Location, Location, Vocation (Recently Discovered Final Post)

This is an unpublished post written when I returned to Minnesota and moved in with my brother.... a long long time ago in a tundra far far away...... I couldn't resist this. Also I'm sure NO ONE is reading this anymore. Here goes; Location, Location, Vocation
by Christopher Andrew


All of my delusions about living a beautiful simple life here in Moorhead Mn had hinged on procuring a part time job at a local coffee house where I would suddenly become the toast of the social world and every college girls dream date as I passed on all their advances to pursue spiritual enlightenment and meditate on the meaning of life besides the adoration of me.

After two and a half weeks, I am still unemployed.

My dreams muted a little when every coffee purveyor in town has made it clear that I am not worth minimum wage or even the time it takes for an interview.

As of now, my dreams have been reduced to the color of Picasso's famed blue period after I resorted to turning in an application at a local fast food restaurant. The 20 year old manager almost grilled me on my education seeming utterly appalled that I had failed to finish my degree in Studio Arts. I have no idea what the process of printmaking or lost-wax casting have to do with stuffing a burrito and listing off a selection of side-dishes to compliment a large soda, but as she rattled off her last programed phrase, "We'll call you," all I could hear was "have you considered the rewarding career of janitorial assistant, or maybe homelessness? I hear they have great health benefits."

I am continually amazed at the way depression seems to give rise to the most creative excuses to keep myself from doing anything that may better my situation thus threatening my love affair with self loathing; depression is a jealous lover.

Applying for more jobs is just being a glutton for punishment. I couldn't possibly paint because I'm out of Alizarin Crimson. I can't exactly call anyone what with the plight of the Sudanese; and I can't make any new friends when I'm not caught up on the latest T.V. shows. However, drinking beer and trying to decipher exactly how many different shades of taupe are woven into the living room carpet? This is a worthy use of my time (there are 8 by the way; unless you include the strange muted greens hidden deeply in the tan synthetic forest.)

On days like this, I imagine my perfect prescription in the form of any town but this one. I watch Zoloft commercials in between the afternoon courtroom dramas and imagine the unhappy blob stumbling into Duluth, or California, or the unlikely Gettysburg PA. His face lights up and his eyes lift to heaven to thank the world for all its beauty as the formerly depressed bubble drops forty pounds, takes a job as a pin, and stabs that passing butterfly to become forever displayed in a trophy entomological exhibit.

I look through the list of missed calls that I haven't returned out of sensitivity to the Sudanese Refugees and imagine any differing phone number as if the area code were that of heaven itself.

My fantasies have often betrayed me as they always have a set of stipulations for happiness that are impossibly beyond my grasp. Some require a change of scenery, others a different occupation, but all of them involve a significant personal change. Often the character of me (in my fantastical world) is played by someone else who actually seems worthy of admiration. Sometimes the character looks like me, but most of the time my role is played by Brad Pitt or occasionally, Ellen DeGeneres on the account that we have the same haircut and that we are both men.

This is not the first time that I have felt this way. The last one had me convinced that I could never be an artist because I had run out of yellow ochre. So if logic serves me, things will begin to look up again, until they turn south, then exude joy all over again; unless I find myself on some effective bipolar medication.

But until then, I will count the new shades of brown that have appeared after I spilled my Guinness on the carpet and imagine myself as Brad Degeneress of Los Angeles, a recently discovered prodigy of non-talent to be loved and revered simply for my mere ability to exist and be awesome.

Pains, Trains, and Automobiles

I'm In Philly!

It's almost disappointing to write that knowing that it may be the end of my blogging career.

But all the same; I arrived in Philly yesterday afternoon and I'm currently staying with the Simple way with my choice of couches to crash on.

This neighborhood is such a different world than I have ever been exposed to. I have nothing to do but try and take it all in for what it is and try to discern if I have a place in a town like this.

My greatest hope as I encountered the city lights, was that they would somehow direct some epiphany with a beautiful soundtrack of choral music and a light from heaven that would tell me the next step. Unfortunately, I am just as confused as before.

