It sounded like a gunshot
Why every "not my last" feels different.
A few weeks ago I was hit by a drunk driver on my way home from work. One second I was driving down the same road I take nearly every day. The next, my ears were ringing as the dust from the airbag settled on the dash and I brushed shards of glass out of my hair. It was the loudest sound I've ever heard.
I've always thought that near-death experiences cause people to drastically alter their life's course. I imagine these people like the prodigal son who, when realizing he was so close to starvation that he wanted to eat pig's food, immediately did a 180 and headed home. This sort of change hasn't occurred in my life. My job, my friends, my hobbies have all stayed the same. But they look different now.
A little while after the accident—at the protest of my doctor—I stole the fading minutes of daylight and biked around the lake. As I pedaled up the final hill to our apartment with the sunset on my back, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I cried over my handlebars as I thought about how close I had come to not being able to do this anymore. The fact that my legs pumped as my heart pounded struck me as miraculous.
The next morning, I felt the same impulse as I sat in the Chick-fil-a drive-thru and ordered "not my last" chicken biscuit. I've had a lot of "not my lasts" recently. Not my last workweek. Not my last movie. Not my last Thanksgiving. Not my last dinner with friends. Not my last newsletter. Not my last bad joke. Not my last good joke. Not my last load of laundry. Not my last home-cooked meal. Not my last hug.
The realization that my time on Earth continues to tick has made almost no impression on the "big things" in my life, but the moments and minutia are unmistakeably different. I'm savoring the last seconds of conversations with friends. I'm holding nieces and nephews a little tighter. I'm saying goodbye to family a little slower. And I'm realizing that nights in—the very thing I've complained about all year long—contain some of my happiest moments.
I don't know how long this feeling will last. I'm sure life will regain its rhythms and I'll stop tearing up at sunrises and smiling at not my lasts. But it hasn't yet, and I'm leaning into the gratitude. ‘Tis the season, after all. I know not everyone feels that way. It's been a weird year with so much to mourn, so much to complain about, so much to lament.
But if you're reading this, you're still here. You still have enough time in your day to read this dumb email. You still have at least a handful of not my lasts waiting for you. And I think that's pretty great.
Thanks for reading this far.
- jd
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Most Popular Writing
It feels like this is the time of the year where we begin to reflect, so in that spirit, here's a look back at the most popular words I've shared from 2020. These are all from my website, which means some of these essays/stories/doodles had over one dozen readers. That's how you know they're good.
Does it bother me that this is the title of my most-read piece from my website this year? Yes. Yes, it does.
This story is still so awkward. I don't know why people read it.
As ashamed I am of the title of this year's most popular piece is how proud I am of the title of this one.
Glimpses of the Trinity in the Music of Jon Bellion
If you need a pick me up today, Good Things Fall Apart is the ultimate happy-sad song. It slaps (am I using that word right?)
Based on a true story.
Most Recent Writing
If you're here for the politics and current events, I've got you covered. But before you check out my latest from The Daily Wire, maybe I can interest you in an essay on stories inspired by one of the most thought-provoking books I've read this year...
We Need Each Other's Stories
If Wesley Hill had written a treatise on how Christians should handle homosexuality, I probably wouldn’t have read it to the end, regardless of whether or not I agreed. But because he shared his story, because he invited me in to experience something deeply personal, I was able to also understand something deeply profound—namely, that he and I aren’t that different.
Twitter Shouldn't Tell Me Who to Trust
In an effort to remove any misleading information, Twitter has set itself up as the gatekeeper of truth. But before we blame them for consolidating power, we can’t ignore who put them in this position in the first place. Let’s not stand in the middle of the stream and wonder what happened. We got our feet wet and now we’re here…by choice.
Why Are Some State So Slow At Counting Votes?
The flaws in the U.S. election system do not legitimize Trump’s claims of election fraud, but they do serve as a reminder that America might not be as adept at running elections as some would like to think. We still leave ample room for human error, plenty of reasons for contested results, and plenty of extra time for uncertainty and doubt.
It's Time to Cancel Election Coverage Forever
In 1960, the vice president of ABC News quit his job the week after the election to protest the way his station covered the results. The issue? ABC had shown episodes of “Bugs Bunny” during lulls in their election coverage. Pair this tale with the fact that NBC’s election night coverage desk was originally located in Studio 8-H, the current filming location of “Saturday Night Live,” and one has to wonder if election night television coverage wasn’t destined to be a satirical farce from the very beginning.
Drink
Couple of things worth acknowledging right off the bat. 1) I was always going to write about Shiner Cheer, and I will continue to write about it every December forever. 2) The thumb over the logo is exactly why I always ask Abby to take these pictures for me. Anyway, to the review...
Do you ever eat or drink something that tastes like home? That's what Shiner Cheer is for me. And I don't really know why because my childhood home was a dry as dust on chapped lips—which, coincidentally, is the opposite of how this drink tastes. It's wet (as all good drinks are), smooth, and tastes of Christmas and peach. Growing up in Georgia may explain the nostalgic peach flavor, but still, there's something more. Shiner Cheer tastes like the feeling you get when your mom lets you open one present on Christmas Eve. It tastes like sitting next to a warm fire and losing track of time in the embers. It tastes like what I imagine kissing under mistletoe feels like but without the peer pressure I assume is involved in that. It tastes like the feeling of fresh wool socks you've put on after spending a morning playing in the snow. Drinking Shiner Cheer is like catching Santa as he comes out of your chimney, nodding knowingly in his direction, handing him a cookie, and giving him a "good game" pat on the butt as he heads back out to deliver gifts. It's just that good.
***
I have a theory about you. Yes, you. The one reading this. One of two things is true of you. Either you're new to the newsletter, and you just wanted to see how long this was before committing to reading any of it and now you're here, sixteen flicks of your thumb later, and a little wary. OR you're a long-time subscriber and you read this part every time. In fact, this little section here at the end might be your favorite part of the newsletter. It's like a conspiratory whisper between you and me, so you scroll straight down to it to hear what secret you're going to get. Forget that you've bypassed the hours of writing work I've put into everything above—it's this two-minute exercise where I try to add something funny at the end that you like best. Look, I dig it. No matter how you arrived, I'd choose you over the other schmucks who can't make it to the bottom of this email every day. But now that you're here, I'm asking a favor. We're friends now, whether you like it or not. And as friends, I'd like us to get to know one another. So, I want you to reply to this email with the best and worst Christmas gift you've ever received. No strings attached. I just want to know. You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine, and now we have one other thing to share besides this very last (and now very long) section of what is already a very long newsletter.