Lately, I am realizing that my methods of self-identification are pretty far off. I would liken them to believing in Santa until your 23.

Foolish, I know.

Unfortunately, when it comes to knowing who I am and who I was meant to be, I look a lot like that 23-year old hopeful still leveraging the 'cookies and milk' bit. I'm holding onto a legend that just isn't true and never was. I've digressed from the original version of myself — or more importantly, the intended version.

Somewhere along the last decade of my life, I've opened my identity up to debate. Whether it was by my actions or lack there of, any on-looker or passer-by with half an opinion was somehow given clearance to label me by my peripherals. I've been the musician. The designer. The Cuban. The tardy. The punctual. You name it.

I've occupied every identity I'm capable of except for the one that matters most:

Valued son of God; called to love my Heavenly Father and His people, fiercely.

I've boiled it down to elementary math. Remember reducing every fraction to find the lowest common denominator? We arrive at the truth about who we are and who we were meant to be through the very same process.

I recently listened to a worship song that I heard a long time ago but never quite grasped the true heart behind the message.

Thankfully, I came across it again and was blown away by the relevance and application it held for my life right here, right now.

One part in particular that gripped my heart was this line about “heavenly places.”

I had to stop, rewind and just sit on that concept for a bit because I couldn’t quite wrap my head around what the singer might actually be singing of.

What does that really mean?

What constitutes a heavenly place?

And then I began to wonder, is the church doing anything to achieve or earn such a description?

Are God’s people facilitating God’s environment?

When I imagine a heavenly place, my heart bleeds imagery. I see a place where love is the currency. A place where suffering and pain are met with wellness and comfort. A place where the weight of every moment is counted and honored. A place where abundance is the only option. And ultimately, a place where God proudly and powerfully resides.

Does my life’s influence as a Christ follower deserve an adjective as exalted as the word “heavenly?” I would guess that it should, but it most certainly does not realistically speaking.

Tough questions for the mirror tonight.

If you know me well and call yourself my friend then you know that I'm not a fan of socks.

I'm not necessarily a sandal man, I just don't like socks.

Specifically, I wear my chucks sock-less. Now many of you who see me in person from time to time comment without fail at the "oddity" of seeing the skin of my foot through the opening of my twisted converse tongue.

Drop it. I don't like socks.

However, I still wonder why it seems like my pair of chucks only suffers from this limp-tongue syndrome. I have plenty of friends who wear such shoes and with no tongue malfunctions. In fact, I have friends who also boycott socks and still don't have this problem so don't tell me it's a sock thing.

The smallest amount of walking sends the tongue sliding down the side of my foot to one side. Every time.

Maybe converse will enforce a recall if I write them a letter? Does this happen to anyone else?