I believe that Jesus lived for us, died for us, rose for us and is alive right now for us. I believe it with all my heart, more than ever, and He is my only hope. I am alive because He is alive. He has never been anything but good towards me. I will celebrate His victory over death and suffering and sin and despair and failure and disease and lies and hate and resentment and greed and all darkness.
I will celebrate in grief for what it cost Him to redeem me and you. I will celebrate in joy because I know he conquered everything, there is nothing left to fear. I will laugh because His love is as full today as it was on the cross, as it was at creation, as it is in eternity.
Let's dance and sing and pray and cry and reach out our hands and hearts to all because nothing can alter what he finished.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Alternate Ending
So here is the alternate ending to the car story, since most of you have figured out by now that the first ending wasn't exactly how it happened. But sometimes it is hard to seperate reality from a glorious daydream.
After it became obvious to me that my car was beyond my abilities to heal, that it was still pouring down rain, that my son was very tired and embarassed about the quality time we were having together, I succumbed to the despairing truth and called a tow truck and had it towed to a garage. The next morning they called and said the starter had given it up and it would be several hundred dollars to repair. Since I have a really good relationship with the mechanic, (after all, I have put his kids through college) he asked me if I wanted to fix it or just sign the title over to him so that he could harvest the few remaining decent parts. Since I had no real choice and I knew he was having way to much fun at my expense, I told him to go ahead and put a starter in it. Then he said, "And oh, by the way, do you know someone put the wrong serpentine belt on it?"
There it was, the ancient serpentine belt, the slithering, insidious, unending rubber demon from the automobile version of Sheol that had reared its nasty head again. It seems that the parts store had sold me the wrong one to begin with and I had spent all the previous day installing it. I know there is irony in there somewhere, but I am not really looking for it.
So, I am back in the Taurus.....whose sign has something to do with a "Bull." Now I am finally understanding why.
After it became obvious to me that my car was beyond my abilities to heal, that it was still pouring down rain, that my son was very tired and embarassed about the quality time we were having together, I succumbed to the despairing truth and called a tow truck and had it towed to a garage. The next morning they called and said the starter had given it up and it would be several hundred dollars to repair. Since I have a really good relationship with the mechanic, (after all, I have put his kids through college) he asked me if I wanted to fix it or just sign the title over to him so that he could harvest the few remaining decent parts. Since I had no real choice and I knew he was having way to much fun at my expense, I told him to go ahead and put a starter in it. Then he said, "And oh, by the way, do you know someone put the wrong serpentine belt on it?"
There it was, the ancient serpentine belt, the slithering, insidious, unending rubber demon from the automobile version of Sheol that had reared its nasty head again. It seems that the parts store had sold me the wrong one to begin with and I had spent all the previous day installing it. I know there is irony in there somewhere, but I am not really looking for it.
So, I am back in the Taurus.....whose sign has something to do with a "Bull." Now I am finally understanding why.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Kum Ba Ya
Yesterday was an interesting day to say the least. Because of the rain I could not roof, so I decided to try and blog some. So I wrote some things yesterday morning and just as I was finishing it up blogger had technical difficulties and everything I had written was lost. Little did I know that it was an omen.
After a while it quit raining, so I decided to work on my car, since it had died in our son's high school parking lot. Once I checked it out I saw that the Serpentine belt had come off. Another omen, if the word serpentine pops up in your day, be very careful. Knowing that they do not just come off, I also found that the tension pulley had siezed up. So, after two trips to the Auto parts store, renting a special tool, losing that special tool somewhere in the engine compartment, finding it an hour later, trying to squeeze my arm into a hole an anorexic mouse couldn't get into and losing enough knuckle skin to replinish a burn center, along with three hours of bending over and trying to figure out what I was doing, I managed to fix the old car and save myself the half hour of labor costs that I would have paid a real mechanic to fix it. But, after months of futility in all my other endeavors, I had actualy accomplished something! I felt good!
I drove to the grocery store and came out to find that it was pouring down rain. I sat in my car and thanked God that he held the rain back long enough for me to fix my car. Then I turned the key and.....nothing. I tried several times, nothing. Just a few flickering dash lights signalling that I was a moron for owning this car. So, knowing that the battery was pretty old, I called my son, who fortunately drives a toyota, to come and get me and take me to get a battery. He was very happy to do that after school for his Father. By now I am soaked from changing the battery in the rain. And, also I am learning that people are not sure what to do for you when you are in a parking lot having car trouble. My experience is that some people, on dry, sunny days, will ask if they can help sometimes. But if you drive a ford, look like you have been working on it for hours already, and it is pouring down rain the chances of someone offering to jump your car is remote at best.
After putting in the new battery I turned the key and.....nothing! The dash lights flickered again, this time signalling the words "stupid moron." So, I took the battery out, put the old one in, returned the new one to the store, got my money back and returned to the grocery store parking lot where I went in, bought some hot dogs and lighter fluid, went out, "started" my car and warmed up and roasted wieners over the huge funeral pyre that used to be a Ford Taurus. Soon, an interesting thing happened. People began to gather, bringing tupperware dishes full of cole slaw, potato salad, baked beans, brownies. They all drove up in Fords, actually drove "in" to the raging fire and scurried out of their cars laughing hysterically as their car suddenly erupted in flames. We ate our soggy hot dogs and held hands and sang Kum Ba Ya, which means "Come By Here, Lord" and was written by desperate Ford owners who were always stranded by the side of the road, or in parking lots, waiting, just waiting for a miracle.
So that was my day, how was yours?
After a while it quit raining, so I decided to work on my car, since it had died in our son's high school parking lot. Once I checked it out I saw that the Serpentine belt had come off. Another omen, if the word serpentine pops up in your day, be very careful. Knowing that they do not just come off, I also found that the tension pulley had siezed up. So, after two trips to the Auto parts store, renting a special tool, losing that special tool somewhere in the engine compartment, finding it an hour later, trying to squeeze my arm into a hole an anorexic mouse couldn't get into and losing enough knuckle skin to replinish a burn center, along with three hours of bending over and trying to figure out what I was doing, I managed to fix the old car and save myself the half hour of labor costs that I would have paid a real mechanic to fix it. But, after months of futility in all my other endeavors, I had actualy accomplished something! I felt good!
I drove to the grocery store and came out to find that it was pouring down rain. I sat in my car and thanked God that he held the rain back long enough for me to fix my car. Then I turned the key and.....nothing. I tried several times, nothing. Just a few flickering dash lights signalling that I was a moron for owning this car. So, knowing that the battery was pretty old, I called my son, who fortunately drives a toyota, to come and get me and take me to get a battery. He was very happy to do that after school for his Father. By now I am soaked from changing the battery in the rain. And, also I am learning that people are not sure what to do for you when you are in a parking lot having car trouble. My experience is that some people, on dry, sunny days, will ask if they can help sometimes. But if you drive a ford, look like you have been working on it for hours already, and it is pouring down rain the chances of someone offering to jump your car is remote at best.
After putting in the new battery I turned the key and.....nothing! The dash lights flickered again, this time signalling the words "stupid moron." So, I took the battery out, put the old one in, returned the new one to the store, got my money back and returned to the grocery store parking lot where I went in, bought some hot dogs and lighter fluid, went out, "started" my car and warmed up and roasted wieners over the huge funeral pyre that used to be a Ford Taurus. Soon, an interesting thing happened. People began to gather, bringing tupperware dishes full of cole slaw, potato salad, baked beans, brownies. They all drove up in Fords, actually drove "in" to the raging fire and scurried out of their cars laughing hysterically as their car suddenly erupted in flames. We ate our soggy hot dogs and held hands and sang Kum Ba Ya, which means "Come By Here, Lord" and was written by desperate Ford owners who were always stranded by the side of the road, or in parking lots, waiting, just waiting for a miracle.
So that was my day, how was yours?
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Happy 21st Birthday, Brandon!
Finally, the first shall be last! Today is Brandon's birthday, our firstborn. Our four kids all celebrate their birthdays usually within the Lenten period which also more or less encompasses March Madness. There is probably something significant about that but I have no clue as to what it is.
As I already mentioned, you were our introduction to parenthood. It really is a miracle that you have any siblings! But, after you, we figured it had to be easier. We certainly received a education from you, lessons that were applied to the raising of your sister and brothers. So, this birthday tribute is all about what I learned from my first born son.
First, tiny babies fake sleeping. You always had to cry before you could go to sleep at night, which I interpreted to mean that you were being strangled by a raccoon that somehow had got into your room or had your little head stuck between the crib rails or were starving to death or drowning in your own pee. So, after an eternity of 94 seconds I would go into your room and pat your bottom and you would lay your head down and after an eternity of 36 hours you would drift off to sleep. I would slow down the velocity and reduce the psi of the bottom patting until I could eventually stop. Then I would drop gently to my hands and knees so you couldn't see me, lay on the floor until I could hear a rhythm in your little breaths, then slowly crawl to the door, turn the knob ever so slowly and open it. And your head always popped up at the same point in this exercise in futility-right when I started to close the door! So I learned something valuable about helping babies go to sleep that I was able to apply to the others. Buy a bigger house and put the baby's room at the far end of the upstairs! You taught me that Bubba!
