What Happened to Joseph? The Message In the Mystery

Most of the time when December rolls around, people tend to focus on telling the story of Mary and of Jesus's birth. I do, too... but this year, there has been a strange sort of question lurking in the back of my mind that has come to the forefront with the holiday season: what happened to Joseph?

Usually whenever Joseph is discussed in any length, it's only during this month: we acknowledge his sacrifice of honor and dignity in accepting a child that wasn't his own, and then we move on. But beyond that, he's hardly ever mentioned. The only other cameo he makes is in the story where Jesus remains in the temple as a little boy about to come of age. Even then, Joseph doesn't say anything. And he never returns to the stories after that. In fact, whenever the family of Jesus is present in Matthew 12:46 and Mark 6:3, they're referred to as his "mother and brothers." Joseph is only mentioned in passing, as if he isn't there (Luke 4:22). So had he died? Had he stayed home?

Perhaps he wasn't mentioned because he was already part of the crowd following Jesus... or perhaps he refused to come because he didn't approve of what Jesus was doing.

Perhaps he was a good father, and was just working at his trade to keep food on the table for his remaining family.

Or perhaps he finally got fed up with the social abuse from his community because of his scandalous marriage, and he left his family entirely.

Perhaps he died at the hands of Roman soldiers while trying to protect his wife and children in a misunderstanding.

Perhaps he drank himself to death.


Perhaps he got sick and faded away.

Perhaps he was abusive and treated his bastard son with less favor because of the dishonor it brought on their family.

Perhaps he was a workaholic:  just "too busy" to ever come out and see his son.

Perhaps he had a heavy workload that week and was under orders to make yet more crosses for the Roman soldiers.

Perhaps he was frustrated with Jesus for not taking up carpentry.

Perhaps he died just as Jesus turned thirteen.

Perhaps he died right before Jesus began his ministry as an adult.

Perhaps he out-lived his surrogate son, just as Mary did.


There are plenty of possibilities, with some generally accepted more than others. But perhaps there's a reason God doesn't give us a clear-cut answer. Because however it happened, whenever it happened, sometimes the details don't matter  in a situation like that. The only thing that does matter is that Jesus very well might have been fatherless... but at least he wasn't Fatherless.

Leaving What is Great For What Is Best

I haven’t written a blog post in a while.

I’m sure you noticed… if not during the past few months, then you’ve certainly realized it now. The central reason for that is, in short, my journey into adulthood. I’m not talking about learning how to provide for myself, necessarily; that transition wasn’t too drastic. I’m referring to the facet of adulthood that a lot of graduates don’t even expect: a major decrease in one’s social life.

You see, something I’ve been learning for the past year and a half is how to find peers as an adult. In school, friends are easy to find because you’re obligated to sit for six hours in the same room with twenty other people that are your age. You go to college and can live in a dorm and hang out in buildings that are filled with nothing but teenagers. But in adulthood, sometimes you’re lucky to be working at a job that has at least one person your age, let alone a handful.

This was especially hard for me to get used to because I grew up in a large family and then spent four years in a massive dorm; I’m used to having people around all the time. And it’s not just because I’m an extrovert; I have a lot of introverted tendencies, too. I need massive doses of alone-time every day to recharge my emotions. Many people will tell you that when I’m around the house, I’ll often go hours without saying a word to anyone or looking up from my own work. But I still like having the option of putting aside inanimate objects in exchange for a real conversation. I need relationships. Even if you want to claim that you yourself don’t need others, people are constantly changing, and therefore they are life’s only real reliable form of entertainment. Half of the things I’m passionate about were introduced to me by other people.

Why am I rambling on about this? Because I came to Atlanta and knew that I was going to be lonely unless I plugged in. So I did. And one of the central places that I looked to invest myself was in a church. The trouble was, I ended up falling in love with two very different churches. Both have very Biblical teachings, which was my first priority… and since one of them has an evening service, I was able to attend both on any given Sunday for a long time. But I always had that nagging feeling that I should pick one.

Now, having moved homes as many times as I have, I’ve learned that the best way to feel at home in a church is to start serving in it. Almost immediately after finding the first church (a near-mega-church in central Atlanta, with countless young adults and amazing worship), I volunteered to join their media team and operate a shoulder-mounted camera on the stage crew. Within weeks, working on the camera crew became one of my favorite parts of the week; I was working with professionals, meeting with young adults, building some great friendships, and I was able to use my passion for film in the worship services and minister to countless people through a camera. I got a lot of compliments on my work, too, which really kept my chin up when I was between jobs.

The other church that I found could hardly be more different. It’s a small bilingual church closer to where I live, barely more than twenty people on a full day. They actually meet in a school cafeteria, rather than their own building, and there are only about four singles there (including me). And yet for all that it lacked in appearance, I fell in love with it and started many relationships there as well.

For several months, I attended both churches: one in the morning, one in the evenings. I could never quite escape the nagging feeling that I needed to choose one, but for a long time I simply couldn’t choose — and I didn’t have to choose.

