I have lost what once felt impossible to lose. I’m wrestling with an unshakeable feeling. I’m mindful of the present, pausing as moment becomes moments, and at a hair’s breadth, it envelops me. I feel it pulling—a deep-seated settling that crashes and wanes in a rhythm impossible to decipher. It’s a stillness almost beyond understanding or quantification, and as time passes, I catch a glimpse of its essence. One thing becomes clear: it’s inherent in all of us. The misery and joy that it can bring can affect any and everyone. Why? Because stillness is a constant theme in the background of being. It’s that unshakable quiet that settles in when the distractions are gone, and we’re left to face the truth we’ve been avoiding. It’s the angst of the beginning of an ending you’ve been dreading and it’s a byproduct of a life that is lived. It’s dark, cold, and empty, and there is no more complete way of describing it than to say that is simply is. When I pause to take a breath, I feel it beating on my chest, its energy reserves never expiring. It reappears whenever it chooses to. Yet, it isn’t the absence of motion; it’s the heavy presence of truth. It’s what lingers in the moments when the noise of hope, denial, or distraction fade away, leaving you with nothing but the reality before you. As I ponder my own life and how I have experienced and created this stillness, I’m reminded of the events and actions that unify experience. Sure, we’re dynamic and non-monolithic, but there are times, places, and situations when our shared experiences mirror each other. I’ve found that similarity in stillness. While the name “stillness” is probably irrelevant, and different people will call it different things, the truth is that we all experience it.

Stillness is reality at its most basic. With nothing to shape or form it, it simply is. It doesn’t coax or comfort; it doesn’t wound or heal. It simply exists, unaffected by how I—or you—feel about it. However, its existence is not independent of me. In fact, we can only understand it because of being. A being shapes its ontology because its existence is shaped by perception. And because it’s so tied to perception, its nature constantly changes. There is never a point at which stillness is permanently fixed; it exists in a constant state of flux. When I am hurting and grieving, I see it through the lens of pain. It becomes the cold finality of endings—a harbinger of grief, a weight of truth I chose to ignore. As I write this, I’ve lost. So, when I see this stillness, all I can grasp is pain. It feels cruel and indifferent. Its memory is jaded by the whims of now, and it brings misery in its wake. I’m so desperate to avoid sensing the presence of stillness in my life that I anxiously pace around, waiting for a moment of peace so this stillness can flee. I’ve screamed out in pain and anguish at the God who would allow one to experience this stillness so profoundly. Why would anyone choose to follow someone who allows His creations to go through such harmful stillness? What good does this bring to its bearer? How will this transform me or create something good and pure?

When I feel these thoughts rising, I’m reminded of my error because stillness isn’t inherently pain. I pore over the details of this grief like a magistrate poring over a case, and the more I seek to find the nature of this stillness, the farther it gets. Stillness has no form or shape. It’s not the cruel hand of fate or the warmth of hope. It’s not even the voice that whispers, “Let’s move on.” It’s just there—unchanging, unmoving. And that’s what makes it so profound: it becomes whatever I project onto it. It’s pain when I am grieving, clarity when I’m ready to see, and peace when I’m finally able to rest. The problem with stillness is that we often notice it when we don’t want to. We can accept the truth of a joyful evening without the need for further reflection. We revel in it, letting it provide a boost of serotonin that jolts our system. But it is in the moments of pain, just beyond the edge of an ending, where stillness has something to communicate. Perhaps stillness is teaching me that so much of this could have been avoided. Perhaps it wants to pull me closer, to show me that if I had followed it more, pain might have been avoided. Perhaps it’s a reminder of a promise I made to myself long ago—a promise of “never again.” Unfortunately, humans tend to learn truth at the most inconvenient moments, and that is where I find myself now: inconvenienced and broken, wishing for this stillness to claim someone else, so that I might delight in a fantasy of my own making. A fantasy where my problems are nonexistent, and things go right in the world with minimal effort.

I know it’s a façade, but living with this stillness feels like a knife cutting deeper and deeper with no hope for reprieve. The façade would at least give me feelings of euphoria, even if they’re not real. It would feel more comfortable, more routine and orderly. But stillness cannot exist in such a manner, and I want to escape it. Therein lies the problem: what I’m escaping from cannot be escaped because it reflects how I see the world. This stillness follows me in every situation, and seeking its end is a fool’s errand. At its worst, it can pull me into a pit of impossible proportions. At its best, it’s a gentle reminder of the beauty of my existence.