Second, Brandon, you taught me about finances, taxes, net worth and insurance. See, once you have a child you get to claim them as an exemption with the IRS because you no longer really own anything and what you think you own they quickly destroy, thus the term "tax break." But somehow, in the middle of the depreciation occurring to your belongings because they have been lost, stolen, buried, painted, sold, eaten or given to strange children on your street you learn to "appreciate" the little perpetual tornado that has done all the damage! Yes, you worry some when the excuses start to make sense, but again, you learn something very valuable.
That is, own nothing valuable! By the way, you still have some of my CD's and my shotgun.
Third, you proved that theory of Newton, or Einstein or Buffet to be true, the one about a body in motion stays in motion until it is wrapped tightly in duct tape. You took your first step at eight months. And then you ran, everywhere, all the time. You ran into a lot of things along the way of course. Sometimes I tried to warn you. Remember the time you were riding your bike around the pool dressed in your nicest church clothes? Remember what I said would happen if you didn't slow down? Remember how you told me that you were too good at riding your bike to end up in the bottom of the pool? Remember us being late for church that day?
Fourth, you taught us as parents that we should always probably listen to our kids, no matter how many times we have heard it before or how unbelievable the story is. In fact, with you, Brandon, we learned that the more crazy or wild the story the more probable it was true. For example that whole broken arm thing....Do you have any idea how many times a day you were either bleeding to death or unconscious for a short period or had dislocated some appendage? So when you told us you had broken your arm on the trampoline you can certainly understand our panic, the way we yawned and said "uh huh, okay, that's fine, Bubba, go on and play." And, later that day you were swimming pretty good anyway when that Orthopedic Doctor friend of ours noticed you and said something about your arm looking funny...See, from then on when our other children said they were hurt we listened carefully.
There are so many other lessons, too many to tell. It is only right that on your birthday, we should give you a big thank you for all we have learned! What success we have had as parents we owe to you! Of course, we also owe you for thousands of crazy smiles that always melted our hearts, hours of goofy laughter when we most needed it, adventurous schemes when life got a little predictable, comforting words of love in our darkest days, and an intense desire for God that challenges us. Most of all, in everything, we have always been able to look at you and be thankful and proud. You wore us out raising you, but it was a good tired. One we wouldn't trade for anything. And we know that what goes around comes around, so we look forward to payback with your firstborn!
So, Brandon, this ones for you! Happy 21st birthday! We really are amazed you made it. By the way, your Mom and I arranged it all along, after your first birthday, that somehow you should probably turn 21 on the Lord's day, at a conservative Christian college, in a dry county in the middle of Arkansas!
As I already mentioned, you were our introduction to parenthood. It really is a miracle that you have any siblings! But, after you, we figured it had to be easier. We certainly received a education from you, lessons that were applied to the raising of your sister and brothers. So, this birthday tribute is all about what I learned from my first born son.
First, tiny babies fake sleeping. You always had to cry before you could go to sleep at night, which I interpreted to mean that you were being strangled by a raccoon that somehow had got into your room or had your little head stuck between the crib rails or were starving to death or drowning in your own pee. So, after an eternity of 94 seconds I would go into your room and pat your bottom and you would lay your head down and after an eternity of 36 hours you would drift off to sleep. I would slow down the velocity and reduce the psi of the bottom patting until I could eventually stop. Then I would drop gently to my hands and knees so you couldn't see me, lay on the floor until I could hear a rhythm in your little breaths, then slowly crawl to the door, turn the knob ever so slowly and open it. And your head always popped up at the same point in this exercise in futility-right when I started to close the door! So I learned something valuable about helping babies go to sleep that I was able to apply to the others. Buy a bigger house and put the baby's room at the far end of the upstairs! You taught me that Bubba!
Second, Brandon, you taught me about finances, taxes, net worth and insurance. See, once you have a child you get to claim them as an exemption with the IRS because you no longer really own anything and what you think you own they quickly destroy, thus the term "tax break." But somehow, in the middle of the depreciation occurring to your belongings because they have been lost, stolen, buried, painted, sold, eaten or given to strange children on your street you learn to "appreciate" the little perpetual tornado that has done all the damage! Yes, you worry some when the excuses start to make sense, but again, you learn something very valuable.
That is, own nothing valuable! By the way, you still have some of my CD's and my shotgun.
Third, you proved that theory of Newton, or Einstein or Buffet to be true, the one about a body in motion stays in motion until it is wrapped tightly in duct tape. You took your first step at eight months. And then you ran, everywhere, all the time. You ran into a lot of things along the way of course. Sometimes I tried to warn you. Remember the time you were riding your bike around the pool dressed in your nicest church clothes? Remember what I said would happen if you didn't slow down? Remember how you told me that you were too good at riding your bike to end up in the bottom of the pool? Remember us being late for church that day?
Fourth, you taught us as parents that we should always probably listen to our kids, no matter how many times we have heard it before or how unbelievable the story is. In fact, with you, Brandon, we learned that the more crazy or wild the story the more probable it was true. For example that whole broken arm thing....Do you have any idea how many times a day you were either bleeding to death or unconscious for a short period or had dislocated some appendage? So when you told us you had broken your arm on the trampoline you can certainly understand our panic, the way we yawned and said "uh huh, okay, that's fine, Bubba, go on and play." And, later that day you were swimming pretty good anyway when that Orthopedic Doctor friend of ours noticed you and said something about your arm looking funny...See, from then on when our other children said they were hurt we listened carefully.
There are so many other lessons, too many to tell. It is only right that on your birthday, we should give you a big thank you for all we have learned! What success we have had as parents we owe to you! Of course, we also owe you for thousands of crazy smiles that always melted our hearts, hours of goofy laughter when we most needed it, adventurous schemes when life got a little predictable, comforting words of love in our darkest days, and an intense desire for God that challenges us. Most of all, in everything, we have always been able to look at you and be thankful and proud. You wore us out raising you, but it was a good tired. One we wouldn't trade for anything. And we know that what goes around comes around, so we look forward to payback with your firstborn!
So, Brandon, this ones for you! Happy 21st birthday! We really are amazed you made it. By the way, your Mom and I arranged it all along, after your first birthday, that somehow you should probably turn 21 on the Lord's day, at a conservative Christian college, in a dry county in the middle of Arkansas!
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A Good Living
Work was always there. My parents had this philosophy that if you were sitting around you needed something to do and on a farm there is always something to do. My Dad is 80 and my Mom turns 77 today, and even at their age they are always busy. They still cut wood for the furnace, build fence, put in a huge garden every year, clear brush and timber and drive to church three times a week. Their pace is a little slower but just as steady. And it is not as easy as it used to be because they have a lost a few parts along the way. My Mom had breast cancer a few years back and my Dad has had two knee replacements, had a kidney removed two years ago, has only one eye, and is seriously thinking about pulling the rest of his teeth since they are annoying him. But they still work everyday. A little less urgently, a few more groans along the way, but still at it. Right now my Father has taken rough cut lumber from a cherry tree that grew on the farm and is making my daughter a hope chest. It will be a wonderful gift for her, as solid as he is.
So work was really the only option when I was growing up. I have been employed at something since I was thirteen, when I first hired myself out to a farmer who offered me ten dollars a day for, in his words, either "work or play." In 1973 that was alot of money for a kid. It soon became clear that there was no play involved. I arrived at work at 7 am and usually got home at 10 pm. The day was spent on a tractor, the evening hauling hay. But, at least I was getting paid and getting to drive all over the place, pretty cool when you are just 13 and barely over 5 feet tall. It was a good summer though, and I had a little jingle in my pocket when it was over, and survived a few close calls (you really can't push a volkswagon bug backward down a steep ozark hill, pop the clutch and get it to do a "wheely," what does happen is not good at all, neither for boy or machine).
I did learn that it was nice to get paid. Even the real nasty jobs were a little more tolerable when you got a paycheck. There seemed to be this simple formula:you work, you get paid. Later on I learned that some people work very little and get paid alot, or some people never have to work at all and have more than enough. I have never been smart enough to figure out how to get there.
Work is a blessing, to enjoy your work is an even greater blessing. I think that is why my folks are always busy. They enjoy picking up walnuts on sunny, crisp fall days, gathering blackberries on a high ridge where you can see for miles, and bringing in a full load of cut and split wood. Dad always carries a hoe in his pick-up, his weapon of mass destruction in his ongoing war against Canadian thistles. To be "plum tuckered out" at the end of the day is a good thing for them. I admire them because at their age they prefer to be dirty rather than dusty.
Proverbs says that all hard work brings a profit. My parents prove the truth of those words, who have made a good "living" by not working to eventually enjoy life, but who have enjoyed their life because of their work. The profit wasn't always the kind you could put in the bank, but it paid great dividends to their souls.
Just a few thoughts about work...with a few more to come.
So work was really the only option when I was growing up. I have been employed at something since I was thirteen, when I first hired myself out to a farmer who offered me ten dollars a day for, in his words, either "work or play." In 1973 that was alot of money for a kid. It soon became clear that there was no play involved. I arrived at work at 7 am and usually got home at 10 pm. The day was spent on a tractor, the evening hauling hay. But, at least I was getting paid and getting to drive all over the place, pretty cool when you are just 13 and barely over 5 feet tall. It was a good summer though, and I had a little jingle in my pocket when it was over, and survived a few close calls (you really can't push a volkswagon bug backward down a steep ozark hill, pop the clutch and get it to do a "wheely," what does happen is not good at all, neither for boy or machine).
