I’m reading Blue Like Jazz again. Donald Miller gives his friends nicknames like, “Tony the beat poet”. I feel like I should probably name my friends. Especially the ones who frequently make it in blog entries.
A few nights ago I was walking in the park with my friend Emily (still trying to come up with her nickname). We walked around and around and used our hands violently as we talked with passion about all the problems in the world and in our lives. I was complaining about my life—very spiritual complaining with scripture verses and the name of God, but complaining nonetheless.
As we rounded near the parking garage, we found ourselves walking alongside giant rows of bushes lining the concrete wall of the building. We saw a pile of something that looked like clothing at the base of some of the bushes. We both inclined our heads towards the pile as we passed by.
It turned out the pile was, really, a pile of clothes. Strange place for clothes. But we also saw two human-sized holes born into the bushes with worn paths leading out of sight. Evidence of human habitation littered the paths and Emily and I turned towards one another with wide eyes.
Someone was living in the bushes.
Without breaking step, I said, “Never mind. I take it all back. My life rocks. I don’t live in the bushes. My life is wonderful. Amazing. What was I saying again? Who cares? Life is awesome. What was I thinking? Seriously, my home could be shrubbery. But it’s not. Wow, life doesn’t suck. It seriously kicks ass.”
Emily laughed. “I think I hear a blog entry coming.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll call it ‘My Home is Not Shrubbery’ and it will speak for itself.”
I sincerely hope Moses didn’t call dibs on hearing messages from God out of a bush. He is welcome to monopolize the flaming bushes—I could live without seeing one of those—but God still speaks out of bushes. Loud and clear. Sometimes it helps to focus on how bad things could be in order to see how good things actually are.