#I specifically didn’t touch Shaun’s room in the house so that she can lose it and scrap the entire thing

[sweetsmalldog]

Replaying Fallout 4 is wild. Like this is my girl Veronica she copes with her grief by using the gun that killed her husband and her best friends are a dog and a synth detective, she is leading a militia to protect the people of irradiated Boston but yeah she did also murder those scavengers for a bunch of robots so they could fly their ship into another building. She’s gonna have a psychotic break when she finds out her son is an old man who has been perpetuating atrocities.

[wasteland-tyrant-imagines]

Could you write hancock/reader where the reader always ends up in Hancock’s bed at night whether it be them doing uhhh things,, or just her crawling in to sleep? And then maybe one night she doesn’t show up and hancock gets worried and finds her curled up in the corner of her room listening to the “Hi Honey!l holotape and crying? If it’s too specific you can do what you want with it, I just need that sweet sweet raisin man comfort

The first time she crawled into his bed, they’d both been high as a skyscraper on Mentats and Jet.  She’d just come back from using the relay into the Institute, and whatever she’d seen inside... seemed to be something she wanted to forget.  He didn’t push her to talk about it, but he did offer her something to take the edge off.

She’d kissed him that night, her fingers curled into his coat in pure desperation.  He’d fantasized about the feeling of her lips on his for months now, but he’d never acted on those impure thoughts.  She was a good person -- too good for the hand she’d been dealt -- and she could do much better than a ghoul like him.

But he gave in for a little while, and the Jet seemed to stretch the moment so much longer.  Her skin was so smooth under his touch; she hadn’t been in the Commonwealth long enough to have it weathered by the elements.  There was a scar here or there, puckered skin that left her forever marked by her travels, but it paled in comparison to his radiation-ravaged body.  

He stopped her when she reached for his zipper, murmured something about leaving her wanting more.  When she started to come down, she fell asleep on his chest, and the next day, she acted like her usual self again -- radiant, hell-bent on bringing change to the Commonwealth and helping those in need.

When night fell, however, she always found herself back in his bed.  At first, it was just sleeping, tangled in one another’s arms, but it evolved over the consecutive days.  Hancock gave in when she admitted that she loved him-- him of all people! -- and lived out the fantasies he’d had whirling in his head ever since he joined her little band of misfits.  He loved her, too, and desperately hoped it wasn’t all an extended bad chem trip.

And then the next night, she didn’t come to his bed.

He waited in the house he’d fixed up in Sanctuary, one that was directly across from the house she used as her own.  She didn’t go into hers much, he’d discovered; instead, she seemed restless whenever they stayed there for very long.  Codsworth had clued him in, told him that she used to live here -- and in that very house -- which explained why she looked so natural and out-of-place here at the same time.  

He checked the window and noticed that there was still a light on at her house.  Maybe she just needed some time to herself; he could understand that.  He wasn’t the type of guy that crowded someone.

... But dammit, he had gotten used to the feeling of her cheek pressed against his chest, to waking up and looking down at her hair, to the sleepy smile and puddle of drool she’d leave on his rumpled shirt.  

Not to mention that after last night, he was eager for Round 8.

So, he talked himself into crossing the broken asphalt and knocking on her front door.  There was nothing wrong with checking on her.  And if she wanted to sleep alone, there was nothing wrong with that.  

And if she was having second thoughts, there was nothing wrong with that, either.  

The fact remained that she’d told him mere hours ago that she’d see him tonight, and it wasn’t like her to just flake.

She didn’t answer the door.  “Hey, it’s Hancock,” he announced, and then paused before he knocked again.  There was still no response.  Was she asleep?

He let himself in; she never did lock her door when she was here.  She wasn’t in the living room, though the kitchen was the room with the light still flickering.  

“Sunshine?”

He was quiet, straining to hear.  Slowly, he stepped down the hall, until he heard a voice coming from the back bedroom.  The door was slightly ajar, but as he moved to push it open, he hesitated.  

The voice belonged to a man.

“Bye bye, say bye bye.  Bye honey, we love you!”

Hancock heard a soft click as the holotape recording began again.  

“Hi honey!  Listen, I don’t think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a mother you are--”

Instantly, it clicked; he knew who the voice belonged to, and he felt like an intruder.  This was a private memory, a message from a man whose body was still frozen within the nearby Vault.  They’d shared this house together, probably slept together in that very bedroom.  Centuries had passed, but for her, it hadn’t even been a year.

He was about to slip out when he heard her crying.  He’d never seen her cry, but when he peered through the gap in the door and saw her curled up in the corner of the room, her face illuminated a soft green from the pip-boy’s light, his resolve broke.  

