College, Court, and an Uncouth Closure

Last time I made a blog post, I lived on Highland Drive, had a black sharpie-poodle named Addy, and had just begun my final year of high school. A year and a half later, Addy has passed, high school has passed, and we’re renting a small home from horse ranchers in Finley. It’s been a long time, and I can hear my readers’ cries of frustration. “What the heck!” They say. “Where’d you go for two years with no explanation?” And to my dear readers (Mom), I apologize for my undue negligence. My answer to your desperate question is this: keep reading.

After my last entry in October of 2018, I continued working towards my high school diploma and AA degree from CBC. I hardly did any writing during this time, other than that of academics. My senior season for baseball at Kennewick came and went. Soon the school year came to a close and I had achieved all of the academic and athletic goals I wanted. Around this time, I tried to get back into blogging- but decided that I was done with the name Jesusfreak727. It’s a childish name, I said to myself. No one can remember what it’s called. So I began to ponder names that would fit me better.

I asked people that knew me what a solid name would be, but none of the suggestions really worked. A few weeks passed and a decision was yet to be made. I kept asking God to put a name in front of me but He never did. “What the heck, God,” I’d say. “Don’t you want me to blog? About you?” No answer. I put a pin in it to come back to later. 

Between the time of my last post and the summer of 2019, a grave and perpetual weight lay on my heart. It was the weight of the unknown and a fear of what was to come. My little sister’s future was the subject in a series of court proceedings that spanned longer than a year. Our parents’ battle for custody went on day and night with no reprieve. Every day I prayed that Rebecca would not fall into the hands of an evil man, and though it seemed for a long time that those prayers were for naught. One day in June, my mother brought me, Rebecca and Danielle together in the living room. “It’s over,” she said. “All of it. Visitation, custody, court. Our girl is safe.” Becky began sobbing. We all crowded around her in a hug and started crying too, but it was a minute or two before it hit me. Sometimes when you live a certain way long enough, that way becomes normal, and then when you’re allowed to live in freedom again, you’ve become so accustomed to it that you’ve forgotten how it feels to be whole. Well, that day I remembered.

We moved off Highland Drive and into Finley, and I started playing summer ball with the Kennewick Outlaws. We were raw and had seven players, including myself, committed to play baseball in college the following spring. We won 42 games, one of which was the state championship, and made it to the regional tournament in Lewiston, Idaho, where we got no-hit by the number-one pitching prospect in the state. If that doesn’t put an exclamation point on the end of a great summer I don’t know what does.

As September approached, I became excited and fearful and nervous- all at the same time. I knew classes would be easy enough with my experience of standard community college expectations. But I wasn’t sure what to expect out of the baseball team. Would they be cool? Would they be way out my league? Would I still love the game, even when dedicating so many hours to it?

I thought my questions were answered by Day 2. We conditioned so much I thought I was dead and ready to hang up the ol’ cleats. We had two guys quit in the first few weeks and I didn’t blame them one bit. But once the initial testing was done, things evened out and we began to buy into the program. There was a lot of running and conditioning, lifting every day, tedious drills and tarp pulls. We all made it through the fall and winter. Then the spring came, and with it was this energy that the fall and winter had lacked. It was a collective knowledge by the guys that the season would soon be upon us. When it finally did come, we played eight games to a 4-4 record- not quite the start we envisioned but 4-4 nonetheless. Based on our work ethic and talent I have no doubt we would have had a solid playoff run come May.

My first year at WWCC wasn’t all work. Living with my uncle and aunt out in the country was a blast. They kept me busy at home with the news and politics of the day, having the cousins over, going to sporting events, or doing crosswords together. They even took me to Palouse Falls and Whitman Mission, and I was able to attain the “Freshman 15” due to some great cooking! The school also put on fun events like Trivia Night and different expos and sporting events that kept the baseball guys involved with school functions. And of course, spending each day with 40 brothers never allows for a boring moment.

Once our coaches told us a few weeks ago that the season was cancelled due to coronavirus, it was difficult to stay positive knowing how hard we’d worked. But it’s important to remember that a lot of things in this world are bigger than baseball, and this sickness is one of them. Even though the season got cut short, I’m thankful for every moment spent with those men and for the wonderful place God has put me in with my future at WWCC.

So here I am now, writing in April 2020, a year and a half later. I still haven’t come up with a good name for a new blog, because I’ve decided to stick with the old one. This blog stuck with me through thick and thin and all through my high school years. Jesusfreak727 was where a young man went to vent, to laugh, to share. And even if my mom is the only person that still reads this (thanks Mom), and even if it’s a weird, uncool, hard-to-remember name, it’s where my roots lie. In this time of global mayhem, dissent, and evil, coming back to our roots might be all we can do. 

Palouse Falls with aunt, uncle and the cousins!

#16

Whitman Mission was a beautiful view!

