cut down and used to make a fire. When you see the fruit of their ways, you will know them.

Matthew 7v16-20 (First Nations Version)

Oh, be careful, little eyes, what you see,
     Oh, be careful, little ears, what you hear,
Oh, be careful, little tongue, what you say,
     Oh, be careful, little hands, what you do,
Oh, be careful, little feet, where you go,
     There’s a Father up above looking down in tender love,

Children's song

I’m used to funky coffees. The only journal that has been consistent by any stretch is my coffee journal, which I have kept since 2014. So at this point, I can label “coffee” a hobby. But this coffee took the cake. I swear to you that when I was drinking it, the smell was 100% grape soda, and since your nose does a lot of heavy lifting in our tasting of food and drink, that is also what I tasted!

It was wild to say the least.

It was disorienting in a pleasant way, and I went back the very next day to have another cup before it went out of rotation at the shop.

Now, I know, many of you will be like:

“Zackary, coffee is coffee. Get to the point, buddy. I’m more of a Conan-chocolate-chip-cookie-flavoring kind of person.”

Fair enough.

The point is, I went in expecting coffee and got grape soda. It was still coffee — it looked like coffee, was made like coffee, caffeinated like coffee — but it tasted different from what I expected.

And the only way to know was to taste it. An intimate experience of proximity to the coffee. I could look at that bag and wonder “Does it really? …”, but until I tasted it, I would never know.

I’ve been meditating a lot on what 2026 will be like, and frankly, I couldn’t tell you. I thought I knew what 2025 might hold, and I was so wrong it’s comical. But as a wise man, , said late last year:

Last year was more beautiful than I could have planned and more terrifying than I could ever have prepared for — which is why I’m glad I follow Jesus. Cause life doesn’t depend on me. If it did, I honestly don’t know if I would have made it past 18; thank you, God, for that literal mountain top moment in the woods when you asked me if I wanted to know you forreal. like For Real forreal.

So here we go: 2026.

I have a whole year of sermons to plan.

My first son (my fourth child) is due in April.

I’m going to LA at the end of the month for a conference and to FINALLY meet my dear remote coworkers.

I want to learn some coding.

I want to finish my Master’s.

I hope to write something worth forming into a book one day.

I keep promising my friend Marco I’ll get back to roasting coffee.

So many things I hope to happen … and yet … so much will happen that I can never anticipate.

So for this year, I’m focusing on two words: Fruit and Attention. I’m looking forward to exploring the conneciton of those two things this year, and if you’d like to come along for the ride in my Substack Y2, then you’ll see these themes a lot. I’ll still be posting reflective writings on the first and some form of fiction/poetry on the 15th. I’ve been loving leaning into Poetry this last year, so that’ll probably be the majority of the 15th’s postings.

But most of all, for me, I want to sit with these latest years of life I’ve lived and see if I’m a healthy tree. What does my fruit look like? What are my eyes, ears, tongue, hands, and feet looking on and beholding. For what we behold we worship and turn into. (For two fantastic books on this check out work called “You are what you love” and a beautiful book by Strahan Coleman. )

When people see me, do they see:

Love

Joy

Peace

Patience

Kindness

Goodness

Faithfulness

Gentleness

and Self-control?

Am I bearing good fruit? Fruit that matches who I claim to be: a name bearer of Jesus.

Or am I grape soda coffee — looking normal to all until the intimacy of proximity exposes what I really am like.

Lord, let it be the first in your grace.

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It’s the waiting space
The brings our minds to bear
For christmastide presents
And sunrise with a snowy glare


          It’s the waiting space
          That brings our minds to bear
          For the doctor to come
          With the news you dread to hear


                         It’s the waiting space
                         That brings our souls to bear
                         When you hope for the ‘yes’
                         But it’s the ‘no’ you expect and fear


          It’s the waiting space
          That brings our hearts to bear
          Where God comes to whisper
          “Child you are mine to hold dear”


It’s the waiting space
That brings our hearts to bear
I don’t know the future
But Immanuel, God is here


                                                                                                                   A Lament

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I wrote this poem back in June of 2025, which was the month we had our first miscarriage — our dear Baby Hope. It was a bit too raw to publish then … it invited too much public pain and acknowledgement. But miscarriages often get hidden, swept under the rug, kept secret in solitary pain.

This isn’t necessarily wrong or sinful in and of itself; it might be that those experiencing it just never feel up to sharing. But at the same time, there are so many who go through this that it is shocking it is not talked about more. I thank the Lord for my family, friends, and church who loved us through this experience … but I’m still left with lament.

So here is this poem. For myself, my wife, my daughters, my family, and for you — if you have experienced miscarriage, you are not alone, and it’s ok to still hurt … I know I do.

There are things I wish to have told you

About life beyond your room

But I’ll have to settle for secret prayers

Since you never got to bloom

—

I’ll never see you run and play

I’ll never hold your little hand

I’ll never see you end the day

I’ll never tuck you into sleepy land

—

Promises light as a feather’s touch

Blown away by the winds of life

Like dandelions on the breeze

I make wishes from prayers of strife

—

I’ll never see you run and play

I’ll never hold your little hand

I’ll never see you end the day

I’ll never tuck you into sleepy land

—

Your life a seed entombed so soon

Never given water to rise

The dirt received you eagerly

Before you even opened up your eyes

—

I’ll never see you run and play

I’ll never hold your little hand

I’ll never see you end the day

I’ll never tuck you into sleepy land

—

The saddest bit for me today

Is how much I know I missed

I’ll never hear your little giggle

So many tears I never kissed

—

I’ll never see you run and play

I’ll never hold your little hand

I’ll never see you end the day

I’ll never tuck you into sleepy land

—

But one day, I do believe

I have to believe it’s true

That I’ll wake up far away

And I’ll be standing next to you

—

I’ll never see you run and play

I’ll never hold your little hand

I’ll never see you end the day

I’ll never tuck you into sleepy land

Lord … be with all of us who have lost those we love too soon. Be with those who have lost those they love. Be with parents, spouses, siblings, sons, daughters, and grandparents who are in pain. Be present, Lord … sometimes that’s all we want.

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