In a conversation with a new friend here, we discussed God's direction and the form it takes. Sometimes, it is very clear and we know beyond a doubt what is to be done; for instance, my walk. And other times it's more like the choose your own adventure books of childhood; where the options are before you, and it's your choice which page you will turn to. Though I never had much luck with those and inevitably chose the one that led to an untimely death; hmm, I may have to think on that for a while....

But I digress. For those of you who have been following, I just want to give you the reminder that I consistently hold onto; I left with nothing. I have made it half way across the country in just under four months time and was provided for every step of the way. I am alive only by God's hand. He deserves all the credit.

If you are interested in the details of the last three days of my trek (and the reason for the title) you may just have to wait for the...... book? (we'll see about that).

But in the meantime, I just want to thank all of you for entering into this with me. Those of you who were with me in prayer and support, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to be with me in spirit.

I love you all and truly hope to see you all soon, wherever you are.

christopher andrew.
signing off (for now)

Southern Comfort

Okay, you'll never guess where I am.

Go ahead, try.

Come on, it'll be fun.

Give up?

I'm in Gettysburg!

Getting a little redundant isn't it.

Though both fortunately, and unfortunately, this will not be the extended stay that it was last time.

I leave tomorrow.


Time flew by so quickly on my little south detour. I had the most amazing time of simply relaxing. And as I lounged in the pool, ate grilled salmon, and sipped Pinot Grigio on the veranda, I thought, 'Yeah, this is the life of a vagabond!'

The highlight of my time however, was not the luxury, it was family. I can't describe how absolutely reassuring it was simply to be around old friends. A little non-alcoholic southern comfort you might say.

Well not long after arriving in Round Hill, I discovered that there aren't many routes to Philly from that locale, and the best of those options just happened to take me right back to Emmaus. And even this now feels like home!

I had planned on getting a ride from here all the way to Lancaster, which is a good portion of the remaining trip. But it has been a while since I have stepped out into that unknown without knowing where my feet will land at night, and I think it's about time.

So tomorrow morning, I will leave, not by car, but by foot and see where I end up.

For those of you following, you may be thinking that I must be quite well off given my employment in Gettysburg and very few expenses to drain my funds. But except for the eleven dollars left in my pocket when I hitched out of here last week, everything else had been given away. I say this not for my own glory, but so that you may know the full measure of God's provision on the last leg of my journey.

That's all I have time for right now... But I will keep you 'posted'.


christopher andrew.

On Minor Detours and the Rule of Thumbin'

I forgot to mention the change of course in my last post, so it may come as a surprise to most of you that I have crossed two more state lines and am writing this blog from Round Hill, Virginia.

In God's amazing provision, he has even taken into account my homesickness. And, whereas I'm not exactly back on the shores of Ruth Lake, I am staying with the nearest thing to family this side of the midwest; my second cousin - once removed - by marriage.

Oddly enough, this is not the first time that God has used this wonderful young family in the same capacity.

I had never known of their existance until my second residence in California. When I moved to Yorba Linda, my family suddenly realized that I was living not far from this extended relative. So I looked them up.

They soon became somewhat of a surrogate family for me during my stay in California.. That is, until they moved.

I had lost all contact with them for two years but reconnected just two weeks ago to realize that they were too close to pass up.

Goodbyes were hard at Emmaus. There were a few tears and long drawn out sighs, but the heaviest part of this farewell was not just the leaving, but not knowing when, if at all, we would ever see each other again. But I have a sneaking suspicion that a reunion will come sooner than we think.

Given that my southbound sidetrack was not in the original route, I felt more liberty to explore alternate forms of vagabonding.

I left at nearly 10:30 and planned to walk as far as Thurmont, Maryland without seeking assistance. My feet were already upset by the time I saw the city and I stopped to eat and rest at the Shamrock lounge.