Gotta include the appendix pics

Family Over Everything

As Iron Sharpens Iron

 It was the night before my 18th birthday and I was sour. We were in Spokane, WA, at a youth conference, staying in the dorms of Gonzaga University. In ninety minutes I would be an adult man in the eyes of the law, freed from the court system, and yet somehow I was extremely frustrated about it all. So I went into the community room on the fifth floor and sat, alone, on a couch, staring out the window at the late night bustle in Spokane.

Soon, a few guys came and sat down next to me, my friends Cade, Martin and Hayden. I was silent, and they followed suit. For two hours we stared at the window in total silence. I don't remember who began the conversation, but someone got me talking about what was on my mind, and I spilled the frustration in my heart to them. About how turning 18 would make me exempt to child custody laws while my sister would be forced to go to our dad's alone for another five years. About how God takes so long all the time to bring about justice. About how I was ready to take matters into my own hands.

They all listened silently and patiently. When I was finished with my profanity-laced tirade, Hayden spoke up. "You need to remember that God takes His time, Jacob."
I know that.

"He's a crockpot God," he said quietly. "He's not a microwave God that we can put something in and get what we want in a matter of seconds. He is just, but sometimes He likes to move slow."

We talked for a few more minutes and I said my sullen good nights and Hayden and I headed back to our dorm room. That night we welcomed in my adulthood by talking until almost three in the morning, sobbing on the dorm floor and praising God for always welcoming us back into His open arms. I was filled with such a sense of gratitude for real friendship, for these young men that had stared at a wall for two hours just to be with me and pray.

We woke up around seven the next morning and our youth group started the trek over to St. Aloysius parish, for morning Mass at 8.

Mass was going along smoothly until the homily was about halfway over. I had tuned most of it out, considering we were functioning on four hours of sleep and an emotionally tiring night, until the priest suddenly said something about "the slow work of God." I tuned back into what he was saying because it sounded familiar to the discussion the night before.

"We need to trust in His slow work, well, because our God is special. He's like a crockpot God."
No way. 

"He moves slowly and deliberately. And sometimes He likes to let us simmer a little bit."

My jaw dropped and I put a hand to my mouth. I looked at Hayden sitting on my left and he had the same reaction. We both started laughing and I thought for the first time in my life that I might need to step outside the church to get under control. People were looking at us with judgmental smirks but we didn't care. No one else had seen it and no one understood except the four guys that had sat in silence for two hours. We knew God being compared to a crockpot was an abnormal analogy. But twice in a span of twelve hours was pretty special, and it was just what we needed.

That story would be funny if it was a miracle that happened once in a lifetime and then it was over. But Hayden and I have seen God move like never before since we've been friends for the second time.

You see, Hayden Gorham and his family left for Maryland when we were friends in the second grade. We carpooled to religious ed on Tuesdays and I would get to their house thirty minutes early so we could play for a while before we had to leave for class.

Fast forward a couple months; we've both received our first communion and the Gorham brothers had begun telling me of plans to move to Maryland for their father's new job assignment. When they left, it was hard, but it was only going to be for two years and then they would most likely return, so I patiently waited.

Two years passed.

Then three. Four. Five. Six.

They had been gone for over seven years. I was now a 17-year old young man. I thought of the Gorham's once a week, when I drove past their street on the way to Sunday Mass. Every time I got this little sadness and shot a prayer heavenward for their family, wherever they may be. I had accepted that I would never see them again, but I knew they could still benefit from some long-distance prayer. Meanwhile, Hayden who was in Tennessee, was offering up prayers of his own.
Please, Lord, he prayed, give me another friend like Jacob.
Both of our prayers were answered. And the answers were yes.

I was sitting in Mass on a nice fall evening and saw a family sitting to my left. I looked closer and recognized Mrs. Gorham first. As my eyes followed down the line of men I started getting excited. I got a bounce in my step. Sung a little louder. And when Mass was over I hurried over to them and gave her a hug. I asked the boys if they remembered me. Hayden looked me right in the eye and nodded, a big smile spreading across his face.

*********

The Gorham's have been in the Tri-Cities for a year now, and its been one of the best years of my life, faith-wise. When Hayden and I get together, God is always present and crazy stuff happens. Our closeness began in early July in Klamath Falls, OR. Our small group from Holy Spirit was headed to San Francisco for a mission trip (read the post about it here) and we stayed at the Running Y Resort in Oregon. That night, Brian, Cade and I watched a few minutes of Thor and Hayden went out to the balcony to pray. When he came in, we all gathered in the living room. 

"So, guys," I began. "It's time for real talk." And thus real talk was born.

"So, Jacob," said Brian a few minutes later, "How's your love life?" And thus our now-famous beginning sentence of real talk was born. 

"Well, man, it's pretty rough these days. I still like this girl but she doesn't even know and with me discerning the seminary and everything we'll probably end up staying brother and sister." We went around and got the hoedown of each other's love lives. I noticed Hayden hadn't said much and so I opened the question to him. "Hayden, what about you?"