As Autumn rolled in, I started a two-month internship with a post-house called Outback Editorial, where I got to observe the making of commercials firsthand. It was a fun experience, though not much different from being a PA. I realize now that I never really blogged about it… (I’m not sure why. Maybe I’ll get on that soon.) I also met an amazing woman in Atlanta who publishes Hers Magazine, and she took me on for a while to write some feature articles and construct online surveys for her readers.

But as time passed, I felt myself stretched more and more in multiple directions. BSF (Bible Study Fellowship International) started in September. My work hours at Outback were longer than they had been previously with Spitfire Studios. Not drastically different, but enough that I could feel a strain. My commitment to write for Hers, when piled upon my previous commitment to write blogs for The Fangirl Initiative, gave me little “free time” left once the work hours and church activities were all over.

Eventually, as my work for different groups grew poorer and poorer, I realized that my thirst for human company had turned me into an over-committer: something I never was in high school or college. But now that I’d spent a few months in Atlanta, meeting new people wasn’t the problem anymore: it was building stronger relationships with the people that I had met.

In fact, my schedule only got more full when I took a new job once the internship ended. (That in itself is an incredible story which deserves its own blog post.) I’m currently working full-time with a studio that does more corporate videos than films, but I actually feel like I’m a vital part of my workplace now. I’ve been able to help edit footage and write scripts, and the nagging fear of inadequacy that’s lurked over me all summer is finally gone. It’s a phenomenal job and I absolutely love it… it’s just that, with rush-hour traffic, this dream-job is an unfortunate hour away from home on any given day, and that has taken a ton of time off my plate.

Beginning in October, I had to start reaching out to my different commitments and confess that I was doing them a disservice by continuing the way things were. I didn’t have enough time. Soon the weight on my shoulders lessened and lessened, until the only major decision that I had left was… which church should I pursue?

With no clear answer before me, I started to pray (usually during my two daily hours in the car) that God would show me where to serve.

A few days later, the small church was having a retreat up in the mountains. Part of me didn’t want to go, because I wanted so badly to stay at home instead of spending another day in the car (and attending yet another a Bible study, I’ll admit). But I did go, and I was delightfully surprised to find that the retreat was almost nothing but games and recreation: all twenty of us with a rec building by the woods. Because I am me, in no time flat I found myself joining the kids and teenagers in whatever games they were playing… and whenever they got bored, I came up with something new. (Thank you for teaching me how to entertain children on the fly, Winshape Camps!) Even in the evening when we broke out the board games and playing cards, we were all screaming and laughing until our sides hurt. It was a “vacation” that I had very much needed.

The next morning at that church, one of the pastors pulled me aside and asked me to pray about leading the middle schoolers, because he hadn’t seen them have that much fun together for months. Immediately I felt the overwhelming urge to say yes, but I knew right away that I couldn’t commit to be a youth leader unless I gave up working the cameras at my other church. I told him that I did want to do it, but that I needed to pray for a day or so to be absolutely sure — which he understood.

I spent the next days with my heart constantly beating a little faster. Not with stress, but with excitement. From an outside standpoint — even a logic standpoint — the big church makes more sense for my current stage of life. It’s filled with singles, film professionals, and a lot of social events. The small church doesn’t really have any of those things.

But they genuinely need me.

After speaking to a few people about it, I finally reached the resolution that I don’t need five hundred single men or twenty film professionals in my life: I just need one. The right one. And if I’ve learned anything in my short little life, it’s that God can use any circumstances, no matter their appearances, to bring about great things.

I finally called the big church to explain my dilemma, and to ask whether or not they would be able to manage without me; I certainly didn’t want to walk out on them abruptly and leave a sour taste in their mouths. I actually discovered the truth about myself and about how I felt as I explained it to them: “I wanted to stay for years, and never leave the camera crew until an act of God pulled me away.

“And God has acted… just a lot sooner than I thought.”

The best part was, they understood completely. Today is my last Sunday on the cameras, in fact. The final service is coming up as I write this. I’ve been calm and composed all day… with a bizarre mixture of relief, heartbreak, and euphoria. I certainly didn’t expect to find myself crying, though. It happened after hearing several of my leaders say how much they were going to miss me, how much they had come to rely on my skill (again, such an encouragement after my self-esteem drop between jobs), and how much they had hoped to see me grow with their teams. Though I’m not even moving away from Atlanta, it still feels like I’m also leaving behind a thousand chances to work with these people that I admire so much.

In the past, whenever I’ve had to make a tough decision, I’ve usually been able to follow God’s call without deviating from my own personal preferences. My college, my career, my hobbies… This was the first time that I really had to look at my circumstances and make a choice between rock-solid logic and God’s inexplicable call.

Staying here at the big church wouldn’t be bad. It would be great, in fact. So great! I'm serving God, I'm honing my abilities, I'm connecting with professionals… and I didn't realize until now how painful it is for me to leave.

But yet again, God is calling me somewhere else. Somewhere that maybe, at first glance, doesn’t look like the sort of place that I need, or that my career needs, or my romantic prospects. But it is a place that needs me, and a place where my impact for God’s kingdom just might be more powerful.

Staying here would be great… but God wants me to go somewhere better. In the words of Michelle Waters, I'm like a little child clutching a handful of dandelions… but my Father wants me to let them go in order to receive a rose.

