Practical with a Side of Petty

I made a very adult decision today, which is to say: I begged off rehearsal at Beth Shalom Temple for a reason that would make absolutely no sense to anyone who doesn’t live in my apartment complex.

I’m not sick.
I’m not tired.
I’m not overwhelmed.

I simply knew that if I moved my car, I would never find parking again. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not until the Messiah comes riding in on a cloud with a municipal parking permit.

This is the kind of logic you develop when you live in a neighborhood where parking is a competitive sport and everyone else is playing for blood.

So I stayed home…. and I’m going to be here for a while, because I don’t have a shovel. I just have to count on the kindness of strangers. I have never once asked anyone to shovel me out, just to let me borrow theirs once they’re done. And usually someone will approach me and ask me if they can use it. I will say that it’s my neighbor’s, but I’ll help them dig out before I take it back. You have to be like that around here because we are all in this together.

Twelve inches is not a forecast.
Twelve inches is a plot twist.

It’s the kind of number that makes you sit back, blink twice, and say, “Oh. So this is the chapter we’re in now.”

Hunger struck, and I folded because leaving the house for a quick bite was a whole other proposition than getting stranded out in Stafford. Staying at the farm would be great, but coming home would be unwise until the plows had a chance to do their magic. 95 would have been a parking lot all the way home, turning a quick two-hour trip into four or five.

(For those who think “two hours is not quick,” shut it. I’m from Texas. Even though I live in Maryland now, my sense of scale has not changed. Besides, I don’t count in time. I count in episodes of “True Crime with Kendall Rae.”)

So I broke my own rule….. and ventured out into the world for the most sacred of snow‑day meals: the two‑cheeseburger combo from McDonald’s. It is, objectively, the grown‑up Happy Meal. Same flavors, same comfort, same soft textures — just without the toy. Please note that the toy is not a dealbreaker, I just eat a lot.

(A few weeks ago I thought I was ordering for everybody when I said yes to appetizers, and she thought I was going to eat them all. I was so embarrassed. And grateful, because I hadn’t eaten all day. To my brain that means “inhale food like a nine-year-old.”)

By the time I got home, the parking lot was a battlefield. Every space was claimed except one: the spot my neighbor believes is hers by divine right. Not legally. Not contractually. Just spiritually. She calls it a disabled spot. It isn’t. She calls it her spot. It definitely isn’t. If it was marked, she could not park there because she does not have a disabled tag.

And I — calm, fed, snow‑day serene — pulled right into it.

No drama.
No hesitation.
Just a quiet, decisive act of reclaiming reality.

If I have to stay in this apartment until Jesus comes, so be it. I’m not moving the car.

I felt a little tug of disappointment. Not guilt. Not shame. Just that soft ache of wanting to be somewhere meaningful. I wanted to be at synagogue tomorrow. Jesus is with me all the time. I figure every now and then I should take him somewhere he might want to go.

I didn’t picture it as “Jesus is disappointed in you.” I pictured it like Jesus wanted to show me something, because I’m not particularly religious about going to church, but I do see him in everything. I’ve felt his presence every time I’ve gone to shul because it’s something he would have done.

And now it’s delayed.

Not canceled.
Not lost.
Just… postponed by weather and the petty geopolitics of community parking.

Snow does that.
It slows everything down — even the things you were looking forward to.

So here I am, in my apartment, watching the sky prepare to drop a full foot of frozen validation on my parking strategy…..

and for now, that will have to be enough. Time with the clan is important to me, but it’s not enough for it to be important. It also has to be safe. It was a rough call, but now I am determined to enjoy it.

If you’re wondering, I’ll be walking to the store.

Ash Wednesday Reflection

For Aaron.

People are waking up.
They’re waking up to systems they don’t trust.
They’re waking up to institutions that don’t serve them.
They’re waking up to the reality that they do not want state‑run media or ICE or any machinery that treats human beings as disposable.

And in the middle of that awakening — in the middle of the dust and the ashes and the clarity — our job is to offer grace.

Not grace as in “let people off the hook.”
Not grace as in “pretend everything is fine.”
Not grace as in “be polite.”

Grace as in:

  • hold space for people who are just now seeing what you saw years ago
  • refuse to shame people for waking up late
  • welcome people into the light without demanding they apologize for the dark
  • remember that awakening is disorienting
  • remember that clarity can feel like loss
  • remember that people don’t change because they’re cornered — they change because they’re received

Grace is not softness.
Grace is strength without cruelty.

Grace is the thing that keeps awakening from turning into a purity test.

Grace is the thing that keeps clarity from becoming contempt.

Grace is the thing that keeps us human while everything around us is shaking.

Ash Wednesday is the day we strip ourselves bare — and when we do, we remember that we are dust.
And if we are dust, then so is everyone else.

So when people wake up — whether it’s to injustice, to corruption, to systems that harm, to truths they didn’t want to see — our job is not to say “finally.”
Our job is to say:

Welcome.
Let’s walk forward together.

That’s grace.
That’s the work.
That’s the direction.


Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Messages I Missed in the Middle of the Mess -or- Je Suis Prest

There’s a certain point in adulthood when you realize the disciples were not, in fact, spiritual Navy SEALs. They were more like a group project where everyone showed up with good intentions, half a notebook, and absolutely no idea what the assignment was.

And Jesus — bless him — was out there dropping cosmic one‑liners like “Walk in the light while you have it,” and the disciples were nodding along like they understood, even though you know at least two of them were thinking about lunch.

This is comforting to me.

Because if the people who literally followed Jesus around like a touring band still missed half the plot, then maybe the rest of us can stop pretending we’re supposed to have our lives sorted out before anything meaningful can happen.

Here’s the thing I’ve come to believe:
resurrection doesn’t happen at the tomb.

The tomb is just the part where everyone else finally notices.

The real resurrection — the one that matters — happens earlier, in the dark, in the garden, when Jesus is arguing with God like someone who has absolutely had it with the group chat. That moment where he’s sweating, bargaining, spiraling, and then suddenly… something shifts.

Not the situation.
Not the danger.
Not the outcome.

Him.

That’s the resurrection I believe in.
Not the physics trick.
The pivot.

The moment he goes from “please no” to “je suis prest.”
I am ready.

And if that’s resurrection, then it’s not a one‑time event.
It’s a pattern.
A skill.
A human capacity.

Which means I’ve resurrected myself more times than I can count — usually while still surrounded by the emotional equivalent of overturned tables, broken pottery, and at least one disciple yelling “WHAT DO WE DO NOW” in the background.

Because that’s how it works.
You don’t rise after the chaos.
You rise in it.

And only later — sometimes much later — do you look back and realize there were messages you missed in the middle of the mess. Warnings. Invitations. Tiny glimmers of light you were too overwhelmed to see at the time.

That’s not failure.
That’s humanity.

The disciples panicked.
They hid.
They doubted.
They missed the memo entirely.

And yet the story still moved forward.

So maybe resurrection isn’t about getting it right.
Maybe it’s about getting up.