I did learn that it was nice to get paid. Even the real nasty jobs were a little more tolerable when you got a paycheck. There seemed to be this simple formula:you work, you get paid. Later on I learned that some people work very little and get paid alot, or some people never have to work at all and have more than enough. I have never been smart enough to figure out how to get there.
Work is a blessing, to enjoy your work is an even greater blessing. I think that is why my folks are always busy. They enjoy picking up walnuts on sunny, crisp fall days, gathering blackberries on a high ridge where you can see for miles, and bringing in a full load of cut and split wood. Dad always carries a hoe in his pick-up, his weapon of mass destruction in his ongoing war against Canadian thistles. To be "plum tuckered out" at the end of the day is a good thing for them. I admire them because at their age they prefer to be dirty rather than dusty.
Proverbs says that all hard work brings a profit. My parents prove the truth of those words, who have made a good "living" by not working to eventually enjoy life, but who have enjoyed their life because of their work. The profit wasn't always the kind you could put in the bank, but it paid great dividends to their souls.
Just a few thoughts about work...with a few more to come.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Leaving LaLa Land
One of my weaknesses is that I have a tendency to go to "LaLa Land". This is a place in my head where reality never enters. I can go there any time I want whenever life is hard or the future is bleak. It is not really a pleasant place, it is just a place of nothingness; a vacuum of sorts where I can continue to get by without facing my fears or really think about the outcome of my actions.
I am not sure exactly when LaLa Land appeared, but I have a suspicion that it was there pretty early in my life. Growing up on a farm meant that I often had long, boring, redundant chores to do and they were more easily endured when I could just go to that blank space in my head and fill it with anything I wanted. My hands might be shoveling manure but my brain was miles away, conjuring up some story or remembering something in the past or daydreaming about tomorrow. In those instances, LaLa land provided a little relief from the very unpleasant reality of the job I was doing. Probably everyone has a place like that somewhere in their head, it is not neccessarily a bad thing, it helps us endure sometimes.
But, I think that in some cases, LaLa Land becomes sovereign and begins to rule the other parts of the brain. And that has been my problem at different points of my life. When I have really needed to have the guts to face the truth about myself, LaLa land invades and pulls me back to the false security of unreality. Somehow, not thinking about how things really are or what the real outcome of my actions could be makes truth diminish and the pleasant, sweet lie takes over that always whispers everything will just somehow "turn out ok."
Well, it doesn't. LaLa Land is a place of slavery and pain. And even though I might have gone there alone, it always ends up dragging others into its misery. Those I love have often had to pay for my little excursions into that black hole.
LaLa Land is really a landfill. It might look like a pleasant little hill covered with green grass rising up out of the prairie, promising a wonderful view and an escape from world below, but it is really just a big pile of, well....Garbage.
Life is hard right now. Reality is painful. I am in the land of tough choices and harsh consequences. But it is the land of truth. It is the land of the living. It is the only place that growth can occur and authentic change take place. I feel like I am in the wilderness putting my survival skills to the test, but it is where I am supposed to be right now. The frustration and anxiety I feel have redemptive qualities, they drive me to my knees and keep my feet from wandering back towards LaLa land. I am ashamed of how much time I have spent there in the past, how much of real life I wasted and how many opportunities I squandered.
But, here and now is here and now, and I intend to live fully in it and be transformed by the One who is ever-present and ever near.
I am not sure exactly when LaLa Land appeared, but I have a suspicion that it was there pretty early in my life. Growing up on a farm meant that I often had long, boring, redundant chores to do and they were more easily endured when I could just go to that blank space in my head and fill it with anything I wanted. My hands might be shoveling manure but my brain was miles away, conjuring up some story or remembering something in the past or daydreaming about tomorrow. In those instances, LaLa land provided a little relief from the very unpleasant reality of the job I was doing. Probably everyone has a place like that somewhere in their head, it is not neccessarily a bad thing, it helps us endure sometimes.
But, I think that in some cases, LaLa Land becomes sovereign and begins to rule the other parts of the brain. And that has been my problem at different points of my life. When I have really needed to have the guts to face the truth about myself, LaLa land invades and pulls me back to the false security of unreality. Somehow, not thinking about how things really are or what the real outcome of my actions could be makes truth diminish and the pleasant, sweet lie takes over that always whispers everything will just somehow "turn out ok."
Well, it doesn't. LaLa Land is a place of slavery and pain. And even though I might have gone there alone, it always ends up dragging others into its misery. Those I love have often had to pay for my little excursions into that black hole.
LaLa Land is really a landfill. It might look like a pleasant little hill covered with green grass rising up out of the prairie, promising a wonderful view and an escape from world below, but it is really just a big pile of, well....Garbage.
Life is hard right now. Reality is painful. I am in the land of tough choices and harsh consequences. But it is the land of truth. It is the land of the living. It is the only place that growth can occur and authentic change take place. I feel like I am in the wilderness putting my survival skills to the test, but it is where I am supposed to be right now. The frustration and anxiety I feel have redemptive qualities, they drive me to my knees and keep my feet from wandering back towards LaLa land. I am ashamed of how much time I have spent there in the past, how much of real life I wasted and how many opportunities I squandered.
But, here and now is here and now, and I intend to live fully in it and be transformed by the One who is ever-present and ever near.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Happy Birthday, Micah
Today is our daughter Micah's birthday. She is 19 and a Freshman in college. We celebrated her birthday last weekend when she came home. So....in the the newly started tradition of revealing stories on the occasion of the birthday, here are just a few "Micah" legends.
The first time I saw her was when she was born. I was there. And since this was our second child I was more prepared this time and was actually semi-conscious. Dr. Lockwood delivered her and promptly said, "Uh-oh, this child has no penis." After a slight pause...."Hey, she's a girl!" Joker, that guy. Anyway, I will never forget seeing this little bit of red, curly soft hair on the top of her head and bright blue eyes gazing up at me for the first time.
That little tuft of hair grew into red ringlets that had the magical ability of catching sun rays and then illuminating those eyes until they looked as blue as the sky after a snow storm has passed. Add a sprinkling of freckles across the nose, put on a old cap and a softball glove on one hand and you have Micah. Even as a little girl she could hit anything she aimed for, including her brothers, and always looked more natural with a ball in her hand than a doll. I don't know, maybe she heard what the Doctor said when she was born and became determined to run as fast, throw as hard, and hit as far as any one else, with or without that extra appendage thing. We were so proud when she received a special award her Senior year at her final Athletic banquet, recognizing her as the only person to have played three sports during her high school years and lettering nine times in them. She is now playing softball in college and getting ready to leave next week to play in Florida over spring break.
A few Micah stories: She put everything in her mouth. Everything! When she was around 2 or so I was working in the garage and she was "helping" me. I noticed that she was in the corner chewing on something, so with great trepidation I asked her to spit out what was in her mouth, and slowly, as only a 2 year old could do, she pushed out a leg....of a spider, then another leg, and so on....Many people have been bitten by spiders, but how many spiders can say they were bitten by a little girl? Spiders have always creeped me out, and I still remember seeing what was left of its smashed body on the tip of her tongue and the feeling of my lunch rising in my throat. But, perhaps in a Marvel Comics kind of way, this explains her excellent ability to catch fly balls.
Another story that will reveal what horrible parents we are: After church, in a hurry, Brandon-five, Micah-three, both strapped in their car seats. We pull up in the drive way, Colleen and I both jump out to get something from the house that we needed before going to a friend's house, leaving the car running. A few minutes later, Brandon is at the door, crying, the car is gone!Micah is nowhere in sight! I go running out of the house, looking up and down the street, and finally see the car across the street, through the neighbor's yard, with the rear end down in a little creek. Still no Micah! My heart is about to explode! I finally get to the car and throw the door open and there she is, standing on the front seat, both hands on the wheel, turning it wildly with the biggest grin on her face. I think it was a premonition. Anyway, Brandon, the squirmy one, had slipped out of his seat first and the rest we will never know for sure.
Finally, one more. Micah is in fourth grade and playing on her first little softball team. There is a circle around the pitchers mound where the pitcher stands while the coach actually tosses the ball to the batter. Micah is the "pitcher." She figures out the game very quickly and learns that she is fast enough to field the ball and tag the runner going to first and then chase down the other little girls who innocently think they are to run to the next base when the ball is hit. There are girls at first and second and the ball is hit. Micah fields the ball and tags the girl running to first, chases the girl running to second tagging her out, then sees the other girl rounding third for home. Micah beats her to home, and while tagging her the little girl falls backward right on her rear end and breaks out into tears! Three outs by one girl in one inning: incredible! One minor collision at home plate: breath-taking! One irate Mother in the bleachers yelling, "Get that mean little girl out of here!" hysterical! One unabashedly proud Father: priceless!
Anyway, there are more for another birthday. Micah, you have grown into a beautiful young woman. You have always been a blessing and a joy in our lives and I am so thankful you still call me daddy. And it doesn't even matter that you know that I know that you know you can get anything you want from me when you do. Ahh, the privilege of being our only daughter. That's what you get for being born without a penis.
Happy Birthday, Micky...I love you. Now, choke up and keep your eye on the ball.
The first time I saw her was when she was born. I was there. And since this was our second child I was more prepared this time and was actually semi-conscious. Dr. Lockwood delivered her and promptly said, "Uh-oh, this child has no penis." After a slight pause...."Hey, she's a girl!" Joker, that guy. Anyway, I will never forget seeing this little bit of red, curly soft hair on the top of her head and bright blue eyes gazing up at me for the first time.