To my surprise, he started slowly and began opening up. He told us some of his prayers, desires, dreams, all with a peace about him that was contagious. 

"Real Talk" became a regularity, often at four, five or six in the morning or past eleven at night. 

One afternoon in August I was pretty down. My aforementioned love interest had moved off to college that morning and I felt as if the Lord just had me running in circles. In my time of sadness my friends reached out. They all told me I was in their prayers, to let them know if I needed to talk, etc. Brian told me I was coming over at six that night to talk so I said sure. And Hayden texted me at 2:45 asking what I was doing at the moment. I told him I'd gotten up and done some yard work and he replied this:

So he came over and we talked for a few minutes. He said he had the entire evening free and had told his parents he would be out till late. We went to Mass together that night (it was Saturday) and then  headed to Brian's. It wasn't a good night to be cooped up, so all three of us left his house soon and went on a drive. With Hayden's direction we found our way up a big hill to a viewpoint overlooking the city and we parked. We stayed there talking and praying until 10:30 and then headed for home. And thus our tradition of going to a viewpoint to cry was born. 

A few weeks later, after many return trips up there to cry and pray, we met at five and went up on a Sunday morning. This time we were prepared; we brought Bibles, an acoustic guitar and blankets. I laid down and Hayden started reading aloud from Paul's letter to Timothy. Soon slowing footsteps approached us. I leaned up and Hayden paused. We looked at our visitor: it was a middle-aged man dressed in white. He had been on a run. 

"You guys praying?" 

"Yes," we replied in unison. 

"I figured you were either praying or smoking weed out here."

We chuckled. "Well, we're not smoking weed."

"What parish you guys from?" He was breathing heavy from his workout.

"Holy Spirit Catholic," Hayden replied. 

"Can I pray over you guys?" 

"Uh, yeah."
"Lord, thank you for these young men who are here to pray and learn about You. I ask that you would bless them and fill them with your Holy Spirit. Lord, make them warriors for you and show them how much you love them."

He finished and looked up for a second at us. "God bless you guys."

Then without waiting for a response or a thank you, he took off in the other direction to finish his morning run while we sat dumbfounded. 

Hayden turned to me. "Duuuude, what just happened?!" 

We burst out laughing in wonder of our God and the weird ways in which he works.

*********

It took me a while to get the message across, and you're probably not even reading this far right now, but the key point of everything I've said is best written in the words of the Proverbs: As iron sharpens iron, so man sharpens his fellow man. I feel sharpened by the friendship I have with Hayden. And the cool thing is that God is just beginning His work. There's a lot more to come, and I can't wait to see what else He has in store; even if He does move kind of slow. 

Love people.

Jacob

Cade, myself and Hayden 

Alex, Hayden and I at a future four am viewpoint site

Jort display- this was not sanctioned by our chaperones

Hayden's famous dance move- The Knok

Homecoming 2018- we had a great time and matched without coordinating.

It's a Process

I watched a movie called Moneyball recently. It's a baseball movie, a true story about an Oakland Athletics team that was struggling to find wins and were headed for a last-place finish in their division. About halfway through the film, the players begin doubting themselves and the manager (main character, Billy Beane) sits a couple of them down and talks with them.
"This is a process, it's a process, it's a process."

I think sometimes we all need to be reminded of that. In 5th grade I was having a hard time learning cursive, and I became so frustrated that I started crying and yelling. "This is IMPOSSIBLE!"
If I could go back now and talk to my eleven-year old self I would say, "It's not impossible, Jacob. But it is a process. And sometimes when you're in the process you can't see anything except what's directly in front of you. That's why we need to rely on God. Because he sees the whole picture."

I was praying about this post and I quietly felt the Lord start telling me a story, one of his Passion and death, and about the importance in trusting the process.
When I was walking up that hill, your burdens weighing me down, the frustrations of the entire universe heaped on my shoulders, I didn't swear. I didn't blame others. I didn't make excuses. 
I was filled with love for you and for my abusers and pushed forward. I continued through the struggle. 
And as I hung on that cross, blood dripping down my body, dripping into my eyes, I slowed my mind and thought. This is the beginning. The beginning of a long and victorious story. The pain I feel now will be changed into saved souls. It's a process. 

What I've found is that change will never be easy. From the little boy laughing innocently to the traumatized ten-year old, life was a process. From the wide-eyed freshman to the young adult man I have become today, the process held true. As a close friend of mine once said, "God is like a potter, and sometimes we have to be melted down so that He can build us back up and form us into something more beautiful."
With a process, there are no promises; only the belief and courage to know that we will come out the other side stronger.
It's our faith. It's our mission.
And it's not impossible.

