It’s a swift kick in the nuts — except when it’s a slow kick …
Karmic payback for the time we played Surfing Bird on the Eat-a-Burger jukebox for twenty minutes straight.
A chart explaining the tolerability of children. I’ve found few exceptions to this rule.
Letter Twelve, in which I deal with my existential crises by letting God off the hook because God never asked for this.
Letter Eleven, in which I deal with my existential crises by wondering if I’m simply talking to myself.
Letter Ten, in which I deal with my existential crises by wondering if I’m fishing.
Letter Nine, in which I deal with my existential crises by almost sounding grateful. Weird.
Letter Eight, in which I deal with my existential crises by complimenting God’s plagues, pondering the effects on my lawn, and wondering if what we really cause or don’t cause.
Letter Seven, in which I deal with my existential crises by suddenly realizing that none of my suffering matters, or, potentially more frightening, that my unrest might be the very point.
Letter Six, in which I deal with my existential crises by starting to acknowledge that God might have bigger fish to fry.
Letter Five, in which I deal with my existential crises by wondering if persistence is always the best course of action.
Letter Three, in which I deal with my existential crises by contemplating how frustrating it must be to watch my life knowing all the right answers.
Letter Three, in which I deal with my existential crises by struggling to come up with things to tell an omniscient being and question the results of a church that claims to be the one, true denomination.
Letter Two, in which I process my existential crisis by some how getting grumpy about resurrection and renewal. When will it be my turn?!
Letter One, in which I process my existential crisis through questioning God’s plans as revealed through country music.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pastor Sullivan, lost in a comfortably worn chair and a book, looked up and cast his eyes around the room, but he was otherwise perfectly still. Not even a breath. The noise had been so faint—if there had been a noise at all—it would’ve been lost if he made any sound…
Marvin was a cosmopolitan bull, a bovine of refinement. Colloquially, most would call him a “cow.” He was born and raised outside of Muncie, Indiana, where his father instilled in him a farmer’s work ethic and an obligatory love for basketball…