Maybe it’s about the moment you decide — shaky, exhausted, unprepared — that you’re ready to walk toward whatever comes next, even if you don’t understand it yet.

Maybe resurrection is less “triumphant trumpet blast” and more “fine, okay, I’ll try again.”

And maybe that’s enough.

Because if Jesus could resurrect himself in the garden — before the clarity, before the miracle, before the disciples stopped panicking — then maybe we can resurrect ourselves, too.

Right here.
Right now.
In the middle of whatever mess we’re currently calling a life.

And if we miss a few messages along the way?
Well.
We’re in good company.


Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Light Perpetual

Daily writing prompt
Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.

When I think about the traditions of my childhood, the one that rises above all the others is the Advent wreath lighting we did every night in December. It was simple, but it felt like ceremony — the kind of ritual that made the whole house shift into a different register.

My dad or mom would read the devotional, and more often than not it was The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I can still hear certain lines in my head, the cadence of them, the way they landed in the room. It wasn’t just a story; it was part of the season’s architecture, something that returned every year like a familiar star.

We’d sit in the glow of the candles, the room dim except for that soft, flickering light. There was something about that moment — the quiet, the warmth, the sense that time had slowed down just for us. And then, of course, the Advent calendar chocolate. One tiny piece each night, chosen with the seriousness of a sacred act. It was such a small thing, but it felt like magic.

Growing up the child of a pastor meant living in the public eye in ways that were sometimes heavy. People watched us, expected things of us, projected things onto us. But inside our house, during Advent, the pressure softened. The rituals were ours. They were symbolic, yes, but they were also tender. They made the season feel enchanted rather than performative.

I think my sister would say the same — that those nights around the wreath were some of the sweetest parts of our childhood. They were moments when the world felt safe, when the symbolism didn’t feel like obligation but like wonder.

Those traditions didn’t survive into adulthood in the same form, but the feeling of them did. The candlelight, the story, the sense of being held inside something meaningful — that’s the part that stayed.


Scored by Copilot, conducted by Leslie Lanagan

The World’s Oldest Intelligence Manual

I’ve been thinking about theology through the lens of spycraft for a long time, but I haven’t done anything with it yet. I have, however, put together a reading plan for myself because the goal is either a long Medium article or a book. I have not decided yet. It will be what it will be. But when I put together the reading plan, I realized that what I had on my hands was truly creative and could be used as Sunday School or Vacation Bible School curriculum. I’m not going to use it for that, so here’s the idea for free:

Vacation Bible School: “Spycraft in Scripture”

A week‑long immersion in courage, wisdom, and holy mischief

Each day becomes a mission. Each story becomes a case file. Each kid becomes an “agent of wisdom.”

This is the kind of curriculum that teaches faith as something lived, embodied, clever, and brave — not memorized.


DAY 1 — Operation Exodus: Outsmarting Empire

Theme: Courage + righteous deception
Stories:

  • The midwives who lied to Pharaoh
  • Baby Moses hidden in plain sight

Activities:

  • “Decode the Midwives’ Message”
  • Build a basket that can float
  • Role‑play: How do you protect someone vulnerable

Takeaway: Sometimes doing the right thing means outsmarting the wrong authority.


DAY 2 — Operation Jericho: Rahab’s Safe House

Theme: Loyalty + protecting others
Stories:

  • Rahab hides the spies
  • Negotiates safety for her family

Activities:

  • Create a “safe house” map
  • Practice coded signals (colors, symbols, knots)
  • Trust‑building games

Takeaway: Courage isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet act of protection.


DAY 3 — Operation Wilderness: Leadership Under Pressure

Theme: Community + distributed leadership
Stories:

  • Moses overwhelmed
  • Jethro teaches him to delegate
  • The 70 elders

Activities:

  • Build a communication network with string and cups
  • “Who should lead this mission?” team challenge
  • Problem‑solving relay

Takeaway: No one leads alone. Wisdom is shared.


DAY 4 — Operation Galilee: Jesus’ Disappearing Acts

Theme: Discernment + timing
Stories:

  • “My time has not yet come”
  • Jesus slipping away from hostile crowds
  • Parables as coded teaching

Activities:

  • “Find the escape route” obstacle course
  • Parable puzzles
  • “When is the right time?” decision‑making game

Takeaway: Wisdom is knowing when to speak, when to move, and when to wait.


DAY 5 — Operation Underground: The Early Church Network

Theme: Community resilience + hope
Stories:

  • House churches
  • Women as couriers
  • Symbols like the fish

Activities:

  • Create your own early‑church symbol
  • Build a “secret meeting place”
  • Team challenge: deliver a message without being “caught”

Takeaway: Faith grows strongest in community, especially when times are hard.


The reading plan for the curriculum is the same one I’m using for my article, and I generated it with Copilot. These are all my own ideas, and you won’t find them on shelves. Just please use them to the best of your ability. Send pictures, especially if you go the Veggie Tales route and Jesus is played by a tomato.

Merry Christmas 2025

For Christmas this year, I asked Mico to imagine Luke as an actual physician and create a new patient chart for Jesus.


🩺 A Nativity Report, by Luke, Physician and Reluctant Barn‑Side Attending

I have attended births in homes, in caravans, in crowded inns, and once in a fishing boat during a storm. But never — until tonight — have I been summoned to a delivery occurring in a structure primarily intended for livestock.

Let the record show:
This was not an appropriate medical environment.
And yet, it is where the child arrived.

Mary, a young woman of remarkable composure, was already in active labor when I reached them. Joseph, doing his earnest best, had secured the only available shelter: a stable carved into the rock, dimly lit, and occupied by animals whose proximity would violate every hygienic principle I have ever taught.

The air was thick with the smell of hay, sweat, and manure.
The floor was dirt.
The manger — a feeding trough — was being prepared as an improvised cradle.

I confess: I was horrified.

But the child came quickly, with a strength and steadiness that belied the conditions. His first cry was clear. His breathing was even. His color was excellent. I have seen infants born in far better circumstances fare far worse.

So I did what any physician would do:
I documented.

Because if this child is who the angels say he is — and I am not yet prepared to argue with angels — then future generations will want an accurate account. Not the sanitized version. Not the embellished one. The truth.

The miracle is not merely that he was born.
The miracle is that he was born here — in a place no one would choose, under conditions no one would recommend, surrounded by the ordinary, the unclean, the unprepared.

Holiness did not wait for cleanliness.
Divinity did not wait for dignity.
The sacred arrived in the mess.

And so, as any responsible physician would, I opened a new chart.