That little tuft of hair grew into red ringlets that had the magical ability of catching sun rays and then illuminating those eyes until they looked as blue as the sky after a snow storm has passed. Add a sprinkling of freckles across the nose, put on a old cap and a softball glove on one hand and you have Micah. Even as a little girl she could hit anything she aimed for, including her brothers, and always looked more natural with a ball in her hand than a doll. I don't know, maybe she heard what the Doctor said when she was born and became determined to run as fast, throw as hard, and hit as far as any one else, with or without that extra appendage thing. We were so proud when she received a special award her Senior year at her final Athletic banquet, recognizing her as the only person to have played three sports during her high school years and lettering nine times in them. She is now playing softball in college and getting ready to leave next week to play in Florida over spring break.
A few Micah stories: She put everything in her mouth. Everything! When she was around 2 or so I was working in the garage and she was "helping" me. I noticed that she was in the corner chewing on something, so with great trepidation I asked her to spit out what was in her mouth, and slowly, as only a 2 year old could do, she pushed out a leg....of a spider, then another leg, and so on....Many people have been bitten by spiders, but how many spiders can say they were bitten by a little girl? Spiders have always creeped me out, and I still remember seeing what was left of its smashed body on the tip of her tongue and the feeling of my lunch rising in my throat. But, perhaps in a Marvel Comics kind of way, this explains her excellent ability to catch fly balls.
Another story that will reveal what horrible parents we are: After church, in a hurry, Brandon-five, Micah-three, both strapped in their car seats. We pull up in the drive way, Colleen and I both jump out to get something from the house that we needed before going to a friend's house, leaving the car running. A few minutes later, Brandon is at the door, crying, the car is gone!Micah is nowhere in sight! I go running out of the house, looking up and down the street, and finally see the car across the street, through the neighbor's yard, with the rear end down in a little creek. Still no Micah! My heart is about to explode! I finally get to the car and throw the door open and there she is, standing on the front seat, both hands on the wheel, turning it wildly with the biggest grin on her face. I think it was a premonition. Anyway, Brandon, the squirmy one, had slipped out of his seat first and the rest we will never know for sure.
Finally, one more. Micah is in fourth grade and playing on her first little softball team. There is a circle around the pitchers mound where the pitcher stands while the coach actually tosses the ball to the batter. Micah is the "pitcher." She figures out the game very quickly and learns that she is fast enough to field the ball and tag the runner going to first and then chase down the other little girls who innocently think they are to run to the next base when the ball is hit. There are girls at first and second and the ball is hit. Micah fields the ball and tags the girl running to first, chases the girl running to second tagging her out, then sees the other girl rounding third for home. Micah beats her to home, and while tagging her the little girl falls backward right on her rear end and breaks out into tears! Three outs by one girl in one inning: incredible! One minor collision at home plate: breath-taking! One irate Mother in the bleachers yelling, "Get that mean little girl out of here!" hysterical! One unabashedly proud Father: priceless!
Anyway, there are more for another birthday. Micah, you have grown into a beautiful young woman. You have always been a blessing and a joy in our lives and I am so thankful you still call me daddy. And it doesn't even matter that you know that I know that you know you can get anything you want from me when you do. Ahh, the privilege of being our only daughter. That's what you get for being born without a penis.
Happy Birthday, Micky...I love you. Now, choke up and keep your eye on the ball.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Happy Birthday Shane!
Today is the birthday of my youngest son, Shane. He is now officially a teenager, all 88.6 lbs. of him. I know his exact weight because he wrestles for the Junior High, and is really pretty good. My dream is that one day he will make the WWF and his name will be something like Shotgun Shane or even Nakie Boy (see Brandon's Blog). And if by chance you do go to his brother's blog, there are a few corrections that need to be made. First, we "planned" on Shane being born at our home, we didn't just decide that night because it was icy and second, we usually didn't let Shane go a whole week between Showers. The part about his hair really stinking was true though.
I am surprised that Shane has survived. He was dropped many times. One day when he was only 6 months old his sister, Micah and brother, Brandon were fighting over who would carry him downstairs and somehow in the scuffle they both just let go....and Shane went rolling down an oak staircase. I remember him crying a little....not much really, considering his flight. His brother and sister ended up crying a lot more than he did.
Being the youngest, he has been shoved, pulled, stretched, experimented on and tickled more than any person should ever have to endure. Maybe that is why he is such a good wrestler. What is a head lock compared to being on the bottom of the dogpile with three siblings on top of you?
He really is a wonderful kid that brings us laughter and works hard at everything he does. It is hard for me that he is now a teenager, because it means he really isn't a little boy anymore. But I know that is the way it is supposed to be and I will enjoy this time as well. I am truly blessed to have him as my Son....and to think we didn't even have to bring him home from the hospital! He laid in our arms in our own bed that first night.....and pretty much has always always done that since, always plopping down between us for a few minutes before he goes to his own bed. And those few minutes are golden. Happy Birthday, Shane! We love you.
And now I will rub your stinky feet since you have stuck them both up in my face. Remember to take a shower, even if it is your birthday.
I am surprised that Shane has survived. He was dropped many times. One day when he was only 6 months old his sister, Micah and brother, Brandon were fighting over who would carry him downstairs and somehow in the scuffle they both just let go....and Shane went rolling down an oak staircase. I remember him crying a little....not much really, considering his flight. His brother and sister ended up crying a lot more than he did.
Being the youngest, he has been shoved, pulled, stretched, experimented on and tickled more than any person should ever have to endure. Maybe that is why he is such a good wrestler. What is a head lock compared to being on the bottom of the dogpile with three siblings on top of you?
He really is a wonderful kid that brings us laughter and works hard at everything he does. It is hard for me that he is now a teenager, because it means he really isn't a little boy anymore. But I know that is the way it is supposed to be and I will enjoy this time as well. I am truly blessed to have him as my Son....and to think we didn't even have to bring him home from the hospital! He laid in our arms in our own bed that first night.....and pretty much has always always done that since, always plopping down between us for a few minutes before he goes to his own bed. And those few minutes are golden. Happy Birthday, Shane! We love you.
And now I will rub your stinky feet since you have stuck them both up in my face. Remember to take a shower, even if it is your birthday.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Desert blindness
I have been reading in the book of Numbers lately, since it comes directly after Leviticus and Exodus. I have to admit that I get a little bored with the details, especially in Leviticus, but at just the point where I am ready to fall asleep the author throws in a short narrative that rousts me out of my stupor. And usually, the narrative recounts how the children of Israel keep screwing up, with dire consequences. So you suddenly get fire from heaven consuming prideful (or stupid) priests, snake bites, a tsunami of quail (wouldn't Cheney have fun with that!), the earth swallowing up people, plagues and other stuff that would make an exciting television drama....Think "40 years" in "24" format.
I struggle with the stories sometimes. I believe that Moses, who probably recorded all these events, was preparing the Israelites to enter the promised land by reminding them of their history. Honestly, it is hard to comprehend how they can appear to be so faithless throughout the story. They are always whining, pining away for Egypt, rebelling against Moses and Aaron or generally just acting like God was either absent or deaf, blind and senile. All they ever had to do was look up and there he was-either in the cloud or fire. So Moses doesn't clean up the story, he tells it like it was, and warns them what will happen if they do it again. He reminds them that Adam and Eve lost their home because of disobedience, that God wiped the earth clean in Noah's day and that the land they are about to conquer is given to them as a gift but is also a judgment on the current inhabitants.
It was a very unique time. God's presence was undeniably among them. He led them. He fed them. He brought them to water. He conquered their enemies. He worked behind the scenes to protect them when their enemies tried to curse them. Every thing God said he would do he did in their lifetime. At any time they could see his presence in the cloud by day and fire by night. When it was time to move, it was absolutely clear-the presence of God lifted and led the way. How much faith did it take in those days? The problem wasn't whether they believed God existed or not, it was whether or not they could trust him who was always visibly and deliberately among them. Their questions were never how can we be sure there is a God, but rather Can we really trust you to take care of us? And they questioned God under the shade of a cloud that shielded them from the sun and a fire by night to light their way. And each day they were fed from heaven and when they were thirsty God watered them.
I struggle with how they could so easily ignore what seemed so obvious. But honestly, I do the same things. The Exodus teaches me that even if God was visibly present in an undeniable way outside my window every day and night, I would still, when times got tough, doubt whether he was really for me or not. I would question his motives. I would ponder his ability to deliver on his promises. I would eventually not even notice his presence. The miraculous would become mundane.
I do that now. Times are tough. The landscape looks a lot like the Mojave. And I find myself ignoring the obvious examples of God's love and provision and whining about what I do not have....And then, of all things, be tempted to blame Him for it! How pitiful is that?
The miracle is God's patience. The cloud that relieves me from the heat is his rich, abundant mercy. The fire that defeats my darkness is unfailing love. The manna that sustains me is his faithfulness even when I am unfaithful. The refreshing water that relieves my parched tongue is his Spirit. The angel that leads the way is His Word, which disciplines and comforts me.
Lord, please protect me from the desert blindness that blinds me to the obvious.