Young Neighbors in Action 2018

We pulled into the city Sunday morning, paid $12 for parking and walked confidently out into the streets of San Francisco, knowing that we had a few minutes for tourism before we had to get to our mission headquarters where we'd be staying for the whole week. As we walked, we quickly became acclimated to the surroundings of just what exactly we were up against. Everywhere we turned, we were confronted with the faces of the homeless, the eyes of the drugged and the smell of aged urine. At times there was physical moaning from our sheltered Tri-Cities group as we took in the different smells of the slums.
When we got to the site where we'd be staying, we played some icebreakers and met a few people from the other groups. I think there was close to seventy of us altogether. I introduced myself to a young man named Hassan and thought nothing more of it- until the next day when a girl mentioned him in small groups. "Hey, Jacob," she said across the table. "Are you and Hassan brothers?"
"Hassan?" I asked, trying to remember which one he was. It came to me and I shook my head, chuckling. "No, we're not brothers." She seemed surprised at that answer but moved on in the conversation to other topics. Unfortunately, she had sparked a thought in my mind that didn't go away for the rest of the week. Two others asked me the same question before the day was over, and I began to think this could really be something. I talked to Hassan about it and he found it equally funny, so we began the plotting phase of our plan. The next day, a girl named Lauren asked if we were twin brothers, and we were ready. "Yes," we both responded at the same time. Her mouth dropped. "Ha! I knew it! You guys looked so similar." Hass looked at me and gave a knowing wink. I burst out laughing at just how easy this was. The act became more than just a facade, though, when Hassan's St. Kateri Tekakwitha group took the stage for daily site sharing. We made eye contact and he smiled. Then, as if perfectly on cue, we both winked at the other- with our left eye. That's when I became a believer that Hassan and I are actually biological brothers, despite my Italian background and his Arabic one.
The St. Kateri group went into Tenderloin for their mission work, one of the sketchiest parts of San Francisco. I would ask Hass about the things they saw that day, and he always had a funny story at the ready. "So we're parked at the masonic temple, right," he began. "We're doing a circle prayer and suddenly we see this mom and little kid walk by. This kid is like, maybe two years old. Anyway, they walk by and the mom bends down to say something, so we all listen. 'Remember now, son,' she starts, 'don't say the F-word.'" We both started laughing, thinking it ridiculous that a mother would have to tell her young child that. "So then we're walking along," Hassan continued, "and our youth minister is leading the way. Suddenly, some kid walks out of a bush in front of us. 'Hey bud,' our leader says, trying to be friendly. The kid stares at him and just says, 'I don't talk to strangers,' and walks back inside the bush." Behavior like this may be normal for a local, but for guys like us it was funny to dwell on the unconventional things of this weird city.
Our mission work involved going to a summer school program and giving the kid much-needed attention, as well as cleaning chairs, fridges and toys for the school. Later in the day we would head to the Archdiocese of San Francisco headquarters and write letters to prison inmates and their families as well as learn about something called the Restorative Justice program. This program is meant to help in the recovery process for offenders and victims of crime by teaching them how to get reintegrated into society and make amends. We created a video detailing the different steps that will be shared on the Archdiocese website and shown to people at retreats put on by Julio Escobar, the coordinator of Restorative Justice.
Tuesday night was the unexplainable highlight of everyone's week. It began with Adoration and ended with... well, I don't know exactly. Cade and I had just finished altar serving and hung our albs up when a kid rushed into the sacristy weeping. "Father, could you hear my confession?" The priest took him away and Cade and I looked at each other with wide eyes, knowing that something special had happened out there. We went and knelt down in different areas of the church, and I kept noticing a girl from our group crying and the others comforting her. Little did we know that these tears were all the Holy Spirit would need to set us on fire with an explosive revival. We all began crying for different reasons. A tear huddle began, our emotions bonding us closer than ever before. We went outside to pray before a statue of Mary and the girls left us to get blankets. During that time the guys held my hands as I told them about being unable to let go of what's going on with my dad right now. They cried with me and for me, and we let the Holy Spirit come in and fill us with love for Him and for each other. We headed back to our rooms, much later than curfew and talked about it late into the night. It was probably the first time our nighttime conversation hadn't revolved solely around girls, and they were the ones who had set off this whole experience in the first place.
On Friday we went to a site in San Francisco where a man had been murdered recently. We circled the spot and prayed over it with Julio and a priest, asking the Lord to reclaim that place of hate and death with His love and peace. As we were finishing, an old man walked by and turned to our group. "That's common here. Travel in packs and stay armed or you die." His brashness surprised us, but the weird thing was that he wasn't trying to scare us or ruin the moment of prayer. He was telling it like it is. Down there it's not about thriving and living life; it's about surviving and getting by. We were only in San Francisco for six days. Our goal was to see Christ in others and be Christ for others, and for our short stay, I think we succeeded. We realized that we can't change everything, that our efforts may turn out to be minuscule in the grand scheme of things. But I think the more important thing we took home is that it only takes one to make a difference. One smile on a kid's face that doesn't receive love when they get home. One tear shed by the prisoner that opens a letter saying someone cares and is praying for you. One circle prayer that shows our humanity, caring for and commemorating our dead. It's a lost art, service is. Sometimes it goes unappreciated. But what better way to show love for our savior then through sacrificing ourselves? It's the example he set, and although it may be small, we can take solace in the fact that he sees what we've done. There's nothing that could put a bigger smile on His face.