You'll Never Guess How I Aced My College Finals...

    I never really studied in high school.

    Did I do my homework? Sure.

    Textbook readings? Most of the time.

    But studying? Sitting down and reviewing stuff that I had already done worksheets on, written essays about? No way, José. Not that I'm a prodigy, by any stretch of the imagination, but so long as I was passing the assignments, I didn't see why I needed to make any extra effort on tests since I'd probably pass them, too.

    Then I got to college. Newsflash: it wasn't that different, despite how much people warned me. But even so, there were three or four "gen eds" (general education classes) that didn't come naturally to me like most classes ever had. Even though I didn't have a hard time on the homework, a lot of the tests focused on memorization  — vocabulary terms, names, dates — that were more detailed than I was used to. Near the end of my first semester in college, I realized that I might actually have to (gasp) study if I wanted to pass my finals.

    But after a few hours of staring at papers, I had a better idea.

    Ladies and gentlemen, high schoolers and college buddies, I have met so many of you who hate studying or simply can't figure out a good way to do it. My heart goes out to you, because I've been there (however briefly), and so I want to share with you the secret to my own success (if I haven't already told you about it five hundred times).

    I played pool.

    I'm completely serious. Sometimes I was alone, sometimes I had other players, but I spent two, three, sometimes even four hours a day in the student center honing my skills on a pool cue. But of course, as you've probably guessed, there was a method to all of my madness.

    Rule #1.

    Condense (or expand) all of your notes onto six pieces of paper. No more, no less. And I'm not talking front-and-back pages, I'm talking front-only. Whether you want to study multiple classes at once, or concentrate on a single subject in more depth is up to you. Maybe you'll have one page for each chapter that you've studied, or one page for each type of material (i.e.: the vocabulary page, the important-names page, etc.). You can use bullet-points or boxes or bold words or colored ink to organize those notes however you like - but they have to fit on six pages. Anything more and it's an information overload.

    Why is this important? It helps you to concentrate on vital information first. You're able to break down the information into smaller doses that are "easier to swallow." Six full pages of lined or letter paper may not seem like a small dose to some of you, but to others it may not seem like enough. It's a good medium.

    Rule #2.

    Put one page into each pocket of the table. Just curve it and set it in there like some sort of bizarre backboard for the billiard balls. It shouldn't block the opening at all; most letter paper is the perfect size to just stick up vertically out of the pocket.

    Why is this important? This is a continuation of Rule #1: it helps to compartmentalize the information. Now, during the game, you'll be able to associate each piece of information with a separate part of the table, and you'd be surprised at how quickly you get familiar with the setup. It's especially easy to see when you're studying multiple classes at the same time. "Oh, no, not the chemistry pocket!!"

    Rule #3.

    Start playing a pool game. Whether it's nine-ball, cutthroat, the classic one-on-one game of pool, or even just the beloved classic, "How-long-will-it-take-me-to-knock-them-all-in-because-I-don't-know-any-billiard-games." You can play against yourself, or against other people. They can be your study partners, or just someone who wants to play the game and leave the academics to you.

    Why is this important? For one thing, you need to relax. Finals are stressful and studying is stressful, but activities like bowling and billiards (basically smashing objects that make loud noises when they hit each other) is great stress relief! No matter how much you're forcing yourself to work hard, your brain is going to get tricked into relaxing by playing pool, and there's no need to feel guilty in the process because you really are being productive!

    Secondly, pool keeps you on your feet for the most part. That means your blood's flowing to and from your brain. Remember how people always say you should go for a walk in-between study sessions to rejuvenate your mind? Boom.

    And thirdly, pool is an abstract activity. Scientific studies have shown that doodling abstract shapes in basic colors helps note-takers to retain information. In pool, you're dealing with very basic shapes, colors, and numbers. There are circles, a big rectangle, straight lines, and triangular trajectories. So by letting your brain relax and "play with shapes," you're preparing for maximum information absorption.

    Rule #4.

    This is where the 'study' part comes into play. When any ball goes into any pocket, regardless of who hit it, you have to perform a task with the related page of notes. The task simply depends on how long you've been in this 'study session'.

    If it's your very first game, just take the page out and read it in its entirety. Maybe out loud, if you have friends who also need to learn the material.

    If it's your second game, have your friend ask you a question from that page. Afterwards, read the page in its entirety again, just to refresh your memory.

    If it's your third game or onwards, perhaps only read the page through if you get the question wrong.

    Obviously if you're by yourself, the quizzing is slightly more difficult. Try placing a hand over a section of the page, and try to remember what's there. Count how many vocabulary words there are, then try to list them all from memory. Cover up their definitions and then guess at what they mean. You may get so good at it that you can eventually recite the entire page from memory whenever a ball goes into that pocket, and then all you have to do is draw the paper out afterwards to confirm that you were right.

    Why is this important? Because, of course, you need to get familiar with the materials you're actually studying. Otherwise it's not studying. This way, at least, you don't feel bad every time you put the paper down (because you know you'll probably be picking it up again in just a few minutes). You'd be surprised at how quickly you get familiar with the information.