I struggle with the stories sometimes. I believe that Moses, who probably recorded all these events, was preparing the Israelites to enter the promised land by reminding them of their history. Honestly, it is hard to comprehend how they can appear to be so faithless throughout the story. They are always whining, pining away for Egypt, rebelling against Moses and Aaron or generally just acting like God was either absent or deaf, blind and senile. All they ever had to do was look up and there he was-either in the cloud or fire. So Moses doesn't clean up the story, he tells it like it was, and warns them what will happen if they do it again. He reminds them that Adam and Eve lost their home because of disobedience, that God wiped the earth clean in Noah's day and that the land they are about to conquer is given to them as a gift but is also a judgment on the current inhabitants.
It was a very unique time. God's presence was undeniably among them. He led them. He fed them. He brought them to water. He conquered their enemies. He worked behind the scenes to protect them when their enemies tried to curse them. Every thing God said he would do he did in their lifetime. At any time they could see his presence in the cloud by day and fire by night. When it was time to move, it was absolutely clear-the presence of God lifted and led the way. How much faith did it take in those days? The problem wasn't whether they believed God existed or not, it was whether or not they could trust him who was always visibly and deliberately among them. Their questions were never how can we be sure there is a God, but rather Can we really trust you to take care of us? And they questioned God under the shade of a cloud that shielded them from the sun and a fire by night to light their way. And each day they were fed from heaven and when they were thirsty God watered them.
I struggle with how they could so easily ignore what seemed so obvious. But honestly, I do the same things. The Exodus teaches me that even if God was visibly present in an undeniable way outside my window every day and night, I would still, when times got tough, doubt whether he was really for me or not. I would question his motives. I would ponder his ability to deliver on his promises. I would eventually not even notice his presence. The miraculous would become mundane.
I do that now. Times are tough. The landscape looks a lot like the Mojave. And I find myself ignoring the obvious examples of God's love and provision and whining about what I do not have....And then, of all things, be tempted to blame Him for it! How pitiful is that?
The miracle is God's patience. The cloud that relieves me from the heat is his rich, abundant mercy. The fire that defeats my darkness is unfailing love. The manna that sustains me is his faithfulness even when I am unfaithful. The refreshing water that relieves my parched tongue is his Spirit. The angel that leads the way is His Word, which disciplines and comforts me.
Lord, please protect me from the desert blindness that blinds me to the obvious.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Happy Birthday, Carden
Today my son Carden turns 17. The only thing he really wants for his birthday is catfish for supper and the abandoning of the completely lame "curfew" philosophy. I know for sure we will be having catfish tonight.....
Why do I feel older every time one of my kids have a birthday?
There is so much I want to say to each of them, so many stories and warnings and adventures and.....
They really aren't that interested right now, and I understand. I wasn't either at their age. After all, every day is an adventure for them. They disguise it as hopeless boredom, but their hearts are really racing and their minds are at warp speed.
I worry that I have really done them more harm than good. But generally, they still like me and I know I love them like crazy. I want to equip them for everything life will throw at them and then tag along everywhere they go just to make sure they will be ok.
They would prefer me not to do that.
Each child has a special memory corner in my heart. And since today is Carden's day, well, here are some I hope I can share without him suing me later for damages.
He was a beautiful child...for Halloween one year we dressed him up as a little girl....and everyone thought "she" was very pretty.
One day when he was in first grade the bus driver brought him back to our door. When she arrived at the bus stop on the corner she found him hanging upside down from a tree he had climbed. He had slipped and his ankle wedged in a crook of the trunk. He was fine, she just thought we should know....
When he was three he snuck out of the house and tried to follow his older brother and sister to the store, across a busy highway. Someone stopped traffic and brought him home.
He took a ride once in a highway patrol car. His older brother convinced him they should ride their bikes out to where I was working...and since the interstate was the quickest way....
His first athletic physical....The nurse handed him the "cup" and an alcohol towellette, telling him to clean the "area" and use the cup. Afterward he asked me why he had to clean the bathroom if he didn't miss the cup, so he just wiped down the toilet and floor a little bit......
Baptizing him into Jesus.
His rendition of "Lord of the Dance" at the King of Hearts banquet....
This sweet kid is now the biggest primate in our house. He is at least 6'2" tall and I have skied on smaller skis than the size of his shoes. On a good day, with help, I couldn't get a dress on him again.
He is a great son, and I love him dearly and am very proud to be his Dad. Happy Birthday, Carden.
One day I hope to grow up and be like my kids.
Why do I feel older every time one of my kids have a birthday?
There is so much I want to say to each of them, so many stories and warnings and adventures and.....
They really aren't that interested right now, and I understand. I wasn't either at their age. After all, every day is an adventure for them. They disguise it as hopeless boredom, but their hearts are really racing and their minds are at warp speed.
I worry that I have really done them more harm than good. But generally, they still like me and I know I love them like crazy. I want to equip them for everything life will throw at them and then tag along everywhere they go just to make sure they will be ok.
They would prefer me not to do that.
Each child has a special memory corner in my heart. And since today is Carden's day, well, here are some I hope I can share without him suing me later for damages.
He was a beautiful child...for Halloween one year we dressed him up as a little girl....and everyone thought "she" was very pretty.
One day when he was in first grade the bus driver brought him back to our door. When she arrived at the bus stop on the corner she found him hanging upside down from a tree he had climbed. He had slipped and his ankle wedged in a crook of the trunk. He was fine, she just thought we should know....
When he was three he snuck out of the house and tried to follow his older brother and sister to the store, across a busy highway. Someone stopped traffic and brought him home.
He took a ride once in a highway patrol car. His older brother convinced him they should ride their bikes out to where I was working...and since the interstate was the quickest way....
His first athletic physical....The nurse handed him the "cup" and an alcohol towellette, telling him to clean the "area" and use the cup. Afterward he asked me why he had to clean the bathroom if he didn't miss the cup, so he just wiped down the toilet and floor a little bit......
Baptizing him into Jesus.
His rendition of "Lord of the Dance" at the King of Hearts banquet....
This sweet kid is now the biggest primate in our house. He is at least 6'2" tall and I have skied on smaller skis than the size of his shoes. On a good day, with help, I couldn't get a dress on him again.
He is a great son, and I love him dearly and am very proud to be his Dad. Happy Birthday, Carden.
One day I hope to grow up and be like my kids.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Days
Some days come to us like strangers
for no apparent reason,
bringing in with them the
cold and rain
they become for us a season.
Other days we greet like friends
precious guests we've longed to see,
but as the day
turns into hours
they are not as we hoped would be.
Yet some days are so kind to us
they bring all we are longing for,
and when they say goodbye
too soon
we can only pray for more.
So I greet each day as a messenger
of ancient trouble and mercy new,
and in the wisdom of our God
I must live
between the two.
for no apparent reason,
bringing in with them the
cold and rain
they become for us a season.
Other days we greet like friends
precious guests we've longed to see,
but as the day
turns into hours
they are not as we hoped would be.
Yet some days are so kind to us
they bring all we are longing for,
and when they say goodbye
too soon
we can only pray for more.
So I greet each day as a messenger
of ancient trouble and mercy new,
and in the wisdom of our God
I must live
between the two.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The Biggest Losers
There are a couple of television programs that I hate to confess I have actually been watching. They are The Biggest Loser and Runway. The former is about weight challenged people in a contest. The Latter is also about weight challenged people in a contest. One is about food, the other about fashion. I think it would be interesting to combine the two: The Biggest Loser on the Runway. But that probably won't happen. In both programs someone gets the boot and others get to stay. That seems to be what is popular right now, watching people be dismissed for their failures or because other contestants view them as a threat. So maybe art does imitate life, or is it the other way around?
Anyway, I was thinking especially about The Biggest Loser, how the winners are those who struggle to lose in order to gain. Ultimately, the biggest losers win by becoming less than what they were, at least physically, which means that they gain by acheiving a better self image inwardly. That's the hope anyway. By shrinking the outer self the inner self grows in value, confidence, happiness, relationships, health and self-control. And it is a struggle, a battle, that some courageously enter into. I admire them. It is hard to get in shape and stay that way, especially since the invention of nachos.
Losing to gain is a paradox. As a Christian all kinds of scriptures come to mind that fit that paradox, but I was reading 2 Corinthians this morning where Paul talks about what a pain it is living in this world and how much trouble that can be, trouble that is accentuated by being a Christian. Being holy as God is holy in an unclean world brings its own particular losses.
Yet, he tells us that by losing, we are gaining. Our light and momentary troubles are acheiving for us an eternal weight of glory. The word for glory in Hebrew and greek carries the idea of "weight." Our troubles, in the right perspective, don't carry much weight, and will eventually just float away and leave us. But the glory of God will settle on us and be eternal. We lose, we gain.
In this world, it is true, Christians really are just a bunch of losers. And when our time comes to be voted off, then we can dance for joy, over-weight with glory!
Anyway, I was thinking especially about The Biggest Loser, how the winners are those who struggle to lose in order to gain. Ultimately, the biggest losers win by becoming less than what they were, at least physically, which means that they gain by acheiving a better self image inwardly. That's the hope anyway. By shrinking the outer self the inner self grows in value, confidence, happiness, relationships, health and self-control. And it is a struggle, a battle, that some courageously enter into. I admire them. It is hard to get in shape and stay that way, especially since the invention of nachos.
Losing to gain is a paradox. As a Christian all kinds of scriptures come to mind that fit that paradox, but I was reading 2 Corinthians this morning where Paul talks about what a pain it is living in this world and how much trouble that can be, trouble that is accentuated by being a Christian. Being holy as God is holy in an unclean world brings its own particular losses.