I’ll remember it all—every moment, every negative and positive interaction. I will cherish the moments stillness brought me and will grieve the moments that will no longer find me.

November 21st…

November 21st, 1990, at around 2:21 pm, I was born. It’s been 34 years since that day and birthdays have come and gone, and I’ve experienced them in all kinds of ways—celebrating with friends and family, preferring solitude, and everything in between. In my youth, my birthday felt like a holiday. My mother used to wake me up early and play a personalized happy birthday song from “Captain Zoom.” I’m not sure if the song was a midwestern thing or if other American children remember it but goodness, it made me feel like I was on top of the world. I even remember the first time she played that song and the joy I felt. Unfortunately for me, the song didn’t have a personalization option for the names “Joseph” or “Joe,” so my mother settled on “Joey”, a name I certainly did not go by but the sentiment was still felt. The song would start with these words:

 "Hey Joey, it’s your birthday! I’m in charge of the stars, and I’m here to say, Hey Joey, you’re the big star today!"

 Never knew who Captain Zoom was or why this character was made for the song, but I didn’t care; it was my day. In those days, after my mother would start playing the song, she’d bring out a cake and my father and brother would join in singing “Happy Birthday.” I would jump out of bed, beaming from ear to ear, feeling a since of joy that most words fail to capture. I’d get ready head to school to hear my classmates would say, “Happy Birthday!”. Nothing could ruin my day. After school, my mother would take the family to a restaurant of my choosing. I usually settled for Red Lobster or some other familiar chain. The hosts would sing “Happy Birthday,” and I’d end the day with a full belly and a grateful heart. It was everything a child could ask for. Decades later, that spark of excitement for my birthday is gone. Birthdays don’t carry the same meaning they did when I was younger I’m not sure if that’s necessarily a bad thing, but it is the reality. Now, when I wake up, I’m not greeted by applause or handed a cake. Today, I woke up and limped to the bathroom as I waited for my Achilles to “warm up”. I coughed out mucus from a lingering bout of laryngitis and squeezed into a polo that doesn’t fit as freely as it did last year. I entered my classroom and started work like it was any other day.

 For the past few years, my birthdays have gone like they did this morning. It’s probably because my birth date was relatively unknown to my colleagues or students—not by design but simply because I didn’t bother to tell anyone. Birthdays began to feel like more of a hassle than something I should honor or celebrate. I’d go to work, come home, and the day would end like any other—wrapped in monotony. This year, though, was different. A few friends who knew my birthday shared it with my colleagues, and I got some “Happy Birthday” shouts in the hallways and texts on my phone. Later in the day, my juniors and seniors (I teach high school) sang “Happy Birthday” to me, and for the first time in over a decade, I felt “something” again. Their singing reminded me of something I’d forgotten—what it feels to have that spark I had as a child. And it felt good. But as I basked in that joy, the Lutheran in me kicked in. Was I being too selfish by centering the day on myself? Should I shun this attention I’m getting? I’m not any more important than the person besides me. After all, from a scientific perspective, this day is no different from any other. My journey around the sun spans another year, but a year is simply a human construct, a way to measure the passing of moments. Also, from a Christian perspective, every day should be joyous because God has allowed you to see another. As St. James the Just wrote:

 "Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.’” (James 4:13-15)

 Even without a theological lens, this idea is logical. Life is fleeting and the only moment you have is now. So, this morning, as I reflected on my birthday, I asked myself: Should I be grateful for the time I’ve had, or is it okay to miss the days when birthdays felt like holidays? Even now, as I sit alone in my classroom hours after my colleagues have gone home, I ask myself: “Now what?” What is the purpose of my birthday? What is the point of waking up early to do the same job I’ve done for years? What’s the meaning behind it all? Last year, these questions depressed me. I mourned the loss of the “spark” I had as a child and the joy I once felt. But today, my students changed everything. They reminded me of that spark, and they helped me realize something profound: The spark never left. I chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the negatives and uncertainty of life. Yes, growing older comes with its challenges. The things I once did effortlessly, like sprinting without stretching, are behind me. But what I’ve gained in return is perspective. I have this moment before me, and I need to rejoice and be glad in it. I was given another year of life, and it was done purposefully.