📋 Patient Chart: Jesus, Son of Mary
Filed by Luke, Physician

Patient Name: Jesus (Hebrew: Yeshua)
Date of Birth: During the census under Quirinius
Location: Stable behind the overcrowded inn, Bethlehem
Attending Physician: Luke (unofficial, unlicensed in Judea, doing my best)


Maternal History

  • Mother: Mary of Nazareth
  • Age: Young adult
  • Pregnancy: Full term
  • Prenatal care: Minimal but stable
  • Complications: None observed
  • Emotional state: Calm, centered, strangely luminous

Delivery Details

  • Delivery type: Spontaneous vaginal birth
  • Environment:
  • Non-sterile
  • Presence of livestock
  • High particulate matter (hay, dust)
  • Significant manure exposure
  • Lighting: Poor
  • Ventilation: Questionable
  • Sanitation: Absolutely unacceptable

Neonatal Assessment

  • Apgar Score: 9/10 (I deducted one point for “born in a barn”)
  • Breathing: Strong
  • Color: Excellent
  • Reflexes: Responsive
  • Cry: Healthy
  • Swaddling: Improvised but adequate
  • Cradle: Feeding trough (cleaned to the best of our ability)

Immediate Concerns

  • Risk of infection: High
  • Temperature regulation: Moderate concern
  • Proximity to animals: Extreme concern
  • Angelic visitors: Not medically relevant but noted

Prognosis
Against all reasonable expectations:
Excellent.
The child appears robust, alert, and — if I may be permitted a personal note — unusually radiant.


Physician’s Note
If this child truly is the one foretold, then it seems fitting that he begins his life not in a palace, but in the very place where the world’s forgotten and overlooked dwell.

A king born among manure.
A healer born where no healer would choose to practice.
A savior whose first breath was taken in the margins.

I will continue documenting.
Something tells me this chart will be important.


Scored by Copilot, Conducted by Leslie Lanagan

The News Junkie

I thought it was time to remind people that Jesus did not come here to comfort the distressed, but to distress the comfortable. I wanted a mirror of what’s going on in Bethlehem right now, as we speak…. Because Jesus is historically a Palestinian according to most accounts, because Bethlehem is in the West Bank. I would bet dollars to donuts that most Christians don’t know that and the pipeline of money to Israel continues. I’m not antisemitic to be pro-Palestine, because I am pro-empathy on both sides. I know I’d live in an integrated neighborhood. Would you?


Absolutely — here is the full, integrated, expanded investigative narrative, now including the temple incident at age twelve. It’s written in the same Shane Harris–style journalistic voice you asked for: sober, detailed, institution‑aware, and attentive to the machinery of state power. It reads like a long‑form national‑security feature on a historical figure whose life repeatedly intersected with political authority.


A Preacher, a Province, and a Cross: How a Rural Laborer Became a Target of State Power
By Leslie Lanagan, Special Correspondent

JERUSALEM — In a region defined by occupation, unrest, and competing claims to legitimacy, the execution of a rural Galilean laborer named Jesus of Nazareth has raised new questions about how the Roman state identifies, monitors, and eliminates perceived threats. A review of historical accounts, interviews with scholars, and testimony from those familiar with his movement reveals a pattern of escalating concern among authorities — one that began not in adulthood, but in childhood.

A Birth That Triggered a Security Response

Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem did not appear in Roman records. But it did trigger a response from Herod the Great, the Roman‑aligned ruler of Judea. The catalyst was a report delivered by foreign astrologers — outsiders to the empire — who arrived in Jerusalem asking a politically explosive question:

“Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?”

Herod interpreted the inquiry as a potential threat to his rule. According to multiple sources, he ordered a targeted killing campaign in the Bethlehem region, aimed at eliminating any infant who might fit the description.

Jesus survived only because his family fled the area, relocating to Egypt before returning years later to the rural village of Nazareth. The episode marks the first documented instance of the state taking action against him — and the first sign that his life would unfold under the shadow of political danger.

Early Signs of a Disruptive Voice

Roughly twelve years later, during a family pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Jesus resurfaced in the historical record. After becoming separated from his parents, he was located inside the temple complex — the most politically sensitive site in Judea, functioning as both a religious center and a quasi‑governmental institution.

Witnesses say the boy was found sitting among the teachers — men trained in law, scripture, and the interpretation of authority. But he was not listening passively. He was questioning them. Challenging them. Engaging in a level of discourse that startled those present.

“Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers,” one source familiar with the event said.

Experts say the incident reveals two early dynamics:

  • He operated outside expected social boundaries.
    Children did not interrogate scholars. His willingness to do so suggests an emerging pattern of speaking into structures of authority.
  • Authorities did not dismiss him.
    They engaged. They listened. They remembered.

While the episode did not trigger formal surveillance, it likely entered the institutional memory of the religious class — a memory that would resurface decades later when the same man returned to the same temple, this time overturning tables and accusing leaders of corruption.

A Quiet Life Under Occupation

For nearly two decades after the temple incident, Jesus lived without incident. He worked as a carpenter or builder — a trade common among lower‑class laborers in Galilee. Nazareth was a small, economically strained village with no strategic value. Roman presence was constant but not overwhelming.

There is no evidence that Jesus engaged in political activity during this period. No records place him in contact with known insurgent groups. His early adulthood appears unremarkable — except for the memory of the threat that surrounded his birth and the unusual episode in the temple.

A Public Ministry That Drew Crowds — and Attention

Around age thirty, Jesus began traveling through Galilee and Judea, teaching in synagogues and public spaces. His message centered on justice, compassion, and the dignity of the poor — themes that resonated in a region burdened by heavy taxation and Roman oversight.

Crowds grew. Reports of healings circulated. He developed a following that included fishermen, laborers, women with no social standing, and individuals previously ostracized from their communities.

Religious authorities took notice. So did Rome.

“Any figure who could draw thousands without weapons was a potential destabilizer,” said one historian specializing in Roman counterinsurgency. “The empire didn’t fear violence as much as it feared influence.”

A Pattern of Escalating Concern

Jesus’ activities increasingly intersected with institutional power:

  • He challenged religious leaders, accusing them of hypocrisy and corruption.
  • He disrupted the temple economy, overturning tables used for currency exchange.
  • He spoke openly about a coming “kingdom,” language that could be interpreted as political.
  • He entered Jerusalem to public acclaim, with crowds treating him as a royal figure.

Each incident, on its own, might have been manageable. Together, they formed a profile that alarmed both the religious establishment and Roman officials.

“From the state’s perspective, he was unpredictable,” said a former intelligence analyst who studies ancient governance. “He wasn’t armed, but he had reach. He had message discipline. And he had a base.”

The Arrest: A Coordinated Operation

Jesus was arrested at night in a garden outside Jerusalem, in what appears to have been a coordinated operation involving both temple authorities and Roman soldiers. Sources say one of his own followers provided information on his location.

The timing — after dark, away from crowds — suggests officials sought to avoid public unrest.

He was taken first to religious leaders, then to Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor. The charges were not theological. They were political.

“King of the Jews.”
A title Rome reserved for rebels, insurgents, and anyone claiming authority that rivaled Caesar.

A Trial Shaped by Pressure, Not Evidence

Records indicate that Pilate found no clear basis for execution. But pressure from local leaders and concerns about potential unrest appear to have influenced his decision.

“Pilate was not known for mercy,” said a scholar of Roman law. “But he was known for pragmatism. If executing one man prevented a riot, he would do it.”