I talked with a young man who had just finished boot camp for a branch of the military. He was awaiting his placement, that was to be decided by the powers that be, and mused about the peace in a situation where he has no control over those major decisions. I related well on that topic.

From Thurmont, I had nearly 75 miles yet to go before I would enter Leesburg (the nearest town to Round Hill). And here's where I grew a thumb.

Though the act of hitchhiking is not dissimilar from my current traveling style, it comes with different expectations. On most of my walking days, rides are just a blessing and a needed distraction from long days on the road. But while walking backwards holding my thumb out in the air, rides are my goal.

I did not get picked up as quickly as I'd hoped, and there was still a good deal of walking to come, but soon enough I was in the passenger seat of a contract landscapers pickup.

A little rough around the edges but a christian with a kind heart nonetheless, he began to tell me the story of the summer after his junior year.

He and his friend had left home each holding $100 to their name. Their goal was Florida and a season of freedom. I could tell as he reminiced that he often looks back on that summer and sees nothing but freedom.

My second ride came just south of Fredrick Maryland and has the face of a 19 year old on his way to worship band practice. I struggled to fit my pack in the back of his minivan trying to fit it around the bike that laid over the seats. When I asked if he was an avid biker, he said "only when the van breaks down."

The van ran like a champ and brought me within 20 miles of my goal where I was soon picked up by two South American mechanics. I walked up to their moving van style truck and heard the passengers beautiful accent as he said "We'll have to share the seat." And crammed inside this tiny cabin, we talked of God and homes and the spanish word for hitchhiker (which I've already forgoten).

After a quick stop by the farmers market to stock up on watermelon we soon found ourselves saying goodbyes in Leesburg.

From there I called my long lost family and sat in a coffeehouse to await the shirttail reunion.

We reconnected with hugs and exclamations and they brought me to rest in their beautiful ranch style home in the lazy sticks of Virgina and at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. This is the stuff of the South.

The people that I will be connecting with in Philladelphia are leaving town for a short trip untill the 19th. So I can't very well arrive before then. I will stay here several days but soon I must begin to plan my route back to lovely Pennsylvania.

Lovin' and missin' you all!

Christopher Andrew.

Dissonant Chords Strike Deep

Warning: This post is entirely, and overtly, over dramatic. True to events but hindsight sees it's un-foundedness. Things always look more frightening in the thick of the woods.



Two days after my last post, I panicked.

My heart seized and tensed in preparation for the only response I could muster; flight.

I called my boss immediately that morning, in what felt like a breakdown, and begged him to fire me; to release me from the only contract that bound me to this city.

He would not.

But this place was suddenly too much to bear.

Whereas it is very true that on the the road one faces a brand new set of demons; those dark quiet leviathans of the mind that hide away in everyday noise; it is also true that community offers it's own pervasive trials.

Namely...... integrity, or lack thereof.

Integrity is not a thing forced on the traveling man. When everyday is a new city, a blank slate that I introduce myself to only for the night; there is no one who knows my yesterdays.

In all honesty, I could remake myself every day of the week. Put on a new person, try out a new name, make up a list of grand accomplishment, or hint at a sordid past. And whatever town it happened to be, would not know me, but truly believe in the existence of that other man, the man of my invention.

I don't employ such deliberate deceit as to speak in different accents or say 'hi I'm Rufus' but there is a more subtle deceit that happens when there are no checks and balances, the lie that I'm bigger than my own skin.

Community, then, is the checkpoint. The station at which all of these transparent self-portraits are held against the light, one on top of the other, to reveal what registers, and what doesn't. Am I who I say I am, or do I just spin a lofty tale.

I have been as transparent as I know how in my current post at Emmaus. I had told them my life, my struggles, my shortcomings. They know I am imperfect. But still there was a great panic fearing something more; fearing, maybe, that they would believe it.

And I was stuck under the weight of what felt like the immanent rendering of my true colors.

