Room 342

Another Friday night spent in a hotel room.
Another weekend away, and Monday is just around the corner.
The weeks are flying by, there isn't any time for anything it feels like.

So, here I sit in my room, at not my desk, with a jarring headache. I'm in the middle of projects, damage control, looming deadlines, new campaigns, after a long, hard, freezingly painful day, and all I can think of is how I want to record these musical ideas that haven't left me since I left Salt Lake. All I can think of is Moby, how someone a while ago said I had the confidence and creative vision of Don Draper (independently of them knowing I like that show, and him...as much as a Christian can and should like someone like Don Draper...), and that I want to be in my own bed and be home reading my books.

It's nice to go to the bar and order whatever, and say "charge it to my room".
I wish all of life were like that, but then again, I'd be foolish and the dessert wouldn't be a sweet treat anymore. Everything would be vain, more than it is now, and the thrill of the chase would be rabbits and foxes eating each other with no order to red tape and formalities.

What I mean to say is, it's a hell of a situation. Everything is taken care of, because I am forced to have my life remote from my life, and it's a nice luxury, but pales grossly in comparison to actually being home, and actually being with those I love. All I want is to be around and look you in the eyes and hear you talk and smile because it's all so real.

The Calvinist

A poem by John Piper

See him on his knees,

Hear his constant pleas:

Heart of ev’ry aim:

“Hallowed be Your name.”

See him in the Word,

Helpless, cool, unstirred,

Heaping on the pyre

Heed until the fire.

See him with his books:

Tree beside the brooks,

Drinking at the root

Till the branch bear fruit.

See him with his pen:

Written line, and then,

Better thought preferred,

Deep from in the Word.

See him in the square,

Kept from subtle snare:

Unrelenting sleuth

On the scent of truth.

See him on the street,

Seeking to entreat,

Meek and treasuring:

“Do you know my King?”

See him in dispute,

Firm and resolute,

Driven by the fame

Of his Father’s name.

See him at his trade.

Done. The plan is made.

Men will have his skills,

If the Father wills.

See him at his meal,

Praying now to feel

Thanks and, be it graced,

God in ev’ry taste.

See him with his child:

Has he ever smiled

Such a smile before,

Playing on the floor?

See him with his wife,

Parable for life:

In this sacred scene

She is heaven’s queen.

See him stray. He groans.

“One is true,” he owns.

“What is left to me?

Fallibility.”

See him in lament

“Should I now repent?”

“Yes. And then proclaim:

All is for my fame.”

See him worshipping.

Watch the sinner sing,

Spared the burning flood

Only by the blood.

See him on the shore:

“Whence this ocean store?”

“From your God above,

Thimbleful of love.”

See him now asleep.

Watch the helpless reap,

But no credit take,

Just as when awake.

See him nearing death.

Listen to his breath,

Through the ebbing pain:

Final whisper: “Gain!”