Yet, he tells us that by losing, we are gaining. Our light and momentary troubles are acheiving for us an eternal weight of glory. The word for glory in Hebrew and greek carries the idea of "weight." Our troubles, in the right perspective, don't carry much weight, and will eventually just float away and leave us. But the glory of God will settle on us and be eternal. We lose, we gain.
In this world, it is true, Christians really are just a bunch of losers. And when our time comes to be voted off, then we can dance for joy, over-weight with glory!
Thursday, January 26, 2006
I Heard That Jesus Might Come Back Tomorrow...
I spend a lot of time worrying about things that wouldn't matter at all if I knew Jesus was arriving here tomorrow morning. But since I can't be sure of that, there is still business to take care of in order to get by in this world. But if I knew for sure that he was coming in the morning or even at the end of the week, or next month, or before the year was out, how everything on my "to do" list would change!
I wonder if that is how the first generation of Christians felt? I am trying to read through the New Testament letters in the chronological order they were written. I am also attempting to read each one as a letter, in one sitting, and get the feel of what it was like to receive these letters as crucial information about how to live as a follower of the Messiah Jesus. In other words, I am trying not to read them as the New Testament as we understand it after two thousand years, but as real words from the Spirit inspired witnesses of Jesus, addressed to me in my current situation. So far, here is what has impressed me.
First, I think all of them, from the apostles to newest convert, lived in serious expectation and anticipation of the imminent return of Jesus. And why not? The last time anyone saw Jesus he was alive. And he said he would be back. Why think that wouldn't be soon? Noone expects a sequel to be ten, fifteen or fifty years later! And why wouldn't he come back soon? Why wait? Especially if he loved them as he claimed to love them, why tarry and not have a great reunion?
Second, they truly struggled living in the world knowing it really wasn't their home anymore. Some, as in the Thessalonian letter, quit working and basically spent their time idly waiting for Jesus. Many of their questions dealt with what to do in the present age that was passing away. If everything is temporary, how much time, money and effort should be invested in it? In Paul's letter to the Corinthians there is some shocking advice....Stay in the condition your were called, if married stay married but live as if you're not; if single stay that way if you can; live in the world as if you don't belong to it.
Third, their worship and lifestyle was to reflect the nearness of Jesus, both in his actual return and in his spiritual presence. When they gathered, he was there, just unseen. When they prayed, he heard because he was close to them. When they ate together he ate with them. When they sinned they were to confess, repent and move on knowing they were forgiven and there was not time to wallow in it. If someone else was caught in sin there was an urgency to restoring them, because Jesus was present and was returning soon. If they were joyful it was because of hope. If they were generous it was because it was the best way to use their fading earthly wealth.
I know that the letters that came later began to reflect more of a "settled" Christianity, a faith that perhaps needed to be ready for the long haul, but I have appreciated being caught up in thinking that Jesus is coming soon. One thing for sure, his return is closer now than it was then. So, can I appropriate that urgency in my life? Can I live preparing for "return" more than "retirement"? Can I work, not only to provide a living, but to also provide a "life" for others. Can I live in this world without holding on to any of it?
I wonder if that is how the first generation of Christians felt? I am trying to read through the New Testament letters in the chronological order they were written. I am also attempting to read each one as a letter, in one sitting, and get the feel of what it was like to receive these letters as crucial information about how to live as a follower of the Messiah Jesus. In other words, I am trying not to read them as the New Testament as we understand it after two thousand years, but as real words from the Spirit inspired witnesses of Jesus, addressed to me in my current situation. So far, here is what has impressed me.
First, I think all of them, from the apostles to newest convert, lived in serious expectation and anticipation of the imminent return of Jesus. And why not? The last time anyone saw Jesus he was alive. And he said he would be back. Why think that wouldn't be soon? Noone expects a sequel to be ten, fifteen or fifty years later! And why wouldn't he come back soon? Why wait? Especially if he loved them as he claimed to love them, why tarry and not have a great reunion?
Second, they truly struggled living in the world knowing it really wasn't their home anymore. Some, as in the Thessalonian letter, quit working and basically spent their time idly waiting for Jesus. Many of their questions dealt with what to do in the present age that was passing away. If everything is temporary, how much time, money and effort should be invested in it? In Paul's letter to the Corinthians there is some shocking advice....Stay in the condition your were called, if married stay married but live as if you're not; if single stay that way if you can; live in the world as if you don't belong to it.
Third, their worship and lifestyle was to reflect the nearness of Jesus, both in his actual return and in his spiritual presence. When they gathered, he was there, just unseen. When they prayed, he heard because he was close to them. When they ate together he ate with them. When they sinned they were to confess, repent and move on knowing they were forgiven and there was not time to wallow in it. If someone else was caught in sin there was an urgency to restoring them, because Jesus was present and was returning soon. If they were joyful it was because of hope. If they were generous it was because it was the best way to use their fading earthly wealth.
I know that the letters that came later began to reflect more of a "settled" Christianity, a faith that perhaps needed to be ready for the long haul, but I have appreciated being caught up in thinking that Jesus is coming soon. One thing for sure, his return is closer now than it was then. So, can I appropriate that urgency in my life? Can I live preparing for "return" more than "retirement"? Can I work, not only to provide a living, but to also provide a "life" for others. Can I live in this world without holding on to any of it?
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Better Late Than Never
Late it was that I loved you, beauty so ancient and so new,
late I loved you! And, look, you were within me and I was outside,
and there I sought for you and in my ugliness I plunged into
the beauties that you have made. You were with me and I
was not with you. Those outer beauties kept me far from you, yet
if they had not been in you, they would not have existed at all.
You called, you cried out, you shattered my deafness: you flashed,
you shone, you scattered my blindness: you breathed perfume, and
I drew in my breath and I pant for you: I tasted, and I am
hungry and thirsty: you touched me and I burned for your peace.
-Augustine, Confessions
Augustine's journey to Jesus was neither quick nor painless. He arrived on the prayers of a saintly mother who never gave up pleading for the salvation of her son. Augustine laments that it was "late" in his life that he believed the gospel, although he was still fairly young. But now that he had tasted the goodness of the Lord, he realized how much he had missed. But, better late than never.
I was raised to believe in Jesus, no questions asked. Early I came to him, and there were times of great passion for him, but I feel that it is only of late that I am truly learning to love him. But, better late than never.
I never realized who I really was until a Pastor friend of mine told me who (or what) I was in our conversation this past week. I respect his counsel, his wisdom and love for Jesus and for me, but I wasn't quite ready for his description of me. He called me a whore. And, he was dead on. I am. Or was. He tempered it a little by saying that he was a murderer, that in Jesus eyes we are all either whores or murderers, because we have all either lusted or hated. But for me, as I looked honestly in my heart, I knew he was right. I have been a whore.
Seeing myself that way has completely changed me. Accepting grace as a whore is so much different from accepting it as a preacher. I had always proclaimed the mercy of God and his great love for sinners, but everyone else always needed more than me. It was a joy to dispense his grace and forgiveness in mega-doses to others, saving their lives from the power of sin. Oh, I needed a dose once in a while too, but for me it was more like a vitamin. It was just wise to remind myself every so often that I too needed a little grace to be healthy and humble.
That is why I have not been able to get over the guilt of my sin and feel forgiven. I kept thinking that I could clean myself up, try really, really hard, and be a perfect slave for God. I would confess over and over...say how sorry I was over and over. Maybe you know the recipe for self-atonement: Confess repeatedly, add in heaping amounts of self-loathing, beat in self pity sprinkled with tears, bake at high heat in the oven of doubt, remove when burnt to a crisp, throw out and start over. Nothing really changes though; a whore is a whore is a whore. I had to quit trying to convince God how bad I was, he already knew. He knew before I did, and was waiting for me to believe that He really was the God of whores and murderers.
Being a whore in recovery has changed everything for me. It is as if his cure for my sin was injected straight into my heart! I pray with urgency and faith. I worship with purpose, not to experience God, but to praise the one who welcomed me, a whore, to his banquet. I see him laughing and saying eat! Eat! Yes, this is for you! I welcome his hand upon me, his discipline and his words, which will keep me off the street corners of my past. And I confess, over and over: thank you, thank you.
Late it seems, that I am loving him. But, thank God, better late than never.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Gray Skies and Rainbows
It is finally, officially the new year, with the last bowl game ending last night. Now is the season for stupid fill-in sitcoms. Maybe since the wicked witch has cast her spell and we are trapped in perpetual gray it would be soothing to find a warm light and some good books.
The new year is a time of looking back and looking ahead, and depending on how the looking back goes, we are either glad to be moving on or sad to see it go. Sometimes it is a mixture of both. I am old enough now to know that a change of calendar doesn't mean a change of heart, a boost of strength, a brilliant insight nor a sudden transformation of character. But it can mean a deeper gratitude for grace given, a new beginning gift-wrapped in hope, and a heart pointed in the right direction, determined to love and not harm God's children in any way.
Redemption is beyond me, as much as I wish I could bring it about and make everything ok, but even that is tainted by my own selfish, sinful nature. I find that whatever good I want to do, evil is always tagging along behind, accusing me and reminding me that even in my prayers I can't escape looking out for my own interests; that I will feel better myself if I know somehow that everyone else is happy. I do live in a body of death. It can never be fixed, only rescued. So I look to him who even from the cross was able be self-less. And I stand amazed in the presence.
