Lower thoughts, lower ways.

Category: On Love

There Is Always More

Paul says in Ephesians that we can “know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.” (Eph 3:19)

Curiously structured, the verse brings a feeling of limitation, of reaching a dead end of sorts where a towering wall stands. We raise our heads, stretch our necks and stand on our toes, longing to see what’s on the other side, wondering what it would take to know.

A few sentences before that passage, Paul tells us “that you may have strength to comprehend.” We need muscle to grasp the message, lest our weakness get in the way of seeing it in all its fullness, in all the extravagance of its dimensions. The ticket is not an above average IQ or a PhD from a well-known university, worldly measures available to only a select few. Paul breaks our long-held concept of knowledge and tells us that we can actually comprehend the love of Christ through a God-given strength, an attribute anyone can receive and develop regardless of upbringing, social class or education.

And if we do get the privilege to see beyond the limits of our own understanding, what glory would that bring? Are we ready to take a peek behind the curtain into the Holy of Holies, a place our human knowledge never before imagined it would venture into? Maybe that is why we need strength, because this all is too much for us, the vision — overwhelming, the sight — too blinding, the revelation — unsettling. Jesus letting us into the mystery requires every tiny bit of the might we can muster.

Isaiah 55:9: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts.”

1 Corinthians 3:19: “For the wisdom of this world is foolishness to God.”



Tow’rs – Swelling Sea

Patience is key, my friend. Let’s wait. All in time, the song says. All in good time.



We are afraid, so afraid.

“Don’t let your guard down,” they say. “Your heart is on your sleeve again,” they say.

As writers for human beings, we write about human beings. That is as simple as I could make it to be without losing the implication of a severe complexity: the storyteller doesn’t know any better than the story.

But we write still, don’t we? We write what we understand, what we can’t wrap our heads around, and everything else in between.

We are afraid. Maybe more than afraid, we are frustrated.

The world is full of confused human beings looking for someone who feels what they feel and experiences the same universal themes of love, friendship, loss, and war.

As storytellers, we carry a great burden. People become vulnerable to us, and we become vulnerable to people. It is never a one-way street. Each memory they recall in front of us becomes our own.

When our subjects open themselves to us, they open wounds, but they also open possibilities. It is a writer’s task to see not just what is being told, but also what is not spoken. Sometimes the latter says more.

We are afraid, frustrated, and affected.

If you ever ask me the number of times I’ve fallen in love, I’ll tell you that I have lost count.

I have fallen in love with the old woman I talked to on an impulsive trip to the slums.

I have fallen in love with the boy who wandered away from the religion he knew into another form of belief he didn’t quite understand.

I have fallen in love with a waiter who couldn’t get his family to eat in fancy restaurants like the one he services everyday.

I have fallen in love with a film maker who wanted to dedicate every film to a father that was never there.

I have fallen in love with a business journalist who never showed me the personal side of him.

These are all real people I’ve written profiles on, and I have fallen in love with each one of them. Their stories helped me piece my own, and allowed me to get a fuller sense of what love is. They all have captured my heart, for a brief period of time, and for the rawness and honesty that I was so undeserving to receive.

When I told their story, I knew I was giving myself away too.