“Joel where are you?” I answer “I can barely hear you, can you speak up.” The cry that I hear is a cry from the other side. The side that has so much to do with my future, my friends, and wife. But where I sit, admist 30-40 books I can barely hear them yell my name. The thought of Leadership and the New Science, the thought of Power as relatiosnhip, the thought of Darwin and the Holy Spirit, and the thought of trying to write my thesis while having 4 other classes and working drowns out that voice that I am trying so disparingly to listen to.

This morning I woke up about an hour before Brooke. I went and sat down at my makeshift desk, opened my laptop and began typing a paper that I randomly ended in the middle of a sentence last night. As I sat down it felt like I hadn’t even left. My coffee mug was still in the same spot, the cursor on Microsoft word was still blinking in the same spot at the same rate, and the books were still stacked or laid open. But what freaked me out the most is that I was able to finish the sentence that I started the night before. I was able to pick up in the very spot I left off without even missing a beat, or moreso, feeling like I had ever left.

But that is not the point of this story…so let me try again…

This morning I woke up about an hour before Brooke. As I began to type (see above paragraph for explanation) I entered into my world deeply. So deeply in fact that Brooke said good morning to me, asked me if I wanted coffee and began to make breakfast before I even comprehended any of it. The first interaction I remember having with Brooke was through words that I muttered, “The dog really needs to go out.” Willis was sitting by the door whining, and by golly, I wasn’t going to get up from my work to take him out. In fact, my very thought was, “take yourself out you damn dog.” So as I continued to read Brooke took Willis for a walk, a long walk, by my best estimate she was gone for 12 pages. (not I have no concept of time in this sentence). Upon returning she was cranky (rightfully so) and I could, amazingly, from behind my wall fo books, feel her crankiness. I got up from my chair gave her a hug and felt no real return of the embrace. This is when I asked, “are you mad at me?” (note my assumption in my very verbage of the question). She played it off like it was no big deal, so I asked again, “Did I make you mad?” For some reason this question was either more accessible, or Brooke just didn’t want me to ask again, so she nodded in agreement and then provided me with the data of our inneractions of the morning thus far.

And so the question remains, where are you Joel?

peace
a man with a keyboard