My resolution for today of this fresh year is to not turn and question and reject that presence, and to not pull his fingers off of me. I finally understand that I cannot rely on my grasp of him, for He is beyond my reach, but I can completely trust in His hand to not let go.
So I begin this year with so many uncertainties about the future. But on the other hand, the one that matters most, I begin the year with the certainty of God. Grayness never wins.
The new year is a time of looking back and looking ahead, and depending on how the looking back goes, we are either glad to be moving on or sad to see it go. Sometimes it is a mixture of both. I am old enough now to know that a change of calendar doesn't mean a change of heart, a boost of strength, a brilliant insight nor a sudden transformation of character. But it can mean a deeper gratitude for grace given, a new beginning gift-wrapped in hope, and a heart pointed in the right direction, determined to love and not harm God's children in any way.
Redemption is beyond me, as much as I wish I could bring it about and make everything ok, but even that is tainted by my own selfish, sinful nature. I find that whatever good I want to do, evil is always tagging along behind, accusing me and reminding me that even in my prayers I can't escape looking out for my own interests; that I will feel better myself if I know somehow that everyone else is happy. I do live in a body of death. It can never be fixed, only rescued. So I look to him who even from the cross was able be self-less. And I stand amazed in the presence.
My resolution for today of this fresh year is to not turn and question and reject that presence, and to not pull his fingers off of me. I finally understand that I cannot rely on my grasp of him, for He is beyond my reach, but I can completely trust in His hand to not let go.
So I begin this year with so many uncertainties about the future. But on the other hand, the one that matters most, I begin the year with the certainty of God. Grayness never wins.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Penquins and the Baby Jesus
Our family settled in and watched the March of the Penqiuns last night. I was totally amazed. If you haven't seen it rent it immediately and be prepared to be awed for the next hour and fifteen minutes. I would suggest grabbing a blanket though, watching all that happens in -70 degree temperatures makes you feel very cold.
I won't go into details, but the march the penquins take every year is a seventy mile hike from the ocean to their breeding grounds. Ever watched a penquin walk? They are torpedos in the water and can slide on their bellies like kids on a slip and slide (which they do when their feet get tired on the journey), but for the most part they walk for seventy miles in baby steps over snow and ice. And, they do this several times a year, walking in a single line formation. They look like a parade of tiny lost waiters in a blizzard.
Why do they do this? For Prom night! That's why! It is there they select their mate, do a little dance, fall in penquin love, get married and lay an egg. All in wind chills of -100 degrees.
Then, on a certain day the girls all decide it is time to go to the grocery store, seventy miles back to the sea. The egg, which has been resting on their feet, covered by their stomach, is then passed very carefully to the boy, who then puts it on his feet and covers it with his stomach. If they take too long or pass the egg wrong to each other the egg quickly freezes and all their efforts end in loss. The female leaves to eat and bring back food for the chick three months later! All the males stay and keep the eggs warm over the winter, not eating for almost four months!
It is truly amazing to watch the march of these animals, the journey that is taken in the harshest conditions on earth, in order for them to pass on life to the next generation. And it has been happening for thousands of years. What parents won't do for their kids!
I was there for the birth of all four of my children. I had to go to the vending machines for coffee a couple of times. Our youngest son was born at home, which is an amazing experience but tough on the tupperware. With his birth I had to make a short trip to the hospital with a doctor friend of mine to get an oxygen tank to have in case of emergency. It was February with snow on the ground and I realized once I got there that I still had my house slippers on. That was pretty close to a penquin march. Sort of.
All this does cause me to think of the journey Mary and Joseph made to Bethlehem. A full term teen on a donkey? Wonder how that trip went? Labor pains and no place to stay? Where do you find a mid-wife this time of night in a place where you do not know anyone? I wonder about her labor. That few inches down the birth canal can be the longest journey on earth.
And Jesus, you were born into the harshest conditions in the universe. You came to the bone-chilling climate of cold human hearts and the blazing heat of our shame and sinfulness. Your journey started before creation and is continuing today as you walk ever toward us and with us in this world. And all for life. Real life.
Because of your journey my journey makes sense. You have made love possible. Your presence in the hearts of my friends and family means that I can find hope and forgiveness when my sins have created an antartic in their lives. It means that the sun, hidden in darkness for months, will come out again, and warmth and life will go on.
Merry Christmas.
I won't go into details, but the march the penquins take every year is a seventy mile hike from the ocean to their breeding grounds. Ever watched a penquin walk? They are torpedos in the water and can slide on their bellies like kids on a slip and slide (which they do when their feet get tired on the journey), but for the most part they walk for seventy miles in baby steps over snow and ice. And, they do this several times a year, walking in a single line formation. They look like a parade of tiny lost waiters in a blizzard.
Why do they do this? For Prom night! That's why! It is there they select their mate, do a little dance, fall in penquin love, get married and lay an egg. All in wind chills of -100 degrees.
Then, on a certain day the girls all decide it is time to go to the grocery store, seventy miles back to the sea. The egg, which has been resting on their feet, covered by their stomach, is then passed very carefully to the boy, who then puts it on his feet and covers it with his stomach. If they take too long or pass the egg wrong to each other the egg quickly freezes and all their efforts end in loss. The female leaves to eat and bring back food for the chick three months later! All the males stay and keep the eggs warm over the winter, not eating for almost four months!
It is truly amazing to watch the march of these animals, the journey that is taken in the harshest conditions on earth, in order for them to pass on life to the next generation. And it has been happening for thousands of years. What parents won't do for their kids!
I was there for the birth of all four of my children. I had to go to the vending machines for coffee a couple of times. Our youngest son was born at home, which is an amazing experience but tough on the tupperware. With his birth I had to make a short trip to the hospital with a doctor friend of mine to get an oxygen tank to have in case of emergency. It was February with snow on the ground and I realized once I got there that I still had my house slippers on. That was pretty close to a penquin march. Sort of.
All this does cause me to think of the journey Mary and Joseph made to Bethlehem. A full term teen on a donkey? Wonder how that trip went? Labor pains and no place to stay? Where do you find a mid-wife this time of night in a place where you do not know anyone? I wonder about her labor. That few inches down the birth canal can be the longest journey on earth.
And Jesus, you were born into the harshest conditions in the universe. You came to the bone-chilling climate of cold human hearts and the blazing heat of our shame and sinfulness. Your journey started before creation and is continuing today as you walk ever toward us and with us in this world. And all for life. Real life.
Because of your journey my journey makes sense. You have made love possible. Your presence in the hearts of my friends and family means that I can find hope and forgiveness when my sins have created an antartic in their lives. It means that the sun, hidden in darkness for months, will come out again, and warmth and life will go on.
Merry Christmas.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Fog
Is fog a fallen cloud?
Or is it a cloud struggling to break free from this earth
and claim its place in the heavens?
While it is here, neither going up or
going down,
I wonder if it knows what a pain it is to all
of us? Blocking our view, chilling our bones,
starving us of vitamin D, grounding our planes,
making us feel weird (ever seen a scary movie without fog?),
and turning us all into bumper car drivers.
I know it is just some meteorological phenomena
that someone can explain. Who cares?
Fog still has no real good excuse for itself,
it should either give in to the sun or
blow itself away.
What right does it have to hang around like some
vaporous buzzard and depress us all-and right before Christmas?
I declare from this day forward that I want to live in a fog-free zone.
(Try saying that three time fast).
Make up your mind fog....do you want to live down here or up there?
How can you be so weak and indecisive?
C'mon, just pull yourself up, I know you can do it.
That's why we say the fog is "lifting," after all.
By the way, just for my own curiosity, how do you do that?
Or is it a cloud struggling to break free from this earth
and claim its place in the heavens?
While it is here, neither going up or
going down,
I wonder if it knows what a pain it is to all
of us? Blocking our view, chilling our bones,
starving us of vitamin D, grounding our planes,
making us feel weird (ever seen a scary movie without fog?),
and turning us all into bumper car drivers.
I know it is just some meteorological phenomena
that someone can explain. Who cares?
Fog still has no real good excuse for itself,
it should either give in to the sun or
blow itself away.
What right does it have to hang around like some
vaporous buzzard and depress us all-and right before Christmas?
I declare from this day forward that I want to live in a fog-free zone.
(Try saying that three time fast).
Make up your mind fog....do you want to live down here or up there?
How can you be so weak and indecisive?
C'mon, just pull yourself up, I know you can do it.
That's why we say the fog is "lifting," after all.
By the way, just for my own curiosity, how do you do that?
Friday, December 09, 2005
They Shoot Dogs Don't They?
I came home from work yesterday and something was missing. Instead of being assaulted at the door by Lizzy, our Schnauzer, she was nowhere to be found. I called and whistled and clapped my hands and there was silence. Part of me thought that maybe she had been let out and forgotten to let back in, so I figured she was frozen to a fire hydrant somewhere. But another part of me remembered that she had been sick yesterday and was a little worried. So I began a search of her favorite hangouts in the house, to no avail. Finally, I found her laying in the basement next to the closet. Her only response was to move her eyes a little and her usually frantic stub of a tail didn't move at all. She was surrounded by the evidence of her sickness.
I stood there not knowing what to do. I said all the responder words: treat, toy, food, outside, etc. and there was nothing. I realized she could not lift her head or walk.