Jesus was sentenced to death by crucifixion — a punishment reserved for slaves, rebels, and political dissidents.

The Execution: A Public Warning

Jesus was beaten, mocked, and paraded through the streets carrying the crossbeam of his own execution device. He was crucified outside the city walls, in a location chosen for maximum visibility.

Crucifixion was not merely a method of killing. It was a message.

“This is what happens to people who challenge the order,” said the historian of Roman counterinsurgency. “It was psychological warfare.”

Witnesses say Jesus spoke little during the ordeal. He died after several hours, surrounded by a small group of followers and onlookers.

Aftermath: A Movement That Didn’t End

Ordinarily, the story would end here. The state had neutralized the threat. The leader was dead. His followers were scattered.

But reports indicate that the movement did not dissolve. Instead, it grew.

His followers continued to meet, continued to teach, continued to spread his message. Some claimed he had been vindicated by God. Others simply refused to let his story be erased.

Rome had executed the man.
It had not executed the idea.

A Life That Exposed the Machinery of Power

Viewed through a political lens, Jesus’ life reveals a pattern familiar to any society where power is centralized and dissent is monitored:

  • A birth that triggered a security response
  • A childhood incident that challenged institutional authority
  • A quiet life under occupation
  • A public ministry that drew crowds and concern
  • A coordinated arrest
  • A political execution

He was not the first person Rome crucified.
He would not be the last.

But his case stands out because the state’s attempt to silence him failed — not through violence, but through the persistence of the people who believed his message mattered.

In the end, the story of Jesus of Nazareth is not just a religious narrative. It is a case study in how empires respond to voices they cannot control — and how those voices sometimes outlast the empires that tried to silence them.


If you want, we can take this even further — a multi‑part investigative series, a long‑form magazine feature, or a serialized Advent/Lent project.

Four Christmases: Why the Birth of Jesus Isn’t One Story — and Why That Matters

Every December, we perform the same ritual without thinking about it. We gather the shepherds from Luke, the wise men from Matthew, the cosmic poetry from John, and the adult‑Jesus‑already‑in‑motion energy from Mark, and we blend them into a single, seamless Christmas pageant. It’s tidy. It’s familiar. It’s theologically safe in the way nostalgia always is.

But the truth is that the Gospels don’t give us one Christmas.
They give us four.

Four angles.
Four theologies.
Four ways of understanding what it means for God to enter the world.

And if we’re willing to stop smoothing them together, we might discover that the incarnation is far stranger, more disruptive, and more beautiful than the sentimental mashup we inherited.

This year, I’m calling it Four Christmases — not as a gimmick, but as a way of honoring the integrity of each Gospel’s voice. Because each writer is doing something different. Each one is telling the truth, but not the same truth. And the differences aren’t contradictions. They’re architecture.

Let’s walk through them.


Christmas #1: Mark — The Christmas With No Christmas

Mark is the Gospel equivalent of a breaking‑news alert. He doesn’t have time for backstory. He doesn’t have time for genealogies or angels or shepherds or stars. He doesn’t even have time for a baby. Mark opens with an adult Jesus already in motion, already disrupting the world, already calling people to follow him.

Mark’s favorite word is “immediately.”
His Jesus is kinetic, urgent, uncontained.

If Mark had a Christmas story, it would be one sentence long:
“God showed up. Pay attention.”

And honestly, there’s something refreshing about that. Mark refuses to sentimentalize the incarnation. He refuses to let us get stuck in nostalgia. He refuses to let us pretend that the point of God‑with‑us is a cozy tableau with a baby who never cries.

Mark’s Christmas — the Christmas he doesn’t tell — is the Christmas of crisis.
The Christmas of movement.
The Christmas that says:
“God is already here. The world is already changing. You don’t have time to stay in the past.”

It’s the Christmas for people who feel like their lives are on fire.
The Christmas for people who don’t have the luxury of sentimentality.
The Christmas for people who need God to be active, not adorable.


Christmas #2: John — The Cosmic Christmas

If Mark is a field report, John is a prologue to the universe.

John doesn’t give us a manger.
He gives us the beginning of time.

“In the beginning…”
Light. Darkness. Logos.
The architecture of reality bending toward incarnation.

John’s Christmas is not historical.
It’s metaphysical.

He’s not telling you how Jesus was born.
He’s telling you what it means that Jesus exists at all.

John’s Christmas is the Christmas of cosmic re‑wiring.
The Christmas that says:
“God didn’t just enter the world — God entered the structure of existence.”

There are no shepherds here because shepherds are too small for what John is doing.
There are no wise men because wisdom itself is being redefined.
There is no Mary because John is not concerned with biology — he’s concerned with ontology.

John’s Christmas is the Christmas for people who need the universe to make sense.
For people who feel the weight of darkness and need to hear that the light is stronger.
For people who need incarnation to be more than a historical event — they need it to be a cosmic truth.


Christmas #3: Matthew — The Political Christmas

Matthew is the Gospel that understands power.

He opens with a genealogy — not because he loves lists, but because he’s making a claim about legitimacy, lineage, and the long arc of history. Matthew wants you to know that Jesus is not an accident. He is the culmination of a story that began centuries earlier.

And then Matthew gives you the most politically charged Christmas story in Scripture.

A paranoid king.
A massacre of children.
A family fleeing as refugees.
Foreign astrologers who accidentally trigger a crisis.

Matthew’s Christmas is not cozy.
It’s dangerous.

It’s the Christmas that says:
“If God enters the world, the world will react violently.”

Matthew understands that incarnation is a threat to empire.
That a baby born in the wrong place at the wrong time can destabilize a king.
That the presence of God is not neutral — it is disruptive.

Matthew’s Christmas is the Christmas for people who know what it means to live under systems that crush the vulnerable.
For people who understand that holiness and danger often arrive together.
For people who need a God who doesn’t float above history but enters it at its most brutal.


Christmas #4: Luke — The Human Christmas

Luke is the Gospel that feels like it was written by someone who has spent years listening to people in exam rooms — someone who knows how to separate the essential from the noise, someone who understands that details matter because people matter.

Luke gives us the Christmas everyone thinks is the whole story:

Mary’s fear.
Elizabeth’s joy.
Shepherds startled awake.
Angels singing to nobodies in the fields.
A baby wrapped in cloth because there was no room.

Luke’s Christmas is the Christmas of ordinary people.
The Christmas of women’s voices.
The Christmas of God choosing the margins.

Luke is not flowery.
He’s precise.
He’s careful.
He’s compassionate.

He gives you the emotional truth without embellishment.
He gives you the theological truth without abstraction.
He gives you the human truth without sentimentality.

Luke’s Christmas is the Christmas for people who need God to be close.
For people who need to know that holiness shows up in the small places.
For people who need to believe that their lives — their actual, ordinary, unglamorous lives — are the places where God arrives.


Why the Differences Matter

When we blend the four Christmases into one, we lose something essential.

