From the skeleton collapsed upon the moldy laptop.

i need lunch. i need sleep. The Ballyhoo need a push. The snow needs a sled. The house needs cleaned so badly that men in full biohazard gear are assembling in the driveway. My ipod needs the Christmas music taken out of it. And i am writing in a blog.

i think it comes from somewhere up the river of doubt. i don't know what i am. i have some clues. i have a wife but judging from our relationship lately i haven't been a good husband which is really too bad because i've been here when things were going well and she's really a fun person. There are some kids who live here that call me 'dad' so i'm pretty sure i'm a father. One is taking a nap and has a job at McGargleds and the other is in a Mario World induced coma, so i must not be a very inspiring one. i work as a carpenter but the thought of being a carpenter makes me want to weep. In fact, my stomach does this Bill-Murray-Groundhog-suicide thing from just writing the word 'carpenter.' Nng, there it goes again. They say you are what you do. If that's true than i am a Nauseator. Which sounds like one of Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc.'s creations. Greetings Perry the Platypus.

If, by some small chance, i am what i want to do, then i am a creator. Small "c." i love art. i love making things. i love crafting words, lines, notes and small plastic bricks into something they weren't before. i love telling stories.

And so i forget my stomach. i fight off the drowzies. i let my eldest sleep and my youngest bounce turtle shells into various cute little opponents. i listen to the snow melt. i watch, only mildly interested as the men in the driveway in the biohazard suits decide a frontal assault is too dangerous and call in an airstrike. i let another rendition of Little Saint Nick play and i write.

Maybe that's it. Maybe i'm a Hoper.

Mom, Dad? What's with the For Sale sign in the yard? Hello?

The person stumbling through darkness has seen a great light.

With the juggernaut ferocity of a blizzard, God has broken into my world, stomped all around, knocked over my monopoly game and said, "Get your boots on, we're going on an adventure!"

My church is closing.

Sentences are funny things. That last one, four words long, sums up everything i need to say. It conveys all of the pertinent information. And yet, unless you've spent time in my moccasins, and i wouldn't recommend that; they smell like La feete vinaigrette, you would not understand anything i'm trying to say with that sentence. Well, you might, IF you were one of the following:

• An astronaut who has ever had his tether come loose.
• A diver who has looked up to see his boat leaving.
• A Yonkers socialite, who after a great party, wakes up... in the Serengeti.
• A traveller who arrives home to find their house burned down while they were away.
• A Manassas farmer who realized the civil war broke out by seeing the opposing forces out opposite windows.
• A child who came home from school to find your parents have moved. (man, that day sucked!)

Barring that or the vinaigrette, there is no way that those four words can sum up the fact that this has been my church since i was fifteen. i have grown up in this church. Grown in the Word in this church. Been counseled in this church. Wedded in this church. My eldest baptized in this church. Brought into the worship ministry in this church. Given a voice in this church. Given something to counter act the necrotic of my work life in this church. In essence, i have been shown how "in this church" means "in this family."

"True," Dad is saying, "and now, time for something completely different." Life is change. Change is weird. You want it when things are hemorrhagically boring. Then it announces that it'll be here on February 28th and you get a little tweaked. Faith gets tested. Will the shuttle get to you before gravity takes over? Will another boat come along? Are those lions? Where are we going to live now? This is just going to be a short little disagreement, right? Dang it! i hope the neighbor lady has good cookies. (she didn't. Just those stupid fake lemon oreos)

Oh, well. Dad knows best. Guess i'd better find my boots.