 The question I’m going to continue to interrogate daily is what I will do with what I’ve been given. Who knows how long we have on this earth? But while I am here, I have a job to do. I see my life as a groundskeeper’s task. Imagine a beautiful building surrounded by lush grass and perfectly trimmed shrubs. It maintains its brilliance because of the hard work of the groundskeepers. My life is like that lawn—I must take care of my body, mind, and soul, making the most of the time I’ve been given. Why? Because someone is always watching. As my students left my classroom today, they said, “We love you, Mr. Lewis.” In that moment, I remembered the strong Christian teaching that my life is not my own:

"You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love." (Galatians 5:13)

 I exist to help the person opposite me. I exist to keep up with and maintain what I have been given. You never know whose life you will inspire or who will be forever changed by the example you set. Not everyone shares the same religious beliefs, and some may have different understandings of service to others. But there is undeniable logic in a life that seeks to help those around you. If you take care of the person near you and they do the same, a cycle begins—one where no one has to carry the weight of life’s uncertainties alone. Imagine a world where everyone looks out for one another. Isolation fades, fear diminishes, and love becomes the foundation of our existence. Today, my students reminded me that the spark of my life has not faded. I only need to seek it out to find it. I’m thankful for the lesson they taught me, and tonight, I’m going to go home, order the largest pizza known to humankind, and stuff my face. Why? Because I’m thankful the Good Lord Jesus gave me another year. Peace.

I was always taught that America was a special nation. We were “given” a land rich with resources and filled with diverse groups working hard for the betterment of the country and our planet. I love the idea of America. I truly want to believe that this is the “land of the free.” I want to believe this is a nation modeled on the teachings of Jesus. When I hear the national anthem, I want to feel that same spirit of patriotism that flows so easily through many Americans. I want to feel proud that this land is “my land” and that it was made for “you and me.” In theory, America should be the greatest country on earth—one that embraces the richness of its land and celebrates the diversity of its people.

But the problem with this view is that this version of America…does not exist.

To illustrate, let’s consider a story.

Imagine a massive, muddy hole in the ground with three people trapped inside. The walls are too slick and high to climb, leaving them desperate, calling out for anyone who might hear. After what feels like an eternity, a ladder finally appears, descending from above. The three look at each other, stunned by this glimmer of hope, yet uncertain if the ladder is sturdy enough to carry them to safety. One of them volunteers to test it, stepping out carefully. As he climbs higher, his heart races with a mix of fear and anticipation. Finally, he reaches the top and pulls himself out, feeling the warmth and freedom of the world above.

But as he stands there, basking in his newfound freedom, a flicker of doubt crosses his mind. He wonders, What if they come up too? What if there’s not enough space or opportunity for us all? That initial sense of liberation shifts to something darker—a fear that his freedom might somehow be diminished if others share it. And so, he does the unthinkable: he pulls the ladder up, leaving the others behind, ensuring he’s the lone escapee.

It’s a tragic story, isn’t it? You might be thinking, If he just let the others climb up, they could all find freedom together! Most people who hear this story likely feel the same way. The sad truth, however, is that this is the story of America. Rather than welcoming others with open arms and using our diversity to build a richer, more inclusive society, we consistently do the opposite. We have used the lives and labor of others to enrich ourselves, regardless of the cost to those left behind. The America enshrined in the second paragraph of our Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” is, in many ways, a fairy tale, as distant and mythical as the great stories of ancient gods.

For every step forward this country takes, there seems to be a step back—a negative reaction that chips away at progress. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 was an incredible piece of legislation that protected the voting rights of millions of Americans, yet in its wake, voter suppression has resurged. In 2015, the landmark case Obergefell v. Hodges legalized same-sex marriage, granting many Americans the freedom to marry who they love. But soon after, we saw protections for the LGBTQ+ community erode in various ways. This is what America is: the land of the see-saw. For every progression we gain, there’s an action taken to erode it.

Progress in America is like a pendulum, swinging back and forth. It moves forward, reaches a peak, but inevitably swings back in the other direction. This back-and-forth motion keeps us in a state of oscillation rather than true advancement. It gives us just enough hope to believe in change, only to have our hearts ripped out when the counter-reaction comes.