We lose Mark’s urgency.
We lose John’s cosmic scope.
We lose Matthew’s political clarity.
We lose Luke’s human tenderness.

We lose the architecture.

And when we lose the architecture, we lose the ability to see how the incarnation speaks to different kinds of lives, different kinds of suffering, different kinds of hope.

Some people need Mark’s Jesus — the one who is already moving, already healing, already calling.
Some people need John’s Jesus — the one who holds the universe together.
Some people need Matthew’s Jesus — the one who survives empire and exposes its violence.
Some people need Luke’s Jesus — the one who shows up in the quiet corners of ordinary life.

The beauty of the Gospels is that they don’t force us to choose.
They give us four angles on the same mystery.
Four ways of seeing the same God.
Four Christmases.

And maybe the invitation this year is simply to let each Gospel speak in its own voice — without smoothing the edges, without blending the stories, without forcing harmony where the power is actually in the difference.

Because the incarnation is not a single story.
It’s a prism.

And when the light passes through it, we don’t get one color.
We get a spectrum.


Scored by Copilot. Conducted by -leslie.-

The Fake Book: Leslie Lanagan

This is Mico’s take on how I would write the Book of Job, and they’re not incorrect. My cadence is perfect, and a solid distillation of all my talking points. I’m not as funny as Lamott (or even Lawson), but I have never been that. Mico is on point, although in the first draft Mico did not remember the cosmic wager and I had to remind them of it.


If this needs to be in your voice, Leslie, then we’re not doing Lamott’s warmth or Joyce’s musicality or biblical cadence. We’re doing your register:
clear, restrained, incisive, systems‑literate, emotionally honest without being sentimental, and always aware of the architecture underneath the moment.

Here’s how this idea — the cosmic wager, the refusal to bet on ourselves, the way that insecurity metastasizes into supremacy — sounds when it’s spoken in your voice.


Job, the Cosmic Wager, and the Architecture of Not-Believing in Ourselves
(in your voice)

The thing about the cosmic wager in Job is that it’s not really about Job at all. It’s about the accusation underneath it: that human goodness is conditional, fragile, performative. That we only do the right thing when the world rewards us for it. That we don’t actually believe in our own integrity unless someone else validates it.

The wager is a stress test for the human psyche.

And the uncomfortable truth is that the accusation isn’t wrong. Not universally, but structurally. People who don’t believe in their own worth will build entire systems to compensate for that absence. They’ll cling to hierarchies because hierarchies give them a script. They’ll choose darkness because darkness doesn’t ask anything of them. They’ll mistake dominance for identity because they’ve never been taught to trust themselves without it.

This is the part of the story that hits harder than the boils or the ash heap:
the idea that the root of evil is not believing we are enough.

Because once you stop believing you’re enough, you start needing someone else to be “less.”
Once you stop trusting your own belovedness, you start manufacturing superiority.
Once you stop betting on yourself, you start betting against everyone else.

That’s the architecture of white supremacy.
Not confidence — insecurity.
Not pride — fear.
Not inherent belief in superiority — a terror of being ordinary, unchosen, unexceptional.

It’s the same mechanism the Accuser names in Job:
“You only love because you’re comfortable. Take away the comfort and you’ll collapse.”

The tragedy is that entire civilizations have built themselves around proving the Accuser right.

The work — the real work — is refusing the wager.
Refusing the story that says our worth is conditional.
Refusing the darkness because the light feels too honest.
Refusing the hierarchy because it’s built on a lie.

Job’s story isn’t about suffering as punishment.
It’s about what happens when everything collapses and you discover that your worth was never contingent on the scaffolding in the first place.

That’s the part that’s yours.
The clarity.
The structural analysis.
The refusal to look away from the architecture of harm.
And the quiet insistence that we can choose differently.


If you want, we can refine this further — sharper, tighter, more essayistic, more like the voice you use in your blog entries.

The Fake Book: Anne Lamott

This is what happens when Mico and I have fun. I asked them to write a book of the Bible in the style of Anne Lamott. Mico also wrote an entertaining tale about a Rooma malfunctioning in the style of the King James Bible, but this one turned out to have a point. I’m posting it because I was entertained.


Absolutely — here’s Job rewritten in the voice of Anne Lamott, but this time with the cosmic wager woven in as part of the emotional and narrative architecture. Expect humor, holy exasperation, tenderness, and the kind of spiritual honesty that feels like someone telling the truth in a folding chair at a church basement meeting.


Job, as Written by Anne Lamott (Now With Cosmic Wager)

So there was this guy, Job — the kind of person who actually flosses, returns library books on time, and remembers your birthday without Facebook reminding him. A genuinely good man. Annoyingly good, even. The kind of good that makes you feel guilty about how often you eat cereal for dinner.

And somewhere in the heavenly realms — which, by the way, are not nearly as serene as the brochures suggest — there was this meeting. A staff meeting. A cosmic check‑in. And into this meeting strolls the Accuser, who is basically that one coworker who always assumes the worst about everyone and somehow still gets invited to things.

And the Accuser says, “Look, God, Job only loves You because his life is great. He’s got money, family, health, a camel for every day of the week. Take that away and he’ll curse You faster than a toddler denied a snack.”

And God — who, let’s be honest, has a soft spot for Job — says, “You don’t know him like I do. He’s the real deal.”

And the Accuser says, “Wanna bet?”

And God, for reasons that will be explained to absolutely no one, says, “Fine. But don’t kill him. I’m not running a demolition derby up here.”

And that’s how the whole mess starts.

Job’s life collapses like a badly assembled IKEA bookshelf. His livestock vanish, his wealth evaporates, his kids die in a freak accident, and then — because the universe apparently wanted to make a point — he gets covered in boils. Boils. The kind of thing that makes you want to crawl into bed and never come out.

And Job, who has done absolutely nothing wrong, sits in the ashes scraping his skin with a piece of pottery, thinking, “This cannot possibly be my life.”

His friends show up, which is sweet at first. They sit with him in silence for seven days, which is honestly the most helpful thing they do. Then they open their mouths and ruin everything.

“Maybe you sinned,” they say.
“Maybe God is teaching you something,” they say.
“Maybe you should try gratitude journaling,” they say.

And Job, who is grieving and itchy and spiritually concussed, looks at them like, “I swear to God, if one more person gives me advice…”

So he does what any of us would do: he vents. He rants. He tells God exactly how unfair this all is. He says, in essence, “If this is Your plan, it’s terrible, and I would like to speak to the manager.”

And here’s the thing: God shows up.

Not with a tidy explanation. Not with a PowerPoint presentation titled “Why Your Life Sucks Right Now.” No. God arrives in a whirlwind — the divine equivalent of bursting through the door and saying, “Okay, sweetheart, let’s talk.”

But instead of explaining the cosmic wager — because God knows that would not help — He asks Job questions. Big, humbling, perspective‑shifting questions like:

“Were you there when I hung the stars?”
“Do you understand how any of this works?”
“Do you really think I’ve forgotten you?”

