I've been thinking a lot lately. Some old topics, some new; generally about my own character. Being a man. Being a friend. A son. A brother.

Just who am I, really? I guess I don't really know. I've been discovering some ugly truths about myself in recent months. Nothing awful I suppose; but I am not the person who I once thought I was. It seems that I have spent a large amount of time and resources creating a mental persona that doesn't really exist. For a very long time, I have tried to be who I thought was cool, acceptable, desirable; in the end, all I've done is deceive myself. In my mind, I was always on time, usually funny, a real gentleman, independent, and steeled against the hardships in life, someone with all the clever answers. Wise. 

I am not this person. Once I peel away the defensive layers I've carefully glued together to hide my weaknesses from myself, I see who I really am. I am never on time, because I am irresponsible. I am not funny, I am sarcastic and hurtful. I am not a gentleman, I just wear a gentleman's clothing. I am immensely dependent on those around me, and I am overly sensitive. I don't even know anymore whether I seek solitude for desire or from familiarity. Don't even ask me if I consider myself godly. I am not wise; I am a fool who has finally stumbled in front of a mirror.

I don't think I am alone in this.

God seems to be saying a lot to me lately. "Nail down your responsibilities," He says. "Man up. Be accountable for your mistakes instead of crafting excuses," He admonishes. "Be sensitive to the needs of others instead of looking for their offenses. Stop pretending to love Me for once, and actually do it--we'll both be better off."

This kind of all started when John White spoke in chapel a few weeks ago. He talked about our ineptitude at building friendships and the repercussions of such failure. Being a "friend" is not something I do well. An "acquaintance," sure; I'll hang out and eat dinner, or go bowling, or make jokes with you during a movie. But I'm not so good at the whole friendship thing. Being a friend requires being vulnerable, and vulnerability is something I have learned to avoid at all costs (except for late at night, when my censoring abilities tend to wane). I keep my emotional demons sealed tight in little stone jars, buried in unmarked graves in the depths of my soul. I dig them out now and then, under the cover of night, and stroke them, just to remember that they're there--but I never share them. "No one understands me," I lament to myself, as I hide from public view all the things that make me who I am. Somewhere along the line, I decided that people would only like me if I was a certain way. In the remodeling process, I think I lost more than I gained.

I have become cold, angry, and self-centered. In my attempt at fortitude, I have become weak.

As I peel off the masks, which time has melded to the face of my identity, I am forced to consider my choices for reconstructive surgery. I have started reading some books about what it means to be a Christian man. Not just a guy, but a man. Just by looking at the shelves in the library, I can see that I am far from being the only person to struggle like this. In fact, there are too many books on the subject and too many opinions, many of which seem both contradictory and valid. I honestly just feel like dropping the cultural bullshit about gender roles for a while and reading Proverbs. I have no conclusions, and I have no answers. My own problems are too big for me; I have no wisdom to share.

I am approaching a fork in the river of my life, or rather, I see the branching tributary. The rushing torrents set loose by my own choices would force me further downriver, their impetus maintained by every lousy habit I fulfill. It is all too easy to ride the current and weep as I watch the scenery of my life wilt into desolation, forever doomed to a future of pathetic apathy and joyless plodding. Do I have the guts to steer for calmer waters? Do I have what it takes? I don't know. I doubt it. I am not so naive as to think that I can just change my character overnight, on my own. God, it is so difficult to ask for your help when I've become so accustomed to Your silence. Please help me now.

I am known for being a coffee drinker. This is mostly because I actually am one; however I think the term "addict" is often misapplied to my character by a few too many well-meaning individuals. I am not a coffee addict. I drink it because I enjoy it; this is almost gospel truth. You see, I don't just drink coffee because it's coffee; I drink it because it's a steaming hot (well, just slightly cooler than steaming hot) beverage that is both tasty and soothing. I like coffee the same way that I like tea, hot cocoa, mulled cider, and steamers. Although coffee reigns supreme, I appreciate them all in their own delectable ways.

It's sort of a ritualistic thing, really. My meal isn't complete unless I have a hot beverage to sort of settle everything down. I like making my coffee or tea every bit as much as drinking it; I inhale the scented steam as I pour it into my cup, precisely 3/8 of an inch from the rim of my mug. I spoon just enough sugar or honey in to sweeten it without giving myself diabetes. Then I pour the creamer. I don't just dump the creamer in though, like some uncouth barbarian; I like to watch the transformation that occurs as the creamer interacts with the coffee. I liken the phenomena to budding relationships; at first nothing seems to happen, but as the milky fluid curls up from the bottom of my cup, I can see it boil to the surface and slowly feather out. Cirrus clouds in my cup. The little wisps and tendrils gather clout until they gradually take over the whole drink. Then I stir with my spoon, slowly at first, and I observe as the mixture becomes a more homogeneous blend. Well... this is at least a little bit like budding relationships. Just work with me here.

I must then hold my cup in both hands, warming them from the perpetual cold that they always seem to feel, and wait for my drink to cool to that perfect temperature where it no longer burns the tender flesh of my mouth. I tentatively sip at it, just a little bit, and then drink with full commitment. I swirl the flavors in my mouth, warm, smooth, sometimes tangy, and as I swallow I can feel the warmth tracing a path down my throat.

It takes me forever to drink a cup of coffee; this is because every cup of coffee is more than just a drink. It is an experience, a radical life-altering event.

How dare you demean my experience by calling it an addiction; I can quit whenever I want to.

I just never want to.