I wake up most mornings around 5:00 AM. If you were to ask me how my mind feels at that hour, I wouldn’t say “clear and open.” I’d say it’s overcast with a chance of showers.
I usually need at least one cup of coffee before the fog lifts. But lately, I’ve realized I need something else to settle the weather in my head.
We have a 75-pound lovable linebacker of a dog named Max. Imagine the energy and immaturity of a puppy—jumping from the couch to the loveseat again and again—and then imagine the dog never outgrows that phase. That’s Max.
In researching his enthusiastic hyperactivity, I learned a new term: “zoomies.” It’s that burst of frenetic energy where a dog just can’t settle down. The suggestion to calm dogs like that is to give their brain a job to do.
I briefly considered making him scan QR codes and then enter the six-digit code sent to his phone—or maybe solve one of those irritating reCAPTCHA challenges (“select all the squares that contain the best places to pee”), which would force him to choose all the fire hydrants in the grid. But we decided to start simpler.
We bought Max a “snuffle mat”—a fabric mat with hundreds of little crevices where we hide crackers or Cheerios. He has to nose through every inch of it to find the treats, and the focus calms him down.
The irony, of course, is that he loves the snuffle mat so much that just waiting for us to put it down on the floor sends him right into the zoomies.
It occurs to me that I’m a little bit like Max.
My brain has its own version of the zoomies. I crave sensory input. I need articles to read, videos to watch, stories to write—something. If I don’t give my brain a job, it goes on the offensive against me.
For a long time, I fed that craving with the digital equivalent of scattered peanut butter chips and Cheerios: cultural and political chatter. I’d scroll through the news on my iPad or my massive monitor, just nosing around for the next hit of dopamine. But that never really settled me.
So, I tried a different kind of snuffle mat.
I bought a Kindle. It’s a tiny thing, light as a feather, with a six-inch black-and-white screen. After just fifteen minutes with it, I was stunned. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t have videos or notifications. It just had words—quiet, black-and-white words. I started reading Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art, and for the first time in a long time, the zoomies in my head slowed down.
My hope is that this simple slate will do the same for my time in Scripture—making my Bible reading regular again, and finally distraction-free. I need to read the Bible because I believe, like the apostle Peter, that Jesus has “the words of eternal life,” and there is no other.
I think I’m craving that quiet because my view of what I’m doing here—with you—has changed, too.
For a long time, I envisioned writing some stories just for the humor. I know I have a quick wit; I love to joke, and I enjoy the process of creating laughs. But strictly funny pieces are like cotton candy—they taste great for a second, but they dissolve instantly and leave you hungry for more. And that “more” might just be the intellectual equivalent of a Pixy Stix or a giant Slurpee. They leave out the meat that satisfies our hunger (or the hearty tofu—is there such a thing?—for the vegans).
I still want to make you chuckle. But I’m after more than just a laugh.
I realized this morning that I want to be the helpful teacher next door, the good neighbor, and even that person you consider a good friend, even though all of your many interactions over the years have been online.
I never really thought about the writer-reader relationship like that before, but that is exactly what I want this to be. A friend doesn’t just perform for you. A friend walks with you. A friend admits that he has “zoomies” and overcast mornings and struggles to focus.
I want to be the kind of friend who has grown over time, who understands things a little better now than when he was younger, and who uses that perspective to help. And for me, there is no better way to help than by reminding you of the love of God and the walk He calls us to. And I want to do that right here, in the daily course of life—where we stumble, fall, and try to learn from the experience again and again.
So, I’m trying to clear out the chatter. I’m focusing on the words. And I’m trying to show up, even on the overcast mornings, as a friend.
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” — John 6:68
And that’s what I know today.