    And if you're in a group study, you're welcome to change up who answers the question depending on who hit the ball in — but the best policy is probably to just make everyone take a turn answering a question from the page, any time a ball goes in. That makes for maximum repetition.

    Does it work?

    You bet it does! You're relaxed and playing a game, but you constantly have to come face-to-face with your curriculum in order for the game to continue. You're not beating yourself up over taking a break, nor are you stressing yourself out about absorbing all the material in a single half-hour time slot (or however long you usually give yourself to study a single subject). You could spend almost a whole afternoon chatting and playing pool with your friends, and still memorize a surprising amount of information.

    The first time I tried this, I spent maybe a grand total of three days playing pool, sometimes by myself and sometimes with friends. There were only three or four classes that were troubling me, so I guess that's about one afternoon per class. Well, let me tell you, I didn't expect much beyond passing grades for my trouble — I just figured I might as well have fun with my notes instead of stressing out. But when I got the results from my gen-ed finals, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had not just gotten passing grades — I had gotten straight A's.

    Since then, needless to say, I never went back to old-fashioned studying whenever the need arose to learn challenging material. I recommend this method to anyone and everyone who's having a hard time with their curriculum —  or really to anyone who has to study, period.

    And if you don't have a pool table of your own? No worries! This concept isn't just limited to just billiards. Just think of it as one of those "drinking games" or "movie workouts" where the activity you're doing triggers a response. What about "Go Fish," where fishing also means you have to answer a question off the notes? Or a game of catch where anyone who drops the ball or frisbee has to answer a question from the pocket of the thrower? Just make sure you're encountering small portions of the information every few minutes, but having a good time (preferably on your feet) in-between.

    Now go, my young padawans, and spread the word to struggling students across the galaxy. Studying does not have to be the bane of your existence. All you need to do is realize that fun is not an enemy to be shunned… but an ally to be harnessed.

Growing Faith and a Winding Path

     It’s funny how much my work in film has affected my way of thinking. The more stories that I write, the more I see myself as a character in a bigger story.

     I first had such a thought years ago — in middle school, I think.

     Heroes are still unsure and afraid about their futures, but they go through trial after trial and face the enemy regardless. Sometimes they place their trust in “destiny” or “fate” or “luck,” or some other cosmic force overseeing all — and they ultimately survive, because good always conquers evil. And huzzah for them.

     But if you think about it, that all-powerful force manipulating their lives is actually just the author. The person writing the story is the one who can control the circumstances of the characters, rearranging events and otherwise-uncontrollable-factors all for the sake of a good yarn. Only the writer (and his eventual audience) understands the themes and the symbolism that are interwoven with the lives of the protagonists. Our heroes often find out later (or sometimes never) what would have happened if they had just been three seconds slower or faster, if they hadn’t bent down to tie their shoe at that time, if they hadn’t tripped into the pond and gone searching for a cleaner on that day. We know, but they may not, that one small insignificant moment ultimately directed the entire course of their future.

     As I thought this through in the midst of my adolescence, I started to compare my new metaphor with what I had learned (and was still learning) about what God is like. The more I squinted at the two concepts, the more they blended into one. And the more I’ve embrace the idea, the more true it has become within my life.

     “God is not hurried along in the Time-stream of this universe any more than an author hurried along in the imaginary time of his own novel. He has infinite attention to spare for each one of us.” - C.S. Lewis

     There is of course one central difference between God and any human author: His motive for ‘writing.’ I may manipulate the circumstances in a tale for all sorts of reasons — to speed up the plot, to create tension and excitement, to keep an audience guessing. But that’s not what God is up to. He doesn’t create conflict, but he does manipulate it for the eventual triumph of good over evil. He doesn’t keep people from facing difficult or even deadly obstacles, but he uses their struggles to impact the lives of other people in ways that can’t be measured by man. 

     Personally, I can hardly wait for the day when everyone in Heaven gets to sit down and watch the Ultimate Movie about the world, where God shows us how the tiniest circumstances had major effects on the direction of humankind; where we’ll gasp at the parallels between the lives of people that may have never interacted; where we’ll shake our heads in awe at how close we came to entirely different fates. It will be the most extensive, interwoven, complicated plot ever to exist, but we won’t lose track of it for a millisecond.

     Okay, so that day may not exist according to any theologically-sound doctrine, but you get the idea. It’s a bit related to my metaphor earlier this year, about life being a puzzle/patchwork quilt.

     But why am I telling you all of this? Why must you muddle through all of Rica’s nerdy spiritual musings in order to hear what she’s actually up to?

     Because hearing what’s happened to me may be somewhat interesting, but it’s important to me that you also hear how I have learned to react to my circumstances. In a few short years I have gone from a teenager with an uncertain future to a young adult charging full speed ahead with no compass or fuel other than (despite how cheesy it may sound) faith in God.

     So what have I been doing?

     Quite a bit. I spent my first month in Atlanta with some precious family friends, functioning as the newfound daughter for the mother of the house (who raised four boys and was beyond delighted at the novel experience of having a fellow lady around the house). That gave me some time to acclimatize myself to the new city and the new job.