Ok, one last story. I couldn't fit it into the post anywhere else so unfortunately I have to ruin my perfect conclusion to tell it. We were at Oakland station waiting for our train, Saturday afternoon. Brian was sick and I had given up my water bottle so I needed to buy another one. I walk over to the vending machine; it's $2.25 for a bottle of Dasani water. Flipping through my wallet I see that all I have are twenties. Whatever. I put one in the cash slot and punch the button. My bottle comes out, so I grab it while I'm waiting for my cash back. Plink. I look up. Ok. I need like $17.75 back so I should be getting three quarters. Plink, plink. I almost reached in to grab them when I realized the quarters weren't stopping. Plink, plink, plink. They kept coming. Quarters galore, tens of them just raining from the vending machine. By the time it stopped I was 71 quarters richer. Walking back to the group I tried to stuff them in my wallet. "Guys," I started, "I think I did something dumb."

Love people.
Jacob

Not my visor

The better of the two car crews

Alcatraz

My man Matt- you saw him here first when he's dunking in the NBA 

Which one is me and which one is Hassan? You'll never know

Best 25-hour train ride I've ever taken

Community slurpees 

A cool picture I got off google

Another one

My little Italian mama 

Does your dog have fleas? 

Welcome to Cottonwood

It's not about how you start. It's about how you finish. 
These are the words I was telling myself as I drove around the little city of Cottonwood on Saturday, searching for phone service and kicking myself for not getting directions to the Rehder's house beforehand. After a nice long loop around the city, I pulled into a sketchy gas station and walked in. "Excuse me, Ma'am," I said to the old cashier. "I'm from out of town and I have no phone service here. Do you guys have some kind of phone I could use?" She said yes and handed me a handset so I could call my friend Maddie. This first exposure to Cottonwood gave me some insights as to what I could expect for the upcoming four days. I learned that the vast majority of their townspeople are extremely kind and welcoming, while also learning that I was truly out in the wild lands with no phone service, surrounded by woods and mountains.

I finally got to the Rehder's after directions from Maddie and the trip immediately brightened. Everything that followed was an absolute blast filled with sugar, movies, and lots and lots of "real talk."

The authentic conversations were refreshing and it was such a blessing knowing I could tell this family anything. The Rehder girls and I stayed up late every night, talking about everything under the sun and laughing all the while. While this was all so pleasant and encouraging, my highlight of the week came on Monday night, Maddie's 18th birthday, when we all reclined in their home theater to watch The Greatest Showman.
I'd seen it the night before (Father's Day) for the first time and enjoyed it, but this time was different, mostly because of changes in the seating arrangements: I was seated next to another Rehder, cousin Mike, a 24-year old with a squirrely sense of humor and contagious laugh. Meeting him was so cool and his humor rubbed off on me and set me off many times in a span of a few days, one series of deep laughter after another.

 I got a seat next to this unknown cousin I'd heard so much about and settled down for the movie. It was carrying on smoothly until a bearded woman took stage, front and center, for the song "This is Me." It's possible that in this scene, in a PG-rated movie, mind you, a record was set for the most exposed skin I've ever seen in one place. The ample-bosomed woman bent over while belting out some lyrics, and let's just say it left very little to the imagination. I was trying to hold in laughter from the outrageous nature of the whole thing. As I struggled, not with my eyes but with my mouth, I turned to Michael so I could see his reaction to the woman. His wide eyes showed surprise, and he summed it all up in one word.
"Whoa."
It was over from there. I exploded in laughter and he followed suit, much to the chagrin of the four girls behind us and Gabbie to our right. We went on for probably three minutes, feeding off each other's contagious laughter, until we finally pulled ourselves together near the end of the song. There were tears in my eyes when Michael reopened the can of worms. "You know," he started the next time the woman and her anatomy were displayed, "that's actually really distracting."
Then he looked at me.
I looked at him.
There was no going back, and round two started the laughing all over again. We went on for probably six minutes altogether, drowning out the movie for everyone else and enjoying every minute of it. All the girls were complaining for us to be quiet, but I think they secretly liked hearing us laugh so hard at this injustice to human decency.

Maddie's 18th b-day from left: Bridget, Kayla, Gabbie, Michael, Nicole, random homeless guy, Maddie

The rest of the week was a blast, buying lottery tickets with young-adult Maddie, chatting with Gabs late into the night, spotting deer and racing down water slides with Nicole, and talking sports with Max.