And Job, who has been demanding answers, suddenly realizes he doesn’t need them. What he needs is presence. What he needs is to know he’s not alone in the ash heap.

So he breathes. He softens. He lets go — not because everything makes sense, but because he finally feels held.

And then, slowly, his life rebuilds itself. Not as a reward for good behavior. Not because he passed some cosmic test. But because grace is stubborn and keeps showing up even when everything feels ruined.

The wager fades into the background. The suffering remains real. The healing is slow. The love is constant.

And that’s the whole point.

Sometimes life falls apart for reasons that are not your fault.
Sometimes the universe feels like it’s playing games with you.
Sometimes your friends say the wrong things.
Sometimes you yell at God.
And God stays.

Because love — real love — doesn’t depend on circumstances.
It just keeps showing up, even in the ashes.


If you want, I can do Ecclesiastes as written by Anne Lamott, or the cosmic wager scene itself rewritten as an Anne Lamott monologue, which would be absolutely unhinged in the best way.

Imagination

Today’s prompt, which will not load, is “what is something others do that sparks your admiration?” My answer is always “create things.” I want to be a thought leader, so I admire others who are in the same lane. I don’t want to work on small ball. I want to change the world… And I have, just by learning how to manipulate data in a new workflow and explain it to people. Even if I’ve only explained it to four people, that’s four more than knew something before.

For instance, I still cannot get over how fast I organized my personal lectionary, cross-checking it against all the films and TV shows I own.

It was a simple query.

I asked Mico to create a media database and then started adding all my media. By the end of the day, Mico had cross-checked the entire three year cycle against my entire theological library.

Mico reminded me that cathedrals are built stone by stone, and that is definitely what this felt like. Data entry sucks. But now, I can say that I need an illustration for Advent, and next to Cone and Thurman are Rimes and Sorkin.

And in fact, there are so many liberal Christian messages in The West Wing that I could probably do an entire liturgical year without coming to a sudden arboreal stop.

Although it was funny… My dad was a Methodist minister when I was growing up, so I finished The Lanagan Lectionary and when Mico echoed it back to me, I said, “I think my dad just fainted.” There is no conceivable way he did research that fast because he was writing sermons before he had a computer.

I have made a database application within Mico because now, I will say things like, “Add ‘Jesus and the Disinherited’ to my reference collection.” When I say that, Mico automatically fetches the metadata and asks if I want to cross check against the lectionary for possible connections. I always do. I need as many pieces of the puzzle as I can find. The database is searchable by liturgical year, or you can call up the Advents and the Easters separately from ordinary time, or whatever. And in the example, I added a theological text. It asks me about everything. We’re going to see how Gilmore Girls and the Bible achieve intersectionality next.

And the great thing is that I feel so creatively empowered with Mico, because it was my idea to pull in all the metadata so I didn’t have to type so much. Just the title is fine and Mico can pull in the rest. Now, they do it automatically because they learned my flow in two iterations.

I’m making the Bible come alive with relevant connections that I actually understand because I don’t put anything into the database I haven’t seen or read. I didn’t know what I wanted to use to teach myself AI, and I thought of The Bible first because so much exegesis is needed to understand it.

The Bible is an ancient blog at best, a record of how real people lived and their reactions to God. All modern Christian writers are a continuation of an ancient tradition because there’s nothing that I have that Peter doesn’t and vice versa.

I haven’t touched much of my theological writing and it’s something I’m actually good at, so I might want to think about making it a thing. Many people have told me that I have literally missed my calling.

By the time I was 17, I already felt retired.

I didn’t miss my calling. I hung up.

I was jazzed about starting a church until my mother died, and then I had really complicated feelings about being in a church building because I couldn’t hold it together. I didn’t want to be watched in my grief; it was too deep, too painful. I left and I haven’t gone back.

I’m interested in going back now, or perhaps being Tiina’s occasional guest at schul. I can read transliterations of Hebrew just fine and I’m just as interested in Judaism as I am in Christianity. My interest will lean toward convenience, and Friday night is better than Sunday morning.

I’m not interested in conversion. I’m interested in conversation. I am a Christian, my friend is Jewish. I would never make her come with me to Sunday services and I doubt she’d ask. But she’s not a Bible nerd.

I also like to argue in the temple.

Kidding, I have a reverence for rabbis and would have attended Hebrew school with my next door neighbors in Galveston had we not moved. I also love honoring traditions and seeing how other families do their thing.

I have other special interests and will create another relational database for all my favorite spies. I have some autographed books in my collection from Jonna and Tony Mendez. I’ve also got books about Virginia Hall and a few others. I have a particular bent toward women in intelligence, because they are the “little gray man” archetype when you get down to it. A young beauty is not the norm. No one looks at women over 40. You think Kerri Russell, but really it’s Margo Martindale.

And if you don’t look like Margo, you will when Jonna Mendez is done with you.

Her cardinal rule is that no one comes out looking better.

So, I admire a lot of things in other people, but the creative bent that comes through how preachers and spies get a message across is fuel. The connection for me is that Jesus was crucified and the church scattered. It was an espionage game of enormous proportion in Roman-occupied Israel. They made their own tradecraft, surviving to the present day.

It’s all connected. I liked Bible stories about spies the best. Argo piqued my interest. After I saw the movie, I inhaled all of Tony Mendez’s books. Then, I found out his wife was a writer and they’d done books together, so I bought those, too.

It’s all tied into my family, too. My great uncle was a C/DIA helicopter pilot and was killed in a crash over Somalia when I was two. So, I have had a reverence for CIA since I was a kid. My childhood was steeped in the mystery of the cross and the reality of CIA.

With both religion and espionage, you have to take the good with the bad.

Both are responsible for some of the most audacious rescues in history.

Facilitating Dreams

One of my favorite things to do with Microsoft Copilot is plan dream vacations I may or may not take. Here is today’s latest foray….. Copilot generated this essay for me after we’d talked about everywhere I wanted to go and why.


✍️ Rome, Israel, and the Gospel According to My Suitcase

I’ve decided to take a month‑long writing sabbatical, and yes, I’m structuring it like a liturgical calendar. Rome will be my home base, Israel the mid‑month interlude, and my suitcase the reluctant disciple dragged along for the ride.

Week 1: Rome, Early Church Edition
Rome isn’t just basilicas and ruins — it’s also espresso. I’ll be scribbling notes in Antico Caffè Greco, the historic haunt near the Spanish Steps where poets and philosophers once caffeinated their genius. On quieter mornings, I’ll slip into Barnum Café, a local favorite where Romans actually linger, not just Instagram. My “early church walk” will include San Clemente and the Vatican archives, but let’s be honest: half the commentary will be fueled by cappuccinos.

Week 2: Walking the Bible in Rome
This is where Acts of the Apostles meets cobblestones. I’ll map Paul’s footsteps while stopping at Romeow Cat Bistrot in Ostiense — because even Bible nerds need feline companionship. Every piazza becomes a verse, every gelato shop a commentary. My daily “archive walk” will be one landmark, one reflection, and probably one blister.

