WEBVTT

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You ever have a love you couldn't deny and a

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life you couldn't survive at the same time? I

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don't mean a high school crush or that two -week

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fling that fizzled out when you realized they

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put ketchup on spaghetti. I mean the kind of

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love that gets in your teeth. The kind that sits

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in the marrow and refuses to leave even when

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you've begged it to. And yet, right alongside

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it, a life that keeps grinding you down. A rhythm

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that eats your good days and gnaws on your bad

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ones. A road you can't seem to walk without leaving

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blood in the gravel. That's where we're living

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in this episode. We're not just unpacking a song

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tonight. We're stepping into a story you might

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already be in. And before you start telling yourself

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this is about somebody else's bad decisions or

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somebody else's heartbreak, just sit still for

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a moment because you might hear your own footsteps

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in here. This is Theology in Three Chords. I'm

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your host, Brother Jim. Some folks call me the

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semi -seminarian. Some folks call me red. Around

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here, we treat folk songs like sacred texts.

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We believe the same God who spoke through Isaiah

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can still speak through a Max Stalling lyric

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or a Jimmy Buffett turn of phrase. And you know

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what? We're going to listen for that kind of

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speaking in this one. Now here's how this works.

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We drop the needle on the track, not just to

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admire the melody or not along with the hook,

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but to walk around inside it. We're looking for

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the cracks where the light gets in, the moments

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where the songwriter accidentally or maybe on

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purpose preaches a gospel that maybe they didn't

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even know they were holding. We'll follow the

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characters where they go, ride shotgun through

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the wrecks. See if the same grace that found

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them might find us too. And while you're here,

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I'd be grateful if you'd pull up a chair at our

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little table. Click that subscribe button. Share

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the episode with somebody who's got their own

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love they can't deny. Life they can't survive.

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And leave a comment telling me where this story

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might have hit home. You never know. Your story

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might be the thing that helps somebody else keep

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going. Pour yourself a cup, turn the lights low,

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and let's do what we do here. We're going to

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step inside Mike McClure's Jack of Diamonds and

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see where the ditch meets the high road and maybe

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where the captain's voice still calls, I'll meet

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you halfway. I'll see you on the other side.

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So, let me ask you again. Have you ever had a

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love you couldn't deny and a life you couldn't

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survive at the same time? Not a postcard romance,

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something rougher, truer. The kind that shows

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up uninvited and takes your chair like it paid

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rent. The kind you feel in your teeth when you

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try to sing over it. You walk the house at midnight

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because the rooms can't hold it and the quiet

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keeps handing you questions you don't want to

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answer. You pour glass to hush the noise, but

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the ice is louder. You step out onto the porch,

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the town's asleep, but your heart's up late,

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tapping its foot, wanting a verdict you don't

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have. That is the ache this song stands in. The

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split down the middle where longing and survival

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glare at each other like strangers who share

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a last name. Jack of Diamonds doesn't tidy the

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gap. It sits in it with you. And it tells you

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the truth out loud. Well, the Jack of Diamonds

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and the Queen of Hearts hit the road and hit

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the dark, hit the brakes and tried to park, but

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they slid off in a ditch. We know these two because

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they live in our mirrors. The jack of diamonds,

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a little shine, not much crown. A man with enough

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charm to get dealt into the hand, not enough

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wisdom to set the table. The queen of hearts,

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I mean love with gravity. Tender and dangerous.

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The kind of card that makes every other card

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in the deck nervous. They launch fast, headlights

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cutting the black gravel, sprays like a choir

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of sparks. But speed isn't the same as direction.

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And hit the dark is the honest line nobody wants

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to say out loud. When the brakes finally matter,

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it's too late. The ditch takes what the road

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won't keep. You know what? We've all lived in

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that skid. We've called it adventure because

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we were proud, or escape because we were scared,

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but the truth, it was drift, dressed up. We weren't

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steering, momentum -wise. Sometimes, sometimes

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the ditch's mercy stops the car you wouldn't

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stop yourself. Well, they played the game while

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the elevator ran down the shaft to the promised

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land, hit the ground with a heavy hand, and the

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conductor flipped a switch. cut to a box of soft

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light and bad music. The elevator slides like

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a lullaby, and we tell ourselves it's going somewhere

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good. We play the game to pass the time, shuffle,

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deal, pretend the odds are always in our favor,

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but listen, the cable's grown. The promise is

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underground. That's the wrong geography for a

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promised land. The stop is hard enough to rename

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your bones. Somewhere above the ceiling, the

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conductor. Call him fate, temptation, the house

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throws a switch with a bare hand. You didn't

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choose the floor. You were delivered to it. And

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we all know that ride. We've smiled on the way

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down because it felt easier than looking up.