I was immobile, paralyzed, buried up to my neck in Civil War souvenirs with a face covered in honey waiting for the ants to swarm and pick little pieces of these smiles and poses to reveal what the camera can't see, the one behind the curtain. All my personal propaganda, defenestrated.

Some lines from my journal written moments after my plea for freedom:

"The perfection of ideal shows the convection of the real
boiled down to wicked paste, good for nothing but the
taste, for greed, and glory,
and my own d##m story"

So I took on a fast, not out of reverence, but defiance. I was in the mind to starve myself until God showed his face. I was seething at a Savior who hadn't 'saved' me enough. Almost two full days and I was bitter and sullen, sulking around in corners.

That is, until the picnic.

An entire afternoon surrounded by all of my new friends, set in the park on the most beautiful of days. All afternoon, I did not touch the luscious foods or partake in the games of frisbee and childlike tag, I laid quiet and shaded just outside the picture. But as the sun began to set, my frustrations seemed to dissolve. And I could no longer remember what had gotten me so angry in the first place.

There was so much enjoyment to be had that afternoon; and seeing my friends running about smiling, shouting 'Chris, come play!' there was peace.

God did show up.

God had been there all along.

After all every good and perfect gift comes from Him, and I seem to be in the middle of an endless Christmas.

So were those feelings and fears founded? Of course not. No one had pulled me aside and revealed that I was more wicked than I pretend to be. Though they felt no less real.

There is always a sharpening and revealing when one is in community and it is often hard, but it is nothing to fear or run from. It is only the shaping of who we're meant to be.

But is this not just an example, albeit an extreme one, of that strange relational paranoia that we all feel from time to time; those senses that paint ourselves darkly in light of our friends, enemies, and especially those we admire?

The heart is deceitful above all things.



I'll be leaving Gettysburg soon; Monday morning to be exact. But not in fear with a desire to escape, I leave with peace, and a hope of returning.



Thanks to all of you who are with me in this. I love you!



Christopher Andrew

A Rock Venue and a Hard Place

Who Am I

The fair maiden and fiance to the prince was in a deeply troubled posture as she asked a question that could very well confirm her deepest longing,

"Who are you?" she posed in quiet conviction.

To this, her masked rescuer, turned villainous tormentor, known to her only as 'the man in black' replied,

"No one of consequence."

It's not important.

If you have not seen the movie "The Princess Bride" then stop reading, rent it, watch it, and fall in love. It's probably funnier and more beautiful than anything I'm writing anyways.

The beauty of the scene I just described is that his statement is true. All the while, the audience knows that behind that mask is the man whom our fair maiden 'Buttercup' had given her heart and devotion to years ago. Inside that 'man in black' is Wesley, the one that she has desperately missed and longed for even for years after his rumored death.

But the man in front of Buttercup is not Wesley; it is another man whose only purpose is to reunite the man inside him and the woman he loves.

The 'man in black' is of no consequence; and neither am I.

I am just a villainous creature in whom Christ dwells as he cries out to the world, and often to me, to be reunited in a love that we know even deeper than our understanding. A love that goes deeper than our sins.

But too often, I try to steal His Glory for my own. I want to be remembered. I want to prove myself to God; show Him how cool I am.

I was challenged as I read the story of the returning of the 72 disciples.

These men had just traveled the country side preaching in towns as they healed the sick, cast out demons, raised the dead, and any other miraculous thing you can imagine. And they are excited. These men come running up to Jesus saying 'look at this!' 'look at all of these cool things we did in your name!'

And my heart echos in an eight year old voice, 'God, look what I can do. Am I special now?"

Jesus' response? 'Do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.'

(I already love you.)

His love is not dependent on the cool things we do. Whether I am a spiritual mogul or just a bumbling vagrant still chasing apocalyptic candy, God's promises do not change, His love does not waver.

My walk can't save me, Jesus already has.


Only God knows why I am on this journey.

I am no one special.

Most days, I would challenge Paul to an arm wrestling contest over the title, 'the worst of all sinners.'

But

here

I

am.


Christopher Andrew.