This pattern holds a special and negative place in my heart because of my upbringing in the American Christian church. It’s a trauma that started from my early days in Sunday School. As a child I was taught in church to love our neighbor and pray for those who are against us. I was taught to trust our pastors, trust the church, and pray for our elected leaders because, in the end, the church is led by the Lord and God has a plan for our “blessed” nation. I believed them and I trusted in this church and nation. I saw my country to be a beautiful place that, while it struggled in the past, is turning around and becoming a nation built on love and respect. So, when I heard these sayings in Sunday School, I took them to heart. These sayings and phrases sounded so good on the surface, but as I grew in age, I slowly realized that they failed to acknowledge the poison that has been within the church and this country since its inception

Take, for instance, the founding fathers. They hold a special place in our society, and we revere them for the actions they took to secure our freedom from the hands of the British. If we stopped at the surface, that would be a correct outlook but what the founding fathers did came at the cost of black and native lives. The land that they built came on the backs of slave labor and the land they stole was taken from people(s) who had lived here for thousands of years. The Christian leaders like Jonathan Edwards and others spread the Gospel in this land and spoke so highly of God’s redeeming love but maintained slave ownership. Rather than talk about our leaders and founders in the complex light of truth, we refer to them simply as “people of a different time” Yet, these “leaders” valued the oppression of people of a certain color over manumission. When the first nations people rose up to protect themselves, the crushed their rebellion and sequestered them to reservations. They gave African slaves the Bible as a means to “save” their souls but conveniently omitted any Biblical reference to liberation. This is indicative of what this nation has always been. It’s not the “land of the free” but rather a home for the privileged. Here, people are not created equal; instead, the many are subservient to the few who have more.

The most disheartening aspect of America is how it’s poor revere those who oppress them. Many of the poor and middle class would rather live under the yoke of injustice than do everything in their power to eradicate it. It reminds me of the story of the Israelites in the Torah. After hundreds of years under Egyptian oppression, YHWH set them free. Yet this joy of freedom was short-lived, as many soon complained to Moses about their hardships. They said, “Why is the Lord bringing us to this land only to let us fall by the sword? Wouldn’t it be better for us to go back to Egypt?” The Egyptians were their captors, but because the concept of radical freedom was so frightening, they would rather live under oppression.

This mindset brings us to where we are now. Donald Trump has won the presidency again, and for a large section of the country, there is happiness that their chosen leader has returned. Meanwhile, in the Trump campaign, there are promises of large-scale deportation operations, and phrases like “taking our country back” resonate more than calls to love and embrace your neighbor. Many respond to this by saying we should “worry about our own country first.” Some may even express sadness at how others’ lives are affected but will prioritize Americans as they define them, rather than extending compassion to all within our borders. It’s puzzling for a nation that claims such high ideals of love, and even more confusing when this is purportedly a “Christian” nation.

In some ways, I agree. America is a Christian nation in the same sense as the Roman Empire was during the height of the Catholic Church’s power. We elect leaders who speak of the Gospel and profess their love for God. Many donate to charity and attend worship regularly. From this perspective, it is indeed a “Christian” nation. However, alongside this declaration lies a disturbing truth: America is also a godless nation. While its ideals are lofty, its actions resemble those of nations we deem “terroristic.” Our culture prioritizes power and wealth over love and generosity. Success is measured in dollar amounts, not in the lives we uplift. America is a home of religion but often to people who have never truly encountered the God they believe they serve.

So, where does this leave us?

From my perspective, we face a choice. We can give in to the desire to insulate ourselves from others and focus only on our own needs. This is, after all, the most American thing we could do. It’s easy, requiring little work or sacrifice, and comes naturally. But our other option is to press on. It’s not a flashy or glamorous option, and it can feel like starting from scratch. Many people will help those around them until the lack of progress depresses them, and they retreat into their own realities.

Yet, every so often, there’s a moment when the tide starts to shift, and real change takes root. A life of service can transform someone who is struggling. An act of selflessness can ripple beyond your lifetime, touching lives in ways you may never see. Yes, evil will continue to propagate, but in its wake are those who need help. Some will accept your help and go on to help others, while others will take the help and pull up the ladder behind them, saving only themselves. This truth is hard, but it is no reason to stop serving. Instead, it is a call to press on even harder.

While I don’t understand this country’s decisions or where its future lies, I know that as a child, many people went out of their way to ensure I grew up loved. Though my heart is heavy with the reality we live in, I know that, like all things, evil has a time limit. I will do what I can to share the gift of love and service because one day, light will shine further, and there will be those who need others to serve them. So, I’m going to make sure I let the ladder down with you and raise up everyone around me and I hope you will too.