     I immediately took to Atlanta more than I expected. There are a lot of trees, fields, and landscaping arrangements that keep the city from feeling claustrophobic. It’s humid, yes, but most people keep their air-conditioning at deliciously-cold temperatures. Some people complain about the traffic, but I don’t usually mind it because I’ve just learned to give myself plenty of extra time; it’s not stressful if you’re not in a hurry. In fact, I’ve really enjoyed catching up on a lot of sermon podcasts and audiobooks whenever I’m on the road.

     (By the way, my two tips to Atlanta drivers:

     1. There is a pothole approximately every 100 yards on every street, so be prepared to try and maneuver around them while staying in a single lane.

     2. Keep to the right until absolutely necessary, because there may not be a left turn signal at the next light and you could get stuck behind one or two poor blokes who have to wait for the intersection to clear up.)

     After a month with my host-family, I finally got to move into the townhouse and begin living like an adult: cooking my own meals, collecting my own furniture, and — oh, yeah — paying bills. Fortunately, I was working as many extra hours as I could, and I was being handsomely reimbursed for the mileage that I was driving whenever the directors sent me to pick up anything.

     I really enjoyed my job, too. Though I was sometimes little more than an errand-runner, I know that a lot of the work that I did was highly useful and highly needed. The studio was cozy and the people were very nice. My daily schedule varied extensively, from sorting through old receipts to picking up equipment from shops to running packages to film sets. I got to spend a lot of time just soaking in wisdom from the professionals around me, and they were very encouraging.

     At the end of June, when the studio finished up the film they were working on, my time with them came to a close and they didn’t choose to keep me on for any future projects. I won’t pretend it wasn’t disappointing; being selected or rejected for a job always has an effect on someone’s self-esteem, and after all the hard work that I went through to get hired in my actual career field, I did feel let down at how quickly it was over.

     But the strange thing is, as I sat there thinking on everything that was going on around me, an odd peace started to creep into my thoughts. Because, somehow, I just knew that God wouldn’t bring me to Atlanta and set me up with a place to live so flawlessly only to have me turn around and pack up. I found out that my family had actually been praying that I might find a more solid, full-time job. And the more I prayed and applied to new positions, the more He proved to be faithful and attentive.

     Within mere hours of finishing my final work day, I received an email from a professional at CNN. She and I had been trying to connect since I had arrived in May, but our schedules kept us both tangled; and now she was finally available to meet — on a day and at a time that I would have otherwise been unavailable for if I was still working. That was an immediate encouragement, because I knew that even if it didn’t lead to a job, it was still God’s reminder to me that He was in control of the situation.

     That doesn’t mean I didn’t send out job applications, of course, but I knew that I didn’t have to mentally beat myself up for every hour that passed without any results. Furthermore, I hadn’t been frivolous with my earnings; I spent so little that I have enough to pay for at least two months of rent, if not three or more. I was already scheduled to do some dog-sitting for my host-family, starting on the 3rd. I had just received an invitation to spend the Fourth of July with a friend and her family. And after two months of working tirelessly, I actually had an open schedule to visit my family and see their new house.

     With plenty of businesses winding down in preparation for Independence Day, I decided that running around town during the week before the holiday wouldn’t be very productive. Instead, I sent out applications over the weekend (which I basically use as heralds to tell studios I’ll be coming by in a few days to ensure they got my resumé). Then I planned to head back to Kentucky for a quick vacation, just after the meeting at CNN, which was scheduled to be on Monday at noon.

     But we didn’t meet on Monday at noon.

     I got an email that morning, stating that due to a scheduling conflict, my contact at CNN had to postpone our meeting until the next day. I was a bit disappointed; after all, I wanted to see my family and their new house, and that visit was only going to be three days long in the first place… now, just two. But as I prayed and sat there, I wondered if God wanted me to have that extra day in Atlanta for a specific reason. After all, I had done and was doing everything in my power to leave, but God was in control of my external circumstances and was having me stay for 24 more hours.

     When I let my family know about the schedule change, my mother reminded me, “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps,” (Proverbs 16:9). And that is exactly what happened.

     Because my Monday was now completely free, I ended up getting in touch with some acquaintances from a church that I had visited in Atlanta. A family friend of ours attends there, and so the pastor had been wondering if I would be willing to meet and talk about how welcoming his church was. When I let him know that my afternoon had opened up, he admitted that he just happened to have an open schedule, too!

     We found a Starbucks to chat, where I met him and another church-member nearer my age, and we just... really invested in each other. I was able to give them lots of information, advice, and praise about their ministry. They were able to give me lots of encouragement and prayer about my newly-uncertain future. They explained that they were thinking of planting a church to reach out to college students and young adults; I was able to answer their questions about what that demographic may be attracted by. (Church Fact #1: teens are more likely to come back if you have food and comfy chairs. That may sound pretty shallow, but adolescents can be shallow, too.) Near the end, they even asked if I was interested in receiving some discipleship training in the Fall — to which I enthusiastically said yes.

     That discussion was a phenomenally encouraging experience, and it was a great reminder to me of God’s control and plan for my life. I had wanted to get outta dodge before nightfall, but He kept me in Atlanta so that I could have that meeting.

