I Miss Minneapolis More Than I’d Like to Admit.

I worked three services today. Not because I had to, but because somewhere along the line, showing up became my default setting. It’s strange, this life—how it unfolds like crumpled paper smoothed out over time. I should be sleeping. But here I am, a lukewarm Diet Coke within reach, Moose snoring at my feet, and my thoughts running faster than my body ever could.

CONFLATION dropped today. That still feels odd to say. There was no grand release party. No countdown clock ticking down like I’m Springsteen dropping an album. Just me, hitting “post” on Facebook twice and wondering if anyone out there needed this strange thing I made. I imagine books are a lot like prayers—you send them out not really knowing where they’ll land, only trusting that the ones who need them most will stumble across them when the time is right.

I guess that’s part of why I’m still awake. There’s this weird vulnerability to creating something, like mailing a piece of your ribcage to strangers and hoping it helps more than it confuses. People have ordered it, and I haven’t even held a physical copy yet. It’s out there now—naked, unfinished in my eyes, but real.

And yet, as much as I sit here wondering if it’s good enough, I’m mostly just grateful. Grateful in that strange, ache-in-the-ribs kind of way. I spent so much of my life as the hooker from Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis. You know the one—writing postcards about imaginary boyfriends, sobriety that isn’t quite true, and dreams that haven’t yet sprouted legs. That was me, living for the next survival point, pretending stability was right around the corner if I just squinted hard enough.

Now, somehow, I feel like Charlie—the guy she’s writing to. I don’t know when the switch happened. Maybe it wasn’t a switch at all. Maybe it was more like erosion—slow, inevitable, and unnoticed until one day you’re standing in a landscape you don’t recognize.

And yeah, I know—how the hell did she fit all that onto a postcard?

But that’s not the point. The point is that things change. They shift underfoot, sometimes gently, sometimes like a landslide. And most of the time, we’re too busy living to realize it’s happening. Until one day, you’re sprawled out on a couch at 1am, whispering thanks to a dog who has no idea how much she anchors you to the earth.

Maybe that’s what Christmas is for me this year. It’s not about garland or gifts or even the old traditions I used to wrap around myself like armor. It’s about those slow changes—the ones that creep in quietly and take root while we’re not looking.

So if you’re out there, writing postcards filled with half-truths and prayers disguised as updates—hold on. The years have a funny way of turning things around. One day, you’ll be Charlie, reading the words instead of writing them.

Until then, may you stay soft. May you keep writing. And may the quiet grace of transformation find you exactly where you are.