Max encouraged us to bring out our inner gangsta

Lewiston Aquatic Center 

Getting the Cotton "woods" experience

Cottonwood was beautiful. The Rehder's are unbelievably hospitable and incredibly fun people, and I will never forget how loved I have felt while being welcomed into their life and home. I saw an authentic, holy family that strives for the Lord in hard times. I saw a father that protects his women with his life. I saw what can happen when you put the electronics down and interact with real people. As six of us packed into the car on Maddie's birthday to go buy lottery tickets, cousin Kayla smiled widely and sighed big from the back seat. "You know what, guys? I feel like we're all just a big family."
I turned towards her and returned the smile. I couldn't agree more.

Moving Mountains (MATURE THEMES)

DISCLAIMER: This blog post is nearly 2800 words long. I spent nearly four hours writing late last night, and it is extremely close to my heart. The first few paragraphs may drag on, but keep reading, things get more interesting. Don't feel compelled to read it all in one sitting. 

**********

Sometimes I wonder when the turning point in my life will be. I ask myself when I will finally find the motivation to change my ways and look for a greater path. When will I put down my phone? When will I regain the childlike innocence I once possessed and should have held onto more dearly? When will I forget how precious the good old days were and begin living my life now? I cope using counterfactual reasoning, the feature of our brains my psych professor defines as “mentally reshaping the events of our past to help us cope with what happened.” I should’ve been a better brother. I should’ve forgiven Ryan Vargas. I should’ve loved my sisters when they didn’t have a good man loving them. If I had done these things, would my life be different? Would Ryan have taken his finger off the trigger? Would my sisters have been confident in their identity? What could I have done to help my friends in their distress?

Could I have made a difference?

I feel like my job has always been to make a difference, and I’ve been failing at it for about eleven years now. Story time: I don’t remember the specifics. Rebecca and I were out on our back patio riding scooters, perhaps 2007, when she was two and I was seven. It sounds silly but I had been seething, maybe unconsciously, about Becky taking over the role of “cutie” in our family. I was used to being doted over by my sisters, mom’s friends and pretty much everyone. Rebecca had stolen my limelight. She made some innocent comment that day when we were out scootering, I think she was copying me somehow, and I turned and gave her the meanest glare my face has ever, past or present, delivered to another human being. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know if little Becky even knew what happened, but I remember her wide eyes to this day. It shocked her. She was two years old. Because I still remember this, I have the feeling that I never let go of it. Either I’m still mad at Rebecca all these years later or I still feel bad for what I did, so in order to kill two birds with one stone, I’m going to take them both out right now. As I write this, I’m praying for the healing and anointing of the Holy Spirit to descend upon me as I say these words aloud: I choose to forgive Rebecca Andersen for removing me from my pedestal and becoming the newest member of the family for everyone to dote over. I forgive myself for giving my sweet sister, Rebecca, an evil glare in an attempt to blow out her flame of innocence that so many people found inspiring and adorable. I choose to forgive myself for the resentment I adopted aimed at Rebecca and I let go of any holds that the enemy still has on me today, tempting me to look down on Rebecca for her continued innocence.

Back to my main point: Making a difference. I didn’t become aware of this objective until the first game of my eleven-year-old season on the baseball diamond, 2012. I learned a new word that day. I remember it vividly. The field we were on, the weather, I even remember the kid’s name that said it to this day. “She wanted to go out,” my teammate started. “But I couldn’t find my sweatshirt, so I was just like, f*** it.” My head whipped around and I looked at the laughing twelve-year-old. I had no idea what that word meant. Following that incident, I don’t remember if I googled the word without a parent’s consent or if I asked a friend or sibling what it was, but somehow I found out that it was the worst of all words, maybe even worse than God’s name in vain. It was only then that I realized I was dabbling in something dark; the baseball world. To this point while writing this, I’m sure I have heard more swear words and negative put-downs than I could have ever imagined existed.

I have uttered three swear words on the diamond in my eight year career, and only one of them was heard by a teammate. The first bad word I ever said was during practice, freshman year 2016. It had been a long week and our coach was hitting us fly balls in the outfield. One of the very first ones hit the ground and took a bad hop, skipping past me quickly. “D***.” No one heard it except God and myself. That same practice, not much later (it was a rough day), me and two teammates were standing in the outfield as our coach hit balls to the other players. “He's about to f*** it up,” one teammate said, laughing. I looked to right field and whispered under my breath, almost prayerfully, “Don’t f*** it up, man.” Suddenly I became aware and I looked around to see if anyone had heard it. My teammates were oblivious, so I was safe from them, but I became downcast and realized what had happened to me and the monster I was evolving into. I stayed ultra-alert the rest of the season, at least until summer ball, game one. I had pitched the game of my life against Walla Walla and we had a 1-0 lead going into the seventh and final inning. I gave up a leadoff triple and the lead and my coach pulled me. Walking back to the dugout I uttered one more profound profanity. “S***.” Unfortunately a teammate heard it this time and my Mr. Goody Two-Shoes Catholic reputation went out the window in a blink. I decided that day that no one else was ever going to hear me swear again, and with the exception of my father (keep reading), I have stayed committed to that promise.