He opened the door, and the loud squeak from the hinges made her jerk, her fingers flying over the controls to silence the holo.  A shaky breath escaped her when she realized who it was, and she hastily wiped the tear tracks from her face.

“H-Hancock, sorry... I, I, lost track of time,” she fumbled, sniffling.  “I was just about to come over.”

“Hey, it’s no big.  I just got a little worried and thought I’d swing by.  I knocked,” he added, his voice trailing as he shrugged.  She nodded and stood on unsteady feet.  

“Sorry, I... I didn’t hear you.”  Her voice wavered, and although she was forcing a smile, it didn’t meet her gaze, not by a long shot.  

“Wanna talk about it?” he hazarded, and when she froze, he gestured to her arm.  “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Oh,” she deflated a little.  “It’s nothing.  I was just thinking about... how things used to be, about Shaun and what I need to do, and I... I remembered the holotape.”

He stepped closer, his obsidian gaze focused solely on her.  It may just be his self-destructive nature, but he had to ask, “Does this have anything to do with last night?”

Instantly, her eyes widened, and she shook her head.  “What?  Oh, no, that’s not... this isn’t because of that.  Hancock...”  She gingerly reached out and touched his arm.  “I meant what I said last night.  It’s just... the Institute and Shaun -- it’s so hard.  A-and Nate, I’ve never -- it’s only been him, and I --”  She was fumbling, shaking her head again, her eyes so glassy.  “I’ve been going so fast ever since I came out of the Vault.  I never got the chance to mourn either of them -- or the life we had.  It’s... It’s catching up with me.”

“Hey, it’s okay.  It’s okay,” Hancock murmured, pulling her against his chest.  “You can cry all you want.  My shoulder’s all yours.  It’s not healthy to keep that shit bottled up, ya dig?”

She shook her head again, trying to deny the need to cry, but the longer he held her in that room, his fingers comfortingly threading through her hair... the more she felt the tears gathering.  So, she finally took his advice and let go, muffling her sobs against his musty jacket.  She’d been trying to be so strong this entire time -- in this new world, weakness would certainly get her killed -- but when Hancock’s arm tightened around her, and he murmured soft reassurances against her temple, she knew he didn’t view this as a sign of weakness.  

If anyone understood losing a home and becoming someone else, it was Hancock.    

When she finally quieted down, they stayed like that, embracing in the dark and slightly swaying in place.  “I don’t want you to worry about me having second thoughts,” she managed, her voice much steadier.  “I meant it when I said I love you.”

“I wasn’t worried for a second.”  He glossed over the fib with his usual, charismatic smile.  “But do you, ah... want to spend the night here instead?  Or be alone?”

“No, I want to be with you.  And tomorrow, maybe we can head out for home?  There’s a couple of settlements I need to check on for Preston, anyway.”

“Home?” he echoed.  “Isn’t this--?”

“This hasn’t been home for two hundred years,” she cut in, resolute.  “I thought you might want to go home, though.  We haven’t been to Goodneighbor in over a month.”

Hancock laughed, slinging an arm around her as they strode from the remains of her old life.  “Sunshine, I’m all for seeing my people again, but first we’ve gotta get one thing straight.”

Her smile mirrored his as he pulled her in front of him, both arms around her waist, and she slung her arms around his neck.  “Oh?  What might that be?”

“Right here -- right now?  I’m already home.”        

Hancock kissed her, and she realized for first time in two centuries... she was home, too.

[nathanjhill]

Eat My Dust (Mark 1:9-15)

When I was a child, there was nothing more fun than a good race. Now, we didn’t do it like the Winter Olympics, on ice rinks or down sheer snowy banks - no, our races in elementary school were simple. You didn’t need elaborate equipment or referees. Just a bunch of kids, boys and girls, lined up on a sidewalk, seeing who could sprint from point A to point B the fastest.

There was this one kid - James Nelson - who was the fastest in my school. Ahh, James Nelson. He had the cool shoes. He had the confidence. He had this look when you lined up next to him before the race, a look that said - “you’re gonna eat my dust”.

And sure enough, when someone would yell “go”, James would leave you in his dust, no matter how hard you tried, no matter how cool your shoes were, no matter how fast you were feeling that day.

Now that phrase I’m using, “eat my dust”, I don’t want to assume everyone knows what it means. It’s origin is in competitions - in races - when one athlete gains such a lead, such an advantage over their opponent - that he or she can mockingly turn to them and say, “you ate my dust”. It’s a taunt and insult - rubbing in a dominant victory.

In these Winter Olympics, it’s something Chloe Kim and Shaun White could say to their snowboarding competitors - or legendary Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt might say to the inferior competition he faced in his prime.