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We've all called the descent progress because

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momentum is flattering. Until the impact. When

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gravity has a hold of you, bluffing will not

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save you. But naming the floor you hit might.

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So the devil came back on the prow, low and steady

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with a heavy growl. Slowly growing darker now,

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there's a rapping at the door. There's a sound

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habits make when they remember you. It isn't

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loud, it isn't patient. Low and steady. Like

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it's done this walk with you before. The room

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dims by degrees. You forgot what color your walls

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were in real daylight. Then comes the knock.

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Measured. Like the visitor thinks he has a key

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and is just being polite. We know that knock.

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We know that posture where your hand finds the

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doorknob on its own because at least the old

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trouble is familiar. We, not just you, we both,

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you know it, we've gone quiet at 2 a .m. We've

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stalled in the hallway with our palms sweating.

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We've opened, we've closed. We've stood still

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until the wrapping faded and felt both relieved

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and lonely about it. The enemy rarely kicks in.

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He waits. And grace teaches us how to wait him

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out. Well, it's the four wands with the ace of

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cups. Somehow, that just don't add up. Sorry,

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fellas, lots of luck. Can't feel that anymore.

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And now the deck changes languages. We're not

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just shuffling spades and diamonds. We're handing

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out emblems. Four wands is a homecoming. A canopy

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strung with lights. The ace of cups is first

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poor grace. Love that won't run dry. And in another

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room, these two cards start a dance and end with

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a toast. But here's the verdict. That just don't

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add up. Wrong table. Wrong room. Write symbols

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in a house with rigged math. Can't feel that

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anymore. Lands like a doctor tapping your knee

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and getting nothing. The reflex is gone. Some

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of us have learned numbness as survival. Turn

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the nerve off so the blade can't find it. Then

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one day the good comes near and the switch is

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still stuck. We watch our own heart like it's

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behind glass. When your jaw nerve is asleep,

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don't panic. Sometimes it's the splint that kept

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you from shattering worse. So the first refrain,

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I've called out to my captain. I said, sir, I've

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gone astray. Am I too far gone to come back now?

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He said, no, son. I'll meet you halfway. Here's

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the question with teeth. No, decorate the prayer

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pretty, just the old fear in a new accent. Am

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I too far gone? And that half -sentence answer,

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no, son, carries a father's palm on the back

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of your neck. I'll meet you halfway as mercy

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with its boots on. Not a map, not a lecture.

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Movement. Start walking. I'm already walking.

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And we hear this, and the room changes temperature.

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We, plural. Because one of the holiest tricks

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Grace pulls is convincing a whole crowd that

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the answer was for them personally and being

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right every time. Halfway isn't a bargain. It's

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how love shortens a road that you can't on your

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own. Well, a couple of things I've come to know.

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The good times come, and they will surely go.

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And liquor is like a torpedo. Tangles as it tears.

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Tired truth. The high burns quick. The come down

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lasts longer. And the bottle and whatever wears

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the bottle's mask in your story doesn't just

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hit, it binds you up. It tangles as it tears.

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That's the perfect cruelty. The wound that won't

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let you swim away from it. And we've learned

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to sanctify our torpedoes as tools. It helps

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me sleep. It helps me speak. It helps me forget.

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Then we wake to find lines wrapped around our

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ankles like eels. The ocean doesn't care if your

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excuses are eloquent. It just continues to pull.

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If you're tangled, it doesn't mean you're weak.

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It means you've found the lines that need cutting.

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It slammed into my sinking ship, wrapped itself

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in barbed wire fence, wiped down and cleaned

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the fingerprints by drunks that moved the chairs.

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Now the camera backs up and shows the room at

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a slant. The ship wasn't steady before it was

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hit. Remember, it was sinking. The barbed wire

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is the lie that pain can protect you. Wrap it

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tight enough and no one will get in except you're

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the one bleeding. Wipe down and clean the fingerprints.

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We know this ritual. Clean what can be cleaned.