I think its made an impact on my teammates. Several of them apologize when they swear in my presence. Others defend me from negative words that may be headed my direction. My brothers protect me, not because they don’t think I can handle it, but because they care about me in a special way and admire my struggle against the grain. So, again, I am going to use definitive words and say now, aloud, my intentions for moving this mountain in my life. I choose to forgive myself for not being diligent and for succumbing to the devil’s temptations. I accept the fact that those days in which I sinned and abused the gift of language are over and helped me become the person I am today. I forgive my teammates, past and present, for exposing me to the darkness of the world and attempting to suck me into it with them.

My third mountain I would like to address is going to make me very uncomfortable. It’s one of the most vile ways satan has pierced my innocence, and it’s the thing about me that I work on the most to get out of my life: lust.

My battles with lust began probably around 13 or 14. At first, it was just an article in the newspaper or a letter to Dear Abby that I probably should’ve avoided, but around 15 years old is when I began to notice there might actually be a problem. My eyes would linger a little too long in the sexualized Sunday ads. There were billboards in town showcasing women in basically underwear. I started noticing female joggers. And then I found Google. The search engine from hell. I knew it was wrong for me to think these things and hold these glances, but I wasn’t proactive and I didn’t have someone to turn to that I felt comfortable with. My mom probably would have answered my questions, but she’s always been so holy and I didn’t want to disappoint her with my dirty questions about sex and these emotions I was just starting to feel. I didn’t receive “the talk” until I was sixteen, and believe me, I was fully aware of how things worked by then. What I didn’t overhear from my teammates, the Body Book told me, and what I couldn’t figure out, Google solved. Ultimately, when I was sixteen I went to a fair in Lynden, WA with my brother-in-law’s 72-year old farmer dad, and he told me EVERYTHING I might need to know about anatomy and what goes where. He taught me all the lingo and effectively doused my curiosity: all by just pointing out body parts on a female cow. Gross.

Those two years were rough as I tried to discover who I was in the eyes of God and why he would ever want a tainted son like me. I remember crying out, banging my fists on my bed as I wallowed in my lusts, looking at what I had become and the people I had let down. I had read self-help books, the entire New Testament, been to confession a thousand times. Lust still owned me. It wasn’t like I was indulging in hardcore porn or watching naked people, fortunately for me it never escalated to that. But those more dangerous things were always lurking at the door, just waiting for me to open it. I was just lustful enough to get by, to satisfy my sexual appetite, but never enough to be that bad. At least I’m not watching porn, I’d tell myself. At least I’m not masturbating. I could be a lot worse.

I became a man the day I turned sixteen. I decided I wasn’t going to go on with lust controlling my life and eating at my soul. I was set free at the driving wheel and I sure wasn’t going to stay in bondage to this dreadful, degrading sin. I began attending morning Mass every day and receiving the Lord in his fullness. I met a friend at Mass, too, a girl my age who was going through her own struggles at the time. We both needed a friend. A holy friend. We went every single day for a year, often talking for long periods of time afterwards about our faith. I noticed my lustful thoughts began decreasing dramatically at this time. They were still tugging at me, but the burden felt bearable, because now the Lord was taking a tiny bit of it every single morning. The ultimate turning point in my life was going on a retreat last summer, right when I turned seventeen. I discovered two things there: first, two young men who I feel absolutely comfortable telling anything to, and second, an authentic identity in Christ I never knew existed. I was challenged to peel my masks off and expose my true self to others, and I dove in, no holds barred. I told those young men all of my struggles, desires, hopes and dreams. I told them how hard it is for me knowing I will never have a wife to come home to, kids to wrestle with, or sleepless nights to enjoy. I’ll never get to walk my daughter down the aisle, watch my son pitch, or know what it feels like to commit your life to someone. Instead I will be baptizing others’ children, marrying off my friends to their soul mates, and retiring to bed early with a precise schedule outlined for the next day.

I went a short time wondering if my struggles with lust were the reasons I really wanted to be a priest. Perhaps I don’t deserve a wife, if I can only look at women as objects. Sometimes I’d think, because of what I’d done, that I deserved to live my life single and joyless.

What I discovered is that no one should live like that. The only reason God calls us to a vocation is because he knows it’s best for us. He wants us to be happy serving Him, not punished for our past mistakes, living a boring life in solitude. I now believe that the priesthood is my true calling, and that with faith, discernment, and a lot of outside help we can get there.