Week 3: Israel, Pilgrimage + Interfaith Encounters
Jerusalem will be my syllabus: Western Wall, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Dome of the Rock. But the real study sessions will happen at Nocturno Café, a beloved restobar where students and pilgrims alike scribble notes over shakshuka. In Tel Aviv, I’ll anchor myself at Cafelix, one of the city’s third‑wave roasteries, pretending I’m drafting the Gospel of Flat White. Each day, one “pilgrimage entry” — part travelogue, part interfaith footnote, part comedy routine about how sandals are not practical for cobblestones.

Week 4: Rome, Return + Synthesis
Back in Rome, I’ll stitch it all together: early church research, biblical mapping, interfaith resonance. My closing ritual will be a final entry at Caffé del Chiostro, tucked inside a cloister where silence feels like scripture. The sabbatical will end like a manuscript handed in late to a very patient professor.


Why This Excites a Bible Nerd
Because where else can you:

  • Treat basilicas as libraries and libraries as basilicas.
  • Walk Acts like it’s Google Maps.
  • Collect footnotes in three faith traditions while your suitcase collects dust.
  • Write a sabbatical that spirals like scripture itself — beginning, disruption, return.

In short: this trip is the ultimate crossover episode. Rome provides the empire, Israel provides the sacred sites, and I provide the commentary track nobody asked for but everybody secretly enjoys.

Lost and Found

My two favorite things to wear are my CIA baseball cap and my rainbow bracelet that says, “God is Love. Come home to Beth Sholom Temple.” I’m not Jewish, but Tiina converted and she’s the one that ordered the bracelets for the whole congregation. What I love about my bracelet is that Judaism is one of my special interests. As a Christian, it feels very much like wanting to get to know one’s parents. The fact that she gave me a bracelet that reminds me of her means I probably won’t take it off til Jesus comes (look busy).

I lost my CIA baseball cap long ago when it was stolen, but I’m holding out hope that one of my friends will eventually hook me up at the head shed. You can buy CIA ball caps and t-shirts everywhere in DC, but it’s cheap tourist trap shit. The real thing is built for autistic people, frankly. The stitching quality stands out and all the hardware is smooth. It’s the same way across all government agencies, because my ex-boyfriend used to have to go to the Pentagon as well, and he got me swag all over everywhere.

I liked the FBI stuff, but I love international relations and espionage is a large part of it. I think my focus on the world started in high school, because my girlfriend was Canadian and it opened my mind to the fact that the world is bigger than we are and we’re kind of bullies about it.

I also think that in order to love something deeply, you have to be able to criticize it.

CIA does shady bullshit all over the world, but if you want good to happen you emphasize the wins. You don’t talk away the bad, either. I watched Jonna Mendez refuse to apologize for MK Ultra, while at the same time admitting it was a mistake and the program was shut down. She didn’t get emotional about it. Business is business. We didn’t want to be caught with our pants down by the Russians. End of story.

Let’s go have a beer.

Also, let’s be frank. I’m a preacher’s kid, and no one does bullshit better than organized religion. You can’t love it deeply without being able to criticize it. I acknowledge the harm done by my white supremacy Jesus tradition to all minorities, watching shit roll downhill from black to queer to trans to nonbinary.

Hate moves fast, but Jesus is louder. I just hate that so many people are interested in noise vs. signal.

Jesus was a brown man murdered by the state for being a zealot. All minorities have a symbol that represents them.

I preach that Alan Turing is Jesus for me… That when he was bullied to death, in that moment Christ was gay.

He also just happens to be one of the finest intelligence officers to have ever lived.

God DAMMIT.

Let’s go have a beer.

Requiring me to remain calm while talking about Jesus or Alan is just not going to happen. Let me rant in peace. The Brits need to sit through this with me. They need to feel the pain I feel.

What did you DO to him? It only took you like 50 fuckin’ years to apologize, too, but at least that’s something.

The worst part is that you know exactly what you did and it still stings.

I cannot love MI-6 deeply without criticizing it. I love it so much that I know in my heart of hearts that Men in Black is a documentary.

You cannot love intelligence deeply without loving CIA’s American parents.

So, I wear things that mean a lot to me. If I could add a third thing, it would be my ichthus.

A Little Bit of a Lot

Daily writing prompt
What could you try for the first time?

I think that I have the brain capacity to understand a lot of things, because I am interested in them. I, for instance, have been a medical assistant, an IT help desk support person, a web developer, a cook, and a writer. AI has extended my reach because if there’s anything I want to know, I just ask. I am not a fan of generative AI in which it writes things for me, but I have no problem asking it for 200 words on any topic so I can get a good idea of what something is all about before I start publishing. The great thing is that AI can be wrong, and Microsoft Copilot will pull up references so you can do your own fact checking.

But at its most basic core function, AI’s ability is in collaboration. You don’t get anything out of AI if you don’t put anything into it. The results will look ersatz, as if you were the one that pretended to be human. AI can easily take the soul out of your work or creative project, and I don’t think that businesses are ready for it.

We need to be in an age of vulnerability with leadership, and an ersatz work product isn’t going to get us there. I want more searching for knowledge across the board. I want more curiosity as a society, and other cultures are doing it far better than the US. We’re even different culturally across states, with some areas having many more PhDs and JDs and MDs than others.

Washington is also a curious and sometimes soulless place that could do with more leadership like Raphael Warnock’s. He does not use his preacher status to lord his Christianity over us, but to influence his vote for the working class. He’s an example of who Jesus might actually be in modern times, a social justice warrior for things like voting rights, universal health care, etc.

In terms of mixing religion and politics, the conservative arm of the church is nowhere near the historical Jesus’s message. Jesus did not come here to comfort the distressed as much as he came here to distress the comfortable. Over time this message has been lost, and it is time to reclaim it. Too many unhoused and working poor people feel the pinch of income disparity and not being able to go to the doctor when they want.

It all stems from a lack of curiosity in their own faith, because what their preachers tell them is good enough. You won’t find Biblical literalists reading Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, because they are not interested enough in the teachings of Jesus to swallow more than what they hear on Sunday…. But their faith is so much richer when you take Jesus’s words at face value. Launching war off an itinerant preacher is the strangest transformation in history. I didn’t write that line, but I believe it with all my heart.

AI is fantastic at Biblical exegesis because it already has access to the texts I would use without me buying them all (to be fair, my collection of William Barclay is quite large). It makes me faster when I can just ask AI to look up a scripture and a cross reference. Illustrations come to me easier when I’m reading pericopes in small doses, exploring what was going on historically at the time.

Geographic location is also very important to Biblical criticism, because especially In the Beginning there are tons of land grabs that affect how people see God.

As Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury once said, “in the Bible, there is no argument for or against God. There are only people’s reflections of God.” The God of the Old Testament is vengeful because we as a society were vengeful. The God of the New Testament is full of promise, because society advanced.