     I had a plan and a path, but God still made sure that my feet fell in specific places along the way. Every time I start to feel discouraged or uneasy, I just “happen” to run across encouraging messages. I get texts from loved ones that mention scriptures like 2 Chronicles 20. I hear different sermons that remind me of my identity in Christ (including one about James 4:13-17, where the pastor even mentioned my old high school back in Texas). Even my devotional yesterday morning was another much-needed reminder:

     “…My brothers and sisters, where is our own faith? It seemed almost a novelty in the church when it was stated long ago that Mr. George Mueller walked by faith in regard to temporal things. To feed children by faith in God was looked upon as the belief of a pious freak. We have come to a pretty pass, have we not, when God is not to be trusted about common things. Abraham walked with God about daily life, but nowadays if you meet with a man who walks with God as to his business, trusts God as to every item ad detail of his domestic affairs, persons look at him with a degree of suspicious wonder. They think he has grace in his heart, but they also suspect that he has a bee in his bonnet, or he would not act in that sort of way. Oh, yes, we have a fancied faith, but when it comes to the stern realities of life, where is our faith?

     “My brethren, why are you so full of worldly care? Why are you so anxious, if you have faith in God? Why do you display in worldly things almost as much distrust as worldly men? Whence this fear? This murmuring? This worry? O my savior, if you were to come, we could not defend ourselves for our wretched mistrust, our foolish apprehension, our want of loving reliance upon you. We do not trust you as you ought to be trusted, and if this be the case among those who are such great debtors to your loving faithfulness, where will you find faith on earth?”

     - Charles Spurgeon

     So at the moment, I’m house-sitting in Atlanta and sending out fresh applications all over the place. I’m also finally starting to plug into some churches, including Passion City where I’ve been accepted to volunteer as a camera assistant once August begins. I still have a place to live, money to pay for it, growing relationships, and encouraging interviews here and there.

     Does that mean I’m going about this faith thing perfectly? No. There are times when I’d like nothing better than to curl up on the couch and watch cable from dawn until dusk in the hopes that ignoring my problems will make them go away. Because staying in Atlanta is a little risky, and there are times when I feel unskilled, and there are moments when the task before me seems simply too big. Sometimes I wonder, if I saw a person like me, would I consider their faith a little too crazy, a little too baseless, a little too dependent on providence?

     But then I remember where I’ve been — more specifically, where God managed to take me against all odds (and oftentimes without the right effort from me). I don’t know what he wants me to be doing — it may not even be professional filmmaking — but I know that if I keep praying then it certainly won’t pass me by when the time comes.

     Yes, without God all of my plans would be utterly baseless and hopeless. There would be no reason to keep trying in the face of every rejected application.

     But there is an Author in control of my life, and I know that he’s going to use this part of my story to shape myself and others as well. I’ve seen Him work too many times for me to give up now.

Two Years Hence

     I actually love sharing the story about my grandfather, because it was the first time I ever lost someone really close to me... and as a screenwriter, I can honestly say that if I hadn't experienced it myself, I might not have believed it; it would be almost too cheesy as a story for anyone to believe. The story is so thick with mention of God because I want to give full testimony to what I witnessed and experienced personally.

     And as I look over this story, I realize I started to get pretty poetic, sentimental, and narrative-like... I guess that's because I remember the emotions still, and hope that perhaps sharing mine might bring you a shade of comfort.

     I was working for a mobile summer camp back in 2013, so I was traveling around the country setting up weekly day-camps with kids. On the Sunday before the week of July 4th started, my mother called to tell me that my grandfather (a WWII veteran) had had a stroke while gardening. She was going to Illinois to see him and her mother; both of her parents had always been incredibly healthy for their age, but they also didn't want to live on life support or be in a nursing home, so my grandfather wasn't going to be on any sort of machine to keep his heart and lungs functioning. It took a whole ton of work from my camp director and others, but we were able to arrange for me to fly out on Friday and skip the last day of camp to see him (or at least the family). I was in a daze of shock, and could focus on little else but finishing work early every day, so that I could prepare to have everything done by Friday. I prayed all week that he would stay alive until I got there... and he did.

     I was taken to the hospital as soon as I got into town; he wasn't too coherent, but my mother and some other extended relatives were there. We talked about him and to him and held his hand... we even sang a couple of hymns and I choked up because of how sweet it all was, singing for a dying man. I've never been one for tears, but I certainly was that weekend.

     As we were leaving, my mother told me that dinner was at the house (the same house that he built as an engineer, 50 years ago, and still lived in) with everybody else.

     Everybody else...

     That was when I remembered... there was a family reunion going on! We'd been planning the reunion for two years, and it just happened to be at that house, on that week, during that summer.

     I'd been in such a daze preparing all week, I'd completely forgotten! So not only were a few close family members and friends there to see my grandfather... everyone was. Second cousins, great-nieces, grand-children even from Alaska, not to mention a few great-grandchildren. In fact, late that night my two little sisters were flown in, too, though they (like me) weren't originally going to attend. By Saturday morning, my grandfather had been farewelled by every single one of his children and grandchildren in person.