The writing in the last few paragraphs may have left you shocked. Many people were not aware of my struggles with this sin, but in the end, that’s all it is. It’s sin. Is it gross? Yes. Perverted? Most definitely. It’s also just sin. It’s not special, it’s not jaw-dropping, heck, it’s hardly even worth talking about, but I felt that it was something I needed to put out in the open for the wellbeing of my soul. It may have made you uncomfortable as you read it, it may have lowered your opinion of me, but I embrace that. I would rather you have an accurate low opinion than an inflated high one. I’m not trying to say I beat lust or that I have some one-size-fits-all approach. Lust is a daily struggle. The word “struggle” or “battle” implies that there are both wins and losses, and with sexual sin that is true as well. The takeaway I’ve ultimately drawn out of my struggle is that the Lord is much better of a fighter than I am, and so I'm going to invoke his holy name in rebuking the power of this sin over my life. Lord, I ask for forgiveness for letting lust captivate my thoughts and letting my passions take precedence over you in my life. I forgive myself for the actions I've committed in agreement with lust and I ask forgiveness for failing to do what is right. I choose to forgive my father and other leading examples in my life who have not shown me what it means to be a pure man. 

My final mountain I am trying to move is my dad. I am not going to degrade him and I am not going to tell you stories about the things he’s done to me and my family, because that’s not my place. My father filed for divorce from my mom and moved out in November 2017. What he didn’t see in her, I have no idea, but he took off and that’s when all the mayhem started. Me and Rebecca were forced by court of law to go back and forth from our house to his, every other weekend and one night a week. We both absolutely hated it and tried anything we could to get out of it. He said he wanted the best for us, but Becky had panic attacks every time and my grades starting suffering from the loss of study time. There is a lot more story to tell but it’s not mine to relate, so I will just say this: in the last six months I have discovered my truest friends and most honest allies. I have found the people who actually care for our safety as well as the people who couldn’t care less. I’ve discovered that satan will go after the people you love most when you feel helpless and absolutely desperate. And you know what else I’ve discovered?

The Lord doesn’t want us to walk alone. He is strategic and he will take care of his children no matter the cost. He might not blow your enemies out of the water right away, but you can be sure he’s comin’. He doesn’t take lightly that his precious children are getting manipulated and lied to by the enemy. He will fight for us, and he will win.

Everything I have written here is just building up to the fact that we need each other. I, Jacob Andersen, cannot move mountains. I can’t convert my whole team, I can’t do away with my lusts at the snap of a finger. I’m just not strong enough. To succeed I will need each of you, tugging on the rope of virtue in the same direction as me. I might be in a rough spot right now, struggling in seemingly every way possible, but we, you and I, need to remember that it’s not about how we fall. It’s about how we get back up. And the only way we can get back up is with the assistance of our Lord, who feels our pain and desperation and wants nothing but the best for us.

He willingly accepted holes in his hands because he knew that, someday, Jacob Andersen was going to find himself in need of saving in a deep, dark hole of his own. He accepted a piercing to his side, close to his heart because he knew the tears I would cry in my bedroom and he wanted to be as close to me as possible. He accepted a crowning of thorns, degrading himself in return for the lustful glances I would degrade women with. Don’t you see? My mountains matter to him. I fall and fail and lose in every sense of the word, and still he cares. My mountains matter, and he’ll help me climb them.

Love people.

Jacob

The Real Lessons of Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday is a day of the year that never ceases to bring laughs to our household; when I was six or seven, we were sitting in Mass when our priest invited anyone who didn’t have a palm branch to come up and grab one. “Jake,” my mom nudged me. “Do you want to go get us one?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t want to go up there.”

“Don’t you want a palm branch?” My six-year old eyes scanned the church and I weighed my options. One, I could stay in my seat and not get a cool palm branch, or two, I could risk embarrassment for a few short moments, yet be entertained for the entire length of the Mass. It was worth it. I stood and began the trek to the altar where I could claim my prize. Reaching inside the big vase, I tugged at a branch. The stupid thing wouldn’t come out, so I gave it a solid yank and heaved it out of the vase. Walking back to our seat, I raised my head with pride and triumphantly lifted the branch for my mom to see. I was a bit surprised by her reaction: she was chuckling and covering her mouth.

“Mom, I got one,” I told her.

She nodded and laughed another moment before leaning down to my six-year old ear and whispering, “I think Father was talking about the palms on that table.” She pointed to the other side of the church where some people were picking up their branches. “You got one from the altar decorations.”

A nice lady behind us offered me her branch, stifling laughs. I shook my head. This one’s way better. “Honey, you need to bring it back,” Mom told me.

“I can’t,” I said. “That’s too embarrassing, plus this one’s a real palm branch.”

“I know, but they need that one for decorations.”

“Father said I could have it.”

“Here, just give it to me, and I’ll give it back to Fr. Auve after Mass, okay?”

“Fine.” I handed over my prized possession and accepted the little twig from the woman behind us.

This story regurgitates every year at Palm Sunday. I still remember it vividly and laugh about it with Mom. The innocence of a six-year old gets us every time, and I imagine myself now if some cute kid were to do that in Mass. I would chuckle and probably offer him my twig. 

There’s a few lessons I will never forget from that day: If we’re going to worship the Lord, you might as well go all out. Second, don’t let your six-year old interpret directions without explaining them extremely clearly. Third and most importantly, remember that if it doesn’t take some muscle to lift, you’ve got the wrong palm branch.

Love people.

-Jacob