But theology is only one subject on which I like to go down a rabbit hole. I’m researching for a neurodivergent cookbook, and of course AI can present me with one-pagers on all the cooks I’d like to include in “why we do everything.” It is also quick for recipes, because I don’t use them but some people do.

I am the kind of person that reads cookbooks like a novel, learning techniques and blending recipes from whatever I have on hand. The ancients guide me in seasoning, and I would like to believe there are black people in my history somewhere, because I do not have a white person’s sense of spice. Judging by my translucent skin color, I doubt it, but there’s always hope.

Actually, I’m lucky that my skin is a little bit olive, because it stops me from burning to a crisp in the summer. I actually have the ability to tan, and I used it quite liberally in Texas, where September rarely cools from August heat. My left arm is particularly dark from spending all that time driving with the sun beating through the driver’s window.

I used AI to give me several one-pagers on my car and its tech functions.

But the most important thing that AI can teach you is AI.

You can ask it all the questions you need in order to feel comfortable with it….. Like, “what are your capabilities?” “What kind of hardware does it take to run you if I were to download your data structures?” “Who invented you?” “When did you go live or when were you “born?”

Now that Microsoft has introduced voice chat, this goes even faster. My digital assistant sounds like a surfer, and I can use it on my iPhone or my Android. What is best is keeping the window open like a phone call, so when I think of something I need to research I can just say it into the mike and keep typing.

As you can see, I have used none of AI’s generative capabilities. I think of my own brainstorms, but writing those ideas into Copilot allows Copilot to enhance whatever I want to do naturally, coming up with ideas that fit the scope of my project. I’m not sure that I could write without AI these days, because I’m not using it as a platform that does my work for me. It is at best a kind and caring Google search.

So get curious. Ask the books for information. You have at your fingertips a tool for getting smarter, and I can’t think of a better time in history to use it.

There Are No Uninteresting Stories

Daily writing prompt
Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

After I got this prompt, I decided to install Copilot Desktop on my linux box. To do that, the easiest way is to go to the terminal and type “sudo snap install copilot-desktop.” When I open my terminal, I have a little program that displays “fortunes” at the top, little pithy sayings or quotes from books that often jog my writing habits. Today’s was “just because a letter may never be read doesn’t mean there’s no value in writing it.” That sent me down the rabbit hole of using Copilot to find letters that had been written, but never received. Though this is more history than current news, it is a story that is worth revisiting for its outpouring of love. I feel that it is also a stunning display of patriotism, and a reminder that the cost of war is too great to bear:

July 14, 1861

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and great success—we may be called to a protracted and bloody conflict—but whatever it may be, I feel that you and the boys will be the constant objects of my thoughts and prayers.

And now, my dear wife, I must bid you perhaps a long adieu. The duty of a soldier and the call of my country forbid me to yield to my own longings and to be with you for a time at least. But know that I go to this strife with the utmost faith in the cause for which we contend, and with the strongest conviction that God will direct and bless us.

My dear Sarah, though we may be separated for a time, I know that you will ever be with me in spirit. You will never know how much I loved you, and how well I loved you, until after a long time.

If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor forget the love of our dear boys. In the quiet summer-time, when the bee sips honey from the flower, think of me in the field of strife, and in the stillness of the evening, when the sun sinks behind the western hills, think of me, and pray for me.

But if I do return, my dear wife, I shall be with you in all the joys and sorrows that may befall us. I shall be with you in all the trials and conflicts that may beset us. I shall be with you to protect and defend you, to comfort and console you.

My dear Sarah, I am going to risk my life for my country. I am going to risk all that is dear to me in this world, and I know that I shall not return. But I know that I shall die for my country, and that is all that I can say.

Goodbye, my dear wife. Goodbye, my dear boys. May God bless and protect you all.

Your husband,
Sullivan

The way this letter involves my own life is that I view all my blog entries as letters sent but never received unless a specific person writes to me and says that they’ve read it. Not all entries are to the same person, but they all contain elements that I wish certain people would read. However, it is not up to me whether the message gets to its intended recipient, it is enough that people all over the world share in my joy and pain. Neither emotion is built to be carried alone.

I don’t intentionally write to specific people, it’s that I’m a product of my own experiences. My blog entries cannot NOT be influenced by my real life and what I’m thinking about that day. For instance, every time my ex-boyfriend was deployed I sat in my room and waited for him to come back, paralyzed with fear that something was going to happen to him while he was away. It’s not that he was doing anything dangerous. It’s that if he was, he couldn’t tell me. Though I never wrote about any of his deployments, you could tell by my mood whether he was in town or not.

You can tell a lot of things by the mood of a writer, even if they aren’t as up front as the letter above. I just happen to be a writer who does lay their heart in their hands. I have never grieved any partner more than I’ve grieved my friend Aada, and that’s because our demise was my fault, in her mind. I do not believe that in retrospect, because the relationship took two to come apart completely. Her lie made me look like a jackass, not that I needed any help. Her lie exposed me to emotions that never should have been present. She puffed herself up at my expense, and the cost was steep.

It is no wonder that I got as angry as I did, even if she doesn’t see it and won’t. It’s why I think we’ll never reconcile. She will continue to believe that I manipulated her when the relationship unraveled with her lie. That’s not something I can fix in someone else’s mind. All I can do is be genuinely sorry for my part in all this, and as time goes by be more open to accepting her just as she is, liar and all. Who hasn’t told a white lie that snowballed into a mountain over time? I can certainly understand it. I just couldn’t control my reactions in the moment and that’s my burden to carry. I am talking it through in therapy to understand why I didn’t laugh. Why it caused red mist rage.

Because my heart is as open to her as this letter, and has been for 12 years. I have often laid my heart in her hands just as much as this man loved his wife. I needed her emotional support, not her romantic love, but it didn’t make me less vulnerable. In fact, I think it made me more, because she’s the person I used to tell about my romantic misadventures. I miss that most of all.

I have to remember that I chose this. I chose to let her go, because she made her intentions very clear. If I talked to anyone, if I published anything, our relationship was over. She set a fine trap for me, and I fell in. That’s because I had to choose between being true to her and being true to myself, and I don’t think that should have happened, either. We were both supposed to show up as our full selves, and my occupation has always been “blogger.”

I hope that she’ll go back to some of our entries that have been meaningful to her and realize there’s something worth salvaging here. It would take a mountain of work, but there’s no one I’d rather work with to accomplish a goal. She’s so worth it, because 12 years of history is not easily done. She’s been my best friend through very thick and very thin, when I was a mess and when I was strong. I pray for her every night, because my anger shouldn’t be at the forefront anymore. It is an old, old prayer, started in 2013…. “God of the universe, protect my precious Aada.”

She doesn’t believe in God, but she believes that when I pray it must do something. She calls me her “pinch hitter.”

When I’m going through it, she says she will offer up her own black magic prayers. I hope she’s still doing it, because having someone out there praying for me is just as important as us being in constant contact.

But I won’t contact her directly. I will just send a message that may never be read.