It’s not necessarily good sportsmanship, but I wanted to play with this phrase today as we began our new Lent sermon series, Like or Follow Jesus.

You see, there is kind of a Judeo-Christian resonance to this phrase, “eat my dust”.

Some of you may have heard a famous sermon by pastor and speaker Rob Bell years ago, where he referred to an ancient Jewish saying from the Mishnah that challenged those who wanted to become more like their teacher. It goes:

Let thy house be a meeting-house for the wise; and powder thyself in the dust of their feet; and drink their words with thirstiness.

It’s a very evocative image - if you want to become wise, become like the sage that you seek to emulate. If you want to soak in the wisdom, experience, and perspective of your teacher, douse yourself with the dust of their feet.

A true student then sits at their master’s feet, listening to every word and sliver of teaching. A true disciple serves their teacher. Especially, as Rob Bell pointed out in his sermon, “eating their dust” means following your rabbi so closely that the dirt from their footsteps would get all over you - head to toe.

And in the ancient Jewish way, if you wanted to become holy like that rabbi you admired, you stick with them so long that some of their holy might just rub off on you.

In these 40 days of Lent, when we prepare ourselves for Easter and for resurrection, our invitation is to “eat Jesus’ dust”, to follow him closely on his ministry, hear the stories afresh, walk where he walked, see what he saw, love who he loved - and get some of that holy rubbed off on us.

In this sermon series then, I setup this contrast - do you like Jesus or follow Jesus? It doesn’t have to be an “either/or” - we can like Jesus and follow him, but in our interfaith culture, it is clear that there are a lot of people who claim to like Jesus but don’t seem to follow him.

Rather, they follow other teachers - they (and maybe we) become -

students of addiction and self-indulgence

students of violence and coercive power

students of wealth and greed

students of hatred and segregation

Especially this past week, when we continue to look at the state of our world in all of its complexity and violence and misinformation, there are many people, many leaders, many wisdoms that are shouting from our marketplace and social media. Come, follow me! My way will lead to abundant life. My way will lead to fame and fortune. My way will lead to security. My way will promise you your heart’s desire. My way will make you the fastest, the most intelligent, the most successful, the most beautiful…

Jesus here is more like in my childhood foot race - long gone, nowhere to be found.

People choose these paths, even many of us who call ourselves Christians, and meanwhile, children are being slaughtered in our schools. Families are literally being ripped apart. Neighbors are being deported. Men and women are being put out onto the streets with no place to call home. We are losing our ability to trust each other and our leaders. These other teachers aren’t helping us thrive and survive.

My invitation to all of us today is to think of these next five weeks as an opportunity to “eat Jesus’ dust” - to sit at his feet, chase after him, stick so close in our lives that we can’t help but be covered in His holy that we desperately need in our broken world and in these difficult times.

In our scripture that we read so beautifully together, I want you to notice afresh how important location is in the Bible. Following Jesus in our text this morning has a literal meaning. Jesus goes places.

Let’s name the locations we heard clearly in this text:

We discover that Jesus is from a town called Nazareth in the Galilee region.

Jesus goes to the Jordan River to be baptized by John the Baptist.

Immediately, Jesus is driven out into the wilderness.

Then Jesus returns to Galilee to begin his ministry.

As a pastor who spends a lot of time digging into scripture, I admit that I am quick to skip over these cities and locations in these passages. Some of them are frankly unpronounceable. They are foreign names. They aren’t my landscape - and yet, as we think about “eating Jesus’ dust”, maybe we should stop and consider where Jesus went and why it was so important that the gospel writers placed Jesus in a particular location, village, and region.

Let’s take Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth. Nazareth is a strange one, because it is historically insignificant. One historian claims that the earliest mention of Nazareth outside of the New Testament was in the 3rd century, nearly 200 years after Jesus’ death. The consensus among archaeologists is that in Jesus’ day Nazareth was nothing more than a stop sign on the way to bigger, better cities - maybe a population of 200 people. In other words, Nazareth was a small podunk town in the middle of nowhere - insignificant and unimportant.

In the gospel of John, Nathaniel, when he meets Jesus for the first time, asks, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?”

Nazareth was not a prime vacation destination.

And Nazareth was located in Galilee, a northern part of historic Israel, distant from Jerusalem, the capital, away from the epicenter of Jewish religious life and politics. Galilee was a unique area of historic Israel in Jesus’ day because of how mixed and diverse it was - not just observant Jews but lots of Roman people and foreigners who found plenty of opportunity to farm and fish and cultivate a strong economic life. Growing up in this context, some historians had wondered if Jesus, on trips to nearby cities, was exposed to Roman culture and people from all over the known world. His family and neighbors likely wondered - how does one remain a faithful Jew when Roman temples are being built in the next town over?