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Explain what can be explained. And draft an alibi

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that sounds like maturity. Then that last line,

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slurred and brutal. Drunks that move the chairs.

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The scene betrays itself. The center cannot hold

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that the furniture has its own agenda. We've

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walked into our own lives, knocked a shin on

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what used to be in the other corner. Faith, trust,

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breakfast, bedtime. We blink, squint, turn on

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more lights. The room keeps lying. Or maybe we

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do. You don't have to prove the room is straight.

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You could admit it's crooked and ask for help

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to level the house. This one's my favorite. Verse

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8. Well, lazy burning turning lanes, lower lumen

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hurricanes, twisting up the wetter veins of the

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path of least resistance. Road and sky both misbehaving,

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lazy burning turning, feels like driving through

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a fever dream. Lanes that wander, shoulders that

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melt off the side. The storms sit low like they

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pay rent. Gauges spin, north forgets itself,

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and the path of least resistance starts talking

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to us like it's our friend. Come on, this way's

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downhill. We know that voice because we used

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it to coach ourselves through bad weather and

00:13:57.470 --> 00:14:03.289
worse choices. We told our legs to rest while

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the current had its say. We've woke up in another

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county wondering who moved the state line. Ease

00:14:13.080 --> 00:14:16.899
is not the same thing as peace. If the wind is

00:14:16.899 --> 00:14:19.179
pushing, test its theology before you follow

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it. So I crossed the road way up on high. For

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love I could not deny. With a weathered brow

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and my crooked eyes stared off in the distance.

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Here is the hinge you can hear click. So I crossed,

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not crawled back to the ditch, not rode the elevator

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again. Crossed. Exposure. Risk. Traffic. And

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not for thrill this time, for a love I cannot

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deny. And the body keeps the score, weathered

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brow, crooked eye. We can't get a makeover. We

00:14:55.580 --> 00:14:59.620
only get direction. The gaze settles where the

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road gets thin and clean. Their horizon looks

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understated and trustworthy, and so you step.

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We've made that shy, stubborn turn. We, plural.

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Some of us limped into it. Some of us laughed

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from nerves and cried three steps later. Some

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of us called a friend and said nothing, letting

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the silence witness the crossing. Don't wait

00:15:28.909 --> 00:15:33.009
to feel holy. Just aim your feet and go. Wholeness

00:15:33.009 --> 00:15:38.950
often shows up in motion. And now the second

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refrain. I called out to my captain. I said,

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Sir, I have gone astray. Am I too far gone to

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come back now? He said, No, son, I will meet

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you halfway. Say the question the same way. Let

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the words wear a groove. The second time tastes

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different because your mouth remembers the first

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answer. Still you ask, and still the answer comes

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like rain. Unsurprised, unfancy, but enough.

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We're all standing in that mid -road motel lobby

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somewhere, hands in pockets, dust on our cuffs,

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waiting to hear if we get to check back into

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a life that won't kill us. Clerk looks up with

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a face we can't read and smiles. Like he knows

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our dad. Repetition isn't faithlessness. It's

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how hope practices breathing. One more time for

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the scar tissue. Am I too far gone to come back

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now? No, son. I'll meet you halfway. Same syllables,

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same cadence, same answer. Louder somehow because

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your ribcage finally made room for it. The line

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lands like an arm across your shoulders. Simple,

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warm, weight that blesses. Some truths don't

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get truer. They just get closer. So I'll ask

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you how we started and I'll mean it the same.

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You ever had a love you couldn't deny and a life

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you couldn't survive at the same time? If you're

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standing in that split, hear this as clean as

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a train whistle on a cold night. Halfway is already

00:17:28.869 --> 00:17:32.509
happening. Put your foot on the high road. He's

00:17:32.509 --> 00:17:35.990
already running towards you. When you feel the

00:17:35.990 --> 00:17:38.009
ground turn from gravel to pavement under your

00:17:38.009 --> 00:17:39.930
heel, don't look back to see how far you've come.