     That morning was the big reunion luncheon, with a large tent in the front yard. There were games, of course, including a poll of bets on which grandchild would get married next. Many people spoke about our family history, and nearly all of them made mention of my grandfather and his profound influence on their life. He was the pillar of the family, the trunk of a great tree that had the widest branches of any family I've ever heard of. He was a man of great faith, with a discipline and love that had spread his faith to his children and grandchildren and beyond.

     We sang, too... I even ended up singing an impromptu solo of one song, which I'd only just sung for the first time the night before, in the hospital. I didn't cry that time, though a lot of people did... and later when there was another song sung by everybody, I choked up so much I couldn't even sing.

     The last thing to happen was when my uncle got up to give the benediction. He's my grandfather's only son... and he actually doesn't have any biological children: his two sons are adopted. In fact, they're going to be the only two grandchildren to carry on the family surname... but rather than passing on a bloodline, hopefully they're going to be carrying on a legacy of faith instead.

     When my uncle came up, he was holding a piece of paper, and the garden hoe. He said that no one had bothered to pick up the hoe from where it had fallen in the garden seven days ago... but that it was time to do so now. He read a benediction that my grandfather had actually been writing during the previous week, in preparation... and my uncle mixed it with Bible verses about the patriarch Jacob, who was giving final instructions to his own family before he died. I'm pretty sure that there wasn't a dry eye in the place when he finished by reading:

     "And when Jacob had finished commanding his sons, he drew his feet up into the bed and breathed his last, and was gathered to his people."

     After that, festivities began... desserts, mingling, perhaps a ball game or something, I don't remember really. I was spending most of my time around our grandmother, and went into the house to get a band-aid when she scraped her foot. My father, my uncle, an aunt, and I were in the house when the phone rang. I was right at the desk, though I don't remember whether I was the one to pick it up. We could all hear the nurse on the other side, though. She said my grandfather had passed, sometime within the past twenty minutes or less though they weren't sure exactly. But I think I know exactly when it happened.

     We drifted out of the house, slowly. I passed my mother... I think she saw a hint in my eyes that told her something was amiss, but I let Dad tell her, and saw her face as she curled into his arms for comfort. I was heading for my grandmother, though. My uncle told her, and many of us were waiting to embrace her as he did. She didn't cry too hard -- she was too strong-willed to get emotional in public, I think -- but the hugs were tight. The word spread like a silent wildfire through the crowd of people, and they all came.

     Slowly, without planning or rehearsal, a circle formed in the yard... young and old joined it until we ran around the perimeter of the front property, everyone there with my grandfather's blood in their veins or his imprint left on their life... and we started to sing. It was the Doxology: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below... praise him above, ye heavenly host... praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen."

     It's not a very long song, but it was long enough for me to choke by the end because of how beautiful it all was... like we were singing him to Heaven. Far from feeling like a tragedy, the entire experience struck me as the incredible happy ending to a story that I was privileged to be a part of. There were other incredible moments that were woven into that week, and everyone who was there remembers different key pieces of the patchwork quilt. For example, the very last meal that my grandfather had, a certain type of sandwich, was also the very first meal that my grandmother had ever made for him (and apparently those sandwiches helped spark the idea in his head that he should marry her). The sermon that their pastor had given on the morning of his stroke was about Psalm 23: specifically the verse, "[The LORD] helps me lie down in green pastures." And on it goes.

      The funny thing is, all of those sappy, existential, un-specifically spiritual movies that talk about death suddenly made a tiny bit more sense to me. All of those remarks like, "The ones who love us never really leave us," had always been ignored by me because they felt like a secular world's attempt to feel enlightened... but I suddenly knew there was a grain of truth deep inside it somewhere.

     I've always kept a firm grip on emotions; I know that they can change and interfere with both life decisions and spiritual decisions. Feelings come and go... the lack of them doesn't make something any less real. So yes, I had firmly believed that my grandfather would go to Heaven -- long before that day even came... but I hadn't expected to feel it, too. And I still do feel it. Not as if he's not far away in his house where I'll only see him now and then... but as if he's always around wherever I am, or wherever anyone in our family is: hanging about in the next room with a deck of cards to play spades with, or reading his old Bible. He's young, and not aching or hurting anymore. He's not interacting with the present goings-on, but he's always watching and always smiling.

     I think someone asked me, either on the way to the airport or once I got back to my team of camp counselors, if I felt any peace. I told them I couldn't feel more at peace. Because it doesn't feel like my grandfather's gone. He's much more alive than he ever was in all the years that I knew him.

The Road Goes On

       I mused in March that life is like a puzzle, and that I was just waiting for a few more pieces to fall into place for mine. Well, they have — no sooner did I finish that last blog than my schedule turned into a fully-fledged whirlwind that has only just started to settle down now in the middle of May. I’ve been too busy even to be stressed out!

       I spent Spring Break on the road, job-hunting at studios through Nashville, Chattanooga, and Atlanta. It was a productive week, but also leisurely. One of the highlights was when Anna and I got to attend a small local performance featuring Nashville singers… hosted by Andrew Peterson himself (the songwriter/author who posted my review of his book series on his website)! Since there were only about fifty people there, we got to chat with him without feeling rushed and he signed my copy of On The Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness.