Galilee was where the tensions of being a faithful follower of God and the ways of the world came so readily into contrast.

Jesus leaves Galilee and goes to the Jordan River, one of the most important rivers in the Bible, a body of water that is both a physical boundary and a symbol of how the Jewish people came to be. It was Moses who led the Israelites up to the Jordan - it was Joshua who was charged with leading them across it and into the land God had promised them. And it was there - that John the Baptist set up his wilderness camp revivals, offering to plunge anyone into its flowing waters who wanted to clean themselves of sin and turn their lives around, repeating the journey their ancestors had taken so long ago.

In some ways, the Jordan River is the baptismal font for the whole Jewish people, marking their identity as chosen by God.

And then the final location - the wilderness - a vague and strange image. The Greek word for desert is eremos, which literally means uninhabited place, without people, a desert. Another slightly different reading imagines the wilderness as a place that is haunted, where evil and darkness roam, kind of like that dark place underneath your bed. It’s there that Jesus spends 40 days and 40 nights, wrestling with Satan, with only wild beasts to keep him company, relying on angelic room service to sustain his weary body and soul.

Jesus emerge from that wilderness excursion, not beatdown and overwhelmed, but announcing the kingdom of God at hand.

Put all these locations together and you see Jesus make this dramatic movement:

From nowhere to somewhere

From life-less places to life-giving places

From the old into the new

Jesus, in other words, gets around.

Jesus’ movement is core to his ministry - going along the highways and side streets, into the busy corners and the desolate places, at the watering holes of civilization and into the throne rooms of power and privilege. He touches the untouchable and dines with the unworthy. He debates with the righteous and blesses the sinner. He proclaims life when death is all around. There seems to be no door and no path left untraveled for this dusty rabbi.

He sets a precedent that those who follow him have to be willing to “eat his dust” - ready to go to those unlikely, uncomfortable places in His name.

The fact that God sent Jesus to be rooted and contextualized into a specific place and time tell us that God is not interested in making any of us abstract stereotypes - God saw the needs of Palestine under Roman occupation and God sees the present day needs of America. God saw the needs of the wounded and sick in Jesus’ day - and God sees the diseased and shattered of our own. God walked among regular folk - so God can walk among us.

Centuries later, that call continues for us in this Lent season.

If we want to understand what took Jesus to the cross, we need to be ready to “eat his dust” - to go with him into our places of life-less-ness - right into the epicenter of our cursed and haunted realities.

When we follow Jesus, our path, marked by the shadow of the cross, will take us into the open wounds of our land:

Into Parkland High School

Into ICE detention centers

Into ground zero

Into brothels and gambling dens

Into hurricane-shattered homes of our neighbors

Into drug ravaged streets of our hometowns

Into the marketplaces and PG Plazas of our city

Though the old spiritual goes:

I want Jesus to walk with me

Sometimes, it is Jesus who is calling out to us come with him and see what he sees, touch who he touches, love who he loves, and teardown that which seeks to hold back his healing love.

To be covered with Jesus’ dust is to be covered with the stuff of life.

This week, I particularly tasted some of Jesus’ dust. I think you did too when you helped with our guests here from Warm Nights and the Day Center. Doing this work with hurting and homeless neighbors, you definitely get your hands and feet dirty. There are times when tempers flare, when the tension rises, and when things can get a little ugly. But praise God, even when things get ugly, Jesus is there.

Jesus is there in the tender tears of a child of God who doesn’t understand why life is so hard for them, why every door is shut in their face. Jesus is there in the outrage of our neighbors who are disappointed in a society that blames the poor for being poor. Jesus is there in the homemade meatloaf, chicken casserole, spaghetti, cake, and cookies offered up to those who are hungry. Jesus is there in the potential for a new order, a new reign to break in through our relationships with those who are poor and struggling.

The kingdom of God becomes not an ethereal dream-like page from a children’s coloring page - but becomes the here and now lived reality of a diverse people who dare to live into another order, into new relationships, and see that even lifeless people and places are venues for God’s work to be done.

Friends, I know many of you well - some of you I am still getting to know. The good news is that Jesus knows your name. Jesus knows your home, your neighborhood, your workplace, your hometown, your state, your country. Jesus might even know your iPhone password. Jesus knows even the heartbreaking lifelessness in your heart. What might it mean to you that Jesus walks with you into those places? What good news is it that Jesus knows the state of your life and still calls you by name? The good news is that Jesus plans to meet you there, even when you don’t deserve it, and invite you to share in spreading the good news - a new life is available, a new community is breaking in. Don’t you want to taste it?

Jesus, says - come and eat my dust.