HALT: A prayer for when you feel hungry, angry, lonely, or tired

Plus: my review of Taylor Swift's 'The Tortured Poets Department'

Our household is entering new territory in our expedition through the seasons of life. Like Lewis and Clark as they rowed up the Missouri River into the Great Plains. We have crossed into the semi-wild Preteen Uplands. We’ve encountered Deodorant Trees and inhaled (gratefully) of their nectar. We’ve been exhilarated by the Rapids Of Too Many Activities. We’ve drank deeply from the Brook Of Evening Prayer. We’ve traversed the Scree Field of Sassy Responses To Normal, Everyday Requests. And we’ve also had to pull ourselves free of the Bogs of Big Emotional Meltdowns.

It’s that last landmark that I want to get into today. As our kids get older, the emotions are getting bigger. And sometimes, when kids from hard places enter the hormonally charged atmosphere of Preteen Territory, the Big Emotional Meltdowns can get extra boggy extra quickly.

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Here’s how this goes. There’s typically one big thing that gets us off-trail: a misplaced expectation, the need for a sudden adjustment, an un-welcomed correction, a Big Emotion that has not been adequately processed. The greater the struggle, the greater the grip of the muck. As we sink, the child grasps at other narrative twigs, other un-processed brambles to help slow the descent. But they just break off in-hand. The emotions escalate until all of the feelings, all of the words, have been cried out. Then, finally, a collapse. Exhaustion hits. The body lays back, depleted of all tears and energy. It’s then that Lindsey and I are able to pull our child back to solid ground.

We usually fall into these bogs near bedtime for some reason, and the struggle can last for an hour or more. So, once calm has been restored, we tuck our kiddo into bed. Then we’re left to clean the mud from ourselves. To make sense of what just happened. We, too, are exhausted. And I start wondering what the actual Teenage Wilderness will have in store. I go there in my mind. I start telling myself scary stories about the future and doubt that we have what it takes to survive.

I want you to know that we try really hard not to fall into the bog. There are things we try to keep us from getting sucked in. Sometimes we’re successful. Sometimes we’re not. Sometimes, we realize we’re on the verge, and a wrong word or a stern Dad Mode glance can send us sprawling head-long into the bog. I guess what I’m saying is that I’m a sinner and can contribute to these meltdowns. But I’ve also realized how not in control I am of the situation. Even when I stay out of Dad Mode and do my best to blend anchored empathy with patience and wisdom, we can still end up sinking into the muck. Even when Lindsey and I do everything right, it may not guarantee safe passage.

O Lord, when I feel this way
I tell myself stories
about the past,
about the future,
and these are scary stories,
full of fear and worry
and often empty of hope and truth.
I ask that you’d fill my heart and lungs
with the breath of your Spirit,
with your truth and your love—
and with that air, I would tell myself true stories
about who I am and who you are.

On Taylor Swift’s The Tortured Poets Department

Speaking of getting bogged down in big emotions, I reviewed the 31-track, 122-minute double album for WORLD Magazine. I feel decidedly meh about what I wrote—which I think is a pretty accurate summary of how most non-Swifties feel about the album itself. Here’s an excerpt:

More than anything, her newest album acts like an imprecatory psalm, with Swift naming and rebuking her enemies. It is a 31-track meditation of wrongs done by her former loves (by all accounts, Joe Alwyn and Matty Healy), by her fans, and, yes, by herself. Swift does not seem interested in forgiveness (“The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived”) or letting go of grudges (“thanK you aIMee”). These factors may explain the regrettably high volume of explicit language throughout TTPD (including several F-bombs).

You can read the whole thing here.

The album came out almost a month ago, and even though culture moves at warp-speed these days, I think it’s revealing that there’s not much online chatter about the album anymore. Not even the Swifties in my workplace are talking about it. TTPD was a big swing, but I don’t know if Swift made the kind of contact she wanted to. It’s not a swing-and-a-miss. Maybe more of a foul ball?

I think a lot of that has to do with the length. Quantity over quality. I also genuinely think Swift missed an opportunity to go acoustic—not country, just acoustic. Think Lauryn Hill’s MTV Unplugged 2.0: raw, emo, hyper-vulnerable in the presentation. The best songs on TTPD—like “The Prophecy”—kinda lean in that direction.

In “A Rainy Morning,” my favorite living poet Ted Kooser tells of a woman in a wheelchair “pushing herself” through the morning in question. The way the woman “strikes at her wheels” reminds Kooser of the way a skilled pianist similarly bends into and out of a progression of chords. He leaves us with this vision:

So expertly she plays the chords
of this difficult music she has mastered,
her wet face beautiful in its concentration,
while the wind turns the pages of rain.

Think of The Tortured Poets Department in a similar way. Swift demonstrates a mastery of the “difficult music” of heartbreak, disappointment, and the stories she tells about herself. (Not that all of these stories are worth telling—and some of them could have been avoided. Which is why I really appreciated this “get wisdom” critique at Christianity Today.) At 31 songs, she dares us to match the level of concentration she's exerted while leaning into life's “pages of rain.” But even for the Swiftie-est among us, TTPD requires effort. This is a feature and a bug.

Anyway, would love to hear your thoughts on the album.

As always, thanks for reading.