       Before I continue, I should mention the incredible contrast between searching for a job in the South versus New York City. In New York, there were secretaries and guards at every door to make sure that I had an appointment (which can’t be gotten when companies don’t respond to the emails of unemployed college graduates).

       I realize that New Yorkers have to brace themselves against potentially psycho strangers, but in my ten weeks there, the only interview I managed to scrape up was with a Starbucks Coffee Shop. And to top it off, any and every professional that I talked to was not impressed by my versatility around a film set. “A jack of all trades is a master of none,” I often heard. That sent my self-esteem into an absolutely massive plummet — I was arguably the most depressed in September and October that I’ve ever been in my life.

       But as it turns out, it wasn’t my non-specialized resume or my preference for face-to-face interaction that was the problem: it was just the city I chose. In the south, all I had to do was send studios the same sort of “please-hire-me” email (which mentioned when I’d be in town), then show up at the door sans-appointment and give the name of the HR head that I’d contacted. Not only was I welcomed in, but everyone was beyond friendly and interested in hearing about who I was and what sort of experience that I had. I had four impromptu job interviews in just three days! Talk about a self-confidence boost.

       The last city that I visited was Atlanta. While two of the companies that I’d researched didn’t have physical locations there anymore (which was an fun discovery to make after paying for parking where they supposedly were), there was one studio that I did find. Most of the staff was out that day, but I was able to meet the director himself, and he and another staffer chatted with me about my resume and my experience. Rather than belittling my jack-of-all-trades portfolio, they lauded me as a “Swiss-Army-Knife” of production skills (a term that made my day— scratch that, my year). Best of all, as we finished up, one of them added, “We may be working on a feature film during Memorial Day weekend… so keep your schedule open.”

       That afternoon as I checked off my job-hunting list, filled out more applications, and sent more emails in a local library, I got a call from my iSTAND.tv supervisor (from my internship in New York). Before I’d left, she and I had briefly discussed the idea that I could earn a little extra money by writing movie reviews exclusively for iSTAND.tv. However, after I left and months passed by, I’d assumed that the idea hadn’t taken root. But now, with a wave of summer blockbusters about to begin, she wanted to know if I was still interested. I didn’t hesitate.

       Just a few days after I returned home (and helped some college friends get engaged at Asbury in a reunion that was the cherry to my week's sundae), I got a call from the Atlanta studio. They said (more or less), “You’re in trouble! I couldn’t find your phone number and I had a job for you this morning!” Less than a week after that, an official agreement was made: I gave my current employers my two-weeks-notice, started to look for housing in Atlanta, wrote my first review for iStand.tv, and tried to wrap up my current Kentucky projects (like a wedding video that wasn't complete until my very last day… but was so worth it). In a single month I went from no prospects to moving out!

       And as for housing arrangements, let me tell you! I did have the stress-relieving option of several family friends to fall back on, but they wouldn’t be long-term options. As we searched, one of the contacts I reached out to was a family with a daughter my age; our parents had been young-marrieds together. When we chatted, she admitted that she knew a girl who had access to a rentable townhouse and was looking for a Christian roommate. I got in contact with that girl… and as it turns out, she went to Covenant College with Noah and knew Anna when she worked in the Language Lab there!

       You will never be able to convince me that providence is not a real thing…

       And now, I am in Atlanta. I’m staying with some close family friends while my future roommate and I prep the townhouse for move-in (I was expecting a cozy sort of apartment-house, but this whopping place could house a family of five without breaking a sweat!) at the beginning of June. I’ve been at the studio for two weeks and I can already see a dent in the workload that I’ve been able to do for them. Officially, I’m a Production Assistant (errand runner), and it may not seem like a glamorous job at first glance. However, my duties are already beginning to vary, and it’s an incredibly special feeling to be needed, no matter the prestige of the task at hand. Not to mention that I have two desks (one of which is right next to some of the executives, so I can soak in their conversations while I work), as well as access to a fully-stocked kitchen.

       It’s been a lot to take in… and there have been some reminders to me of what I’ll be losing by leaving my loved ones behind. My family has finally gotten an offer on their house, and it feels strange to be so far away while the negotiations take place.

       I spent Mother’s day with a family that wasn’t mine (and while I was blessed and able to bless them through the experience, it still felt strange when I knew that my college siblings had returned home for the occasion).

       Our last week before my move was altered abruptly with the news that my paternal grandmother, who had been fading for some time, finally passed away. We spent three days with our extended family down in Florida and had a really special time supporting one another (and looking through some priceless old photo albums).

       Then, around a week later, one of my cousins (actually old enough to be my aunt) also passed away from a long battle with cancer there.

       It’s a lot to take in. I’ve been feeling this new journey of my life called “adulthood” starting for some time now, and moving to Atlanta has only been my ramp onto the highway. A good chunk of pieces have been added to my puzzle, with nuances that may take another full year for me to understand.

       I don’t know exactly where I’m headed, how I’m going to get there, or with whom I’ll be going. But I do know this: I am ready to go.