00:17:39.990 --> 00:17:52.630
Just look up and see who's coming. So, here we

00:17:52.630 --> 00:17:56.569
are on the other side of Jack of Diamonds. We've

00:17:56.569 --> 00:17:58.589
been down in the ditch, dropped down the elevator

00:17:58.589 --> 00:18:01.269
shaft, felt the hurricane twist the weather vanes

00:18:01.269 --> 00:18:03.049
and crossed the high road with a crooked eye

00:18:03.049 --> 00:18:06.150
toward the horizon. And if you're anything like

00:18:06.150 --> 00:18:08.710
me, you're hearing that first question perhaps

00:18:08.710 --> 00:18:13.230
a little differently now. You ever had a love

00:18:13.230 --> 00:18:17.569
you couldn't deny and a life you couldn't survive

00:18:17.569 --> 00:18:25.660
at the same time? At the start, maybe you were

00:18:25.660 --> 00:18:28.279
picturing a woman, a man, a face you could still

00:18:28.279 --> 00:18:31.460
see in the corner of your memory. But now, maybe

00:18:31.460 --> 00:18:36.000
that love's not just romance. It's the kind of

00:18:36.000 --> 00:18:38.000
love that feels like it's holding you together

00:18:38.000 --> 00:18:40.880
even when your life's being pulled apart. Maybe,

00:18:40.920 --> 00:18:46.059
maybe, maybe that's God's love. Maybe it's the

00:18:46.059 --> 00:18:50.400
stubborn ember of your own soul. Maybe it's both.

00:18:51.779 --> 00:18:55.559
Here's the thing. I'm not here to solve it for

00:18:55.559 --> 00:18:58.920
you. Some songs, some questions aren't meant

00:18:58.920 --> 00:19:01.880
to be tidied up. This one ends just like the

00:19:01.880 --> 00:19:04.920
road does, still stretching out, still waiting

00:19:04.920 --> 00:19:07.640
for you to take a step. And the captain's voice,

00:19:07.740 --> 00:19:12.519
it's still the same answer, halfway. It's what

00:19:12.519 --> 00:19:16.339
I love about this kind of storytelling. It's

00:19:16.339 --> 00:19:19.930
not here to preach you into a corner. It's here

00:19:19.930 --> 00:19:21.990
to walk with you down the middle, even if your

00:19:21.990 --> 00:19:26.029
shoes are muddy and your map's upside down. And

00:19:26.029 --> 00:19:29.089
if this conversation meant something at all to

00:19:29.089 --> 00:19:31.869
you, if it stirred something in your chest or

00:19:31.869 --> 00:19:33.690
gave you a little company on your high road,

00:19:33.789 --> 00:19:38.150
do me a favor. Hit that like button. Share this

00:19:38.150 --> 00:19:40.329
with somebody you know is fighting to keep a

00:19:40.329 --> 00:19:42.849
love alive while holding the rest of their life

00:19:42.849 --> 00:19:45.450
together. Subscribe so you don't miss the next

00:19:45.450 --> 00:19:48.920
time we find gospel in the gravel. Leave a comment.

00:19:48.960 --> 00:19:51.579
Tell me where this song met you. Because I read

00:19:51.579 --> 00:19:54.700
every single one of them. Because here's the

00:19:54.700 --> 00:19:57.019
truth. This podcast isn't just me talking into

00:19:57.019 --> 00:20:01.380
a microphone. It's us. Building a long table

00:20:01.380 --> 00:20:04.339
out here where the weary can sit. You bring your

00:20:04.339 --> 00:20:07.539
story. I'll bring mine. And we'll see if between

00:20:07.539 --> 00:20:09.619
the two of us we can hear the spirit humming

00:20:09.619 --> 00:20:13.900
along under the static. Until next time, I want

00:20:13.900 --> 00:20:16.869
to leave you with this. Whether you're stuck

00:20:16.869 --> 00:20:18.750
in the ditch or halfway across the high road,

00:20:18.809 --> 00:20:21.809
whether your love is tearing you up or holding

00:20:21.809 --> 00:20:24.349
you together, grace is already walking toward

00:20:24.349 --> 00:20:28.509
you. You might not see her yet. You might not

00:20:28.509 --> 00:20:32.849
believe me yet, but she's coming. And when you

00:20:32.849 --> 00:20:36.730
call out, because you will, the answer will be

00:20:36.730 --> 00:20:42.890
the same. No, son, I'll meet you halfway. See

00:20:42.890 --> 00:21:00.009
you next time. Chapter 6. Therefore, leaving

00:21:00.009 --> 00:21:02.769
the principles of the doctrines of Christ, let

00:21:02.769 --> 00:21:03.329
us go on.