So now what? Everything went through my head. Maybe she had eaten something bad, maybe she had some kind of dog flu, maybe she was faking. Do I wait it out? Do I rush her to the Vet?
I found myself asking her specific questions: Where does it hurt? What did you eat? Where all did you puke and .......? What do you want me to do? She didn't answer of course, she is a dog.
I picked her up and held her and rubbed her head and moved her bed by the heat vent. I tried to give her water.
So now what? She is eight years old, never been really sick and has been a part of our family.
Why now, at this time of the year? Could we really have Christmas without her jumping in the middle of the wrapping paper, like all the stuff was for her? She has played with the kids, slept in their beds, wrestled with them and howled at us with that frustrated "if I could only talk" howl.
But, I grew up a farm boy and dogs were a useful, wonderful companion that earned their keep by barking at strangers, working cattle, killing varmits and staying outside. Vet bills were reserved for cattle. Dogs could always be replaced.
That thought lasted for a nano-second.
So when Co got home I picked Lizzy up and we put her in the car and took her to a nearby Vet. As it turned out she didn't just look like she was dying, she actually was dying. She had an infection in her Uterus that was about to burst. They immediately took her to surgery.
She is doing fine today and we will probably pick her up this afternoon.
And, she will be present for Christmas. Actually, she probably will be the present this Christmas.
But she really is the gift that, in her own special, stupid dog way, just keeps on giving.
I stood there not knowing what to do. I said all the responder words: treat, toy, food, outside, etc. and there was nothing. I realized she could not lift her head or walk.
So now what? Everything went through my head. Maybe she had eaten something bad, maybe she had some kind of dog flu, maybe she was faking. Do I wait it out? Do I rush her to the Vet?
I found myself asking her specific questions: Where does it hurt? What did you eat? Where all did you puke and .......? What do you want me to do? She didn't answer of course, she is a dog.
I picked her up and held her and rubbed her head and moved her bed by the heat vent. I tried to give her water.
So now what? She is eight years old, never been really sick and has been a part of our family.
Why now, at this time of the year? Could we really have Christmas without her jumping in the middle of the wrapping paper, like all the stuff was for her? She has played with the kids, slept in their beds, wrestled with them and howled at us with that frustrated "if I could only talk" howl.
But, I grew up a farm boy and dogs were a useful, wonderful companion that earned their keep by barking at strangers, working cattle, killing varmits and staying outside. Vet bills were reserved for cattle. Dogs could always be replaced.
That thought lasted for a nano-second.
So when Co got home I picked Lizzy up and we put her in the car and took her to a nearby Vet. As it turned out she didn't just look like she was dying, she actually was dying. She had an infection in her Uterus that was about to burst. They immediately took her to surgery.
She is doing fine today and we will probably pick her up this afternoon.
And, she will be present for Christmas. Actually, she probably will be the present this Christmas.
But she really is the gift that, in her own special, stupid dog way, just keeps on giving.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Follow Me?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
Besides, it is really hot
and that preacher has worked hard every night
and noone has come forward.
And, it is the right thing to do and I'm one of the last hold-outs in my class.
Plus, I have figured out by counting the tiles on the floor that
it is only about fifteen feet to salvation.
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
It really isn't that hard as long as we both agree to certain terms:
You get Sundays and Wednesday nights (see clause concerning athletic events) and
I will take care of the rest of the week.
And I will always be at the right place on your days
if you will promise not to be to obvious on my days, and please,
don't ask about Saturday nights at all.
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Of Course I will, I said.
Especially now that I know how much you need me.
We have a world to save and I am so glad to be here
for such a time as this. Finally, we are (oops, I mean have) the answer!
But wouldn't it be more practical if you followed us for a while?
All I really need is your endorsement.
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said. But I am a little disillusioned.
Can't we just stay here? The world is a very big place
and I have an office now with a growing library (all about you, of course)
from which I can prepare sermons that will make us both look good.
FYI Jesus, CBD has great bargains!
Oh, and as a good steward, is it to early to start planning for retirement?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Again? I asked.
Things are not at all like I thought they would be. I am not at all like
I thought I would be. Nothing is like I thought it would be.
Who really are you anyway?
I will follow-and I do deeply appreciate the invitation,
but I have some questions to ask along the way (humbly of course).
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
But what do you really mean when you say that? And are those words
found in all the synoptics?
Can I really trust that those are your words and not the words
of the mythical Jesus? How much is lost in translation?
Give me just a minute to check some other authorities.
Can I get back to you?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said, but I would prefer to worship you.
After all this time going to church finally feels good.
And who knew that experiencing you was simply a matter of changing
worship styles?
Or perhaps you finally caught up with technology.
Whatever, it is good for us to be here. What's the plan for next week?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
No, I said.
The feelings didn't last. And as I think about it, what have I got out of all this?
How can I be sure all I have done for you was worth it? What have we really
accomplished?
Your bride is still in need of an extreme makeover, and you are looking pretty worn yourself.
What guarantee do I have you will be there in the end, which seems to be approaching faster
all the time?
The only thing I know for sure is what I know right now.
Hey, who is the victim here?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Are you kidding? I whispered. Do you never give up?
I can't. I don't know how. I have done more harm
following you than good.
I am a toxin in your body.
You know me, and you still call me to follow?
I am an arrogant coward, a ridiculous paradox,
Wouldn't it be better to leave me alone with what remains,
and avoid the embarassment?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
I will try. Will you stay close? I am afraid, not of you,
but of me. Are you sure this is what you want?
Because, I would like to try again.
And is it really that simple, after all? To listen for
your words and do them...and in that I will
know what I can't comprehend?
Deny myself?
Thank you, I would love to.
Jesus says: Follow Me.
For how long, I ask?
Just for today, He tells me.
Ok.
Ok, I said.
Besides, it is really hot
and that preacher has worked hard every night
and noone has come forward.
And, it is the right thing to do and I'm one of the last hold-outs in my class.
Plus, I have figured out by counting the tiles on the floor that
it is only about fifteen feet to salvation.
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
It really isn't that hard as long as we both agree to certain terms:
You get Sundays and Wednesday nights (see clause concerning athletic events) and
I will take care of the rest of the week.
And I will always be at the right place on your days
if you will promise not to be to obvious on my days, and please,
don't ask about Saturday nights at all.
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Of Course I will, I said.
Especially now that I know how much you need me.
We have a world to save and I am so glad to be here
for such a time as this. Finally, we are (oops, I mean have) the answer!
But wouldn't it be more practical if you followed us for a while?
All I really need is your endorsement.
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said. But I am a little disillusioned.
Can't we just stay here? The world is a very big place
and I have an office now with a growing library (all about you, of course)
from which I can prepare sermons that will make us both look good.
FYI Jesus, CBD has great bargains!
Oh, and as a good steward, is it to early to start planning for retirement?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Again? I asked.
Things are not at all like I thought they would be. I am not at all like
I thought I would be. Nothing is like I thought it would be.
Who really are you anyway?
I will follow-and I do deeply appreciate the invitation,
but I have some questions to ask along the way (humbly of course).
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
But what do you really mean when you say that? And are those words
found in all the synoptics?
Can I really trust that those are your words and not the words
of the mythical Jesus? How much is lost in translation?
Give me just a minute to check some other authorities.
Can I get back to you?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said, but I would prefer to worship you.
After all this time going to church finally feels good.
And who knew that experiencing you was simply a matter of changing
worship styles?
Or perhaps you finally caught up with technology.
Whatever, it is good for us to be here. What's the plan for next week?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
No, I said.
The feelings didn't last. And as I think about it, what have I got out of all this?
How can I be sure all I have done for you was worth it? What have we really
accomplished?
Your bride is still in need of an extreme makeover, and you are looking pretty worn yourself.
What guarantee do I have you will be there in the end, which seems to be approaching faster
all the time?
The only thing I know for sure is what I know right now.
Hey, who is the victim here?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Are you kidding? I whispered. Do you never give up?
I can't. I don't know how. I have done more harm
following you than good.
I am a toxin in your body.
You know me, and you still call me to follow?
I am an arrogant coward, a ridiculous paradox,
Wouldn't it be better to leave me alone with what remains,
and avoid the embarassment?
Jesus said: Follow Me.
Ok, I said.
I will try. Will you stay close? I am afraid, not of you,
but of me. Are you sure this is what you want?
Because, I would like to try again.
And is it really that simple, after all? To listen for
your words and do them...and in that I will
know what I can't comprehend?
Deny myself?
Thank you, I would love to.
Jesus says: Follow Me.
For how long, I ask?
Just for today, He tells me.
Ok.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Post Oak
The ground is silver and the sky has just a hint of dawn's early light. I am walking an old road along a gently rising ridge heading for that special place where all the action happens when night gives way to day. I can see the field ahead of me and I will soon be sitting at its edge, my back against a rough Post Oak a few feet still inside the woods. It is here that the deer are found trading places with the squirrels, the former slipping like gray ghosts to their beds in the thick brush while the latter begin collecting acorns (pronounced a-kerns) with greedy claws, some for a quick breakfast and some for saving in secret vaults to be uncovered in the cold days ahead. A gang of crows fly over, loud and obnoxious like noisy neighbors, waking up the rest of the woods.
I feel completely exposed in my flourescent orange vest and cap, like someone just caught crashing a party they weren't invited to.
Suddenly, to the south a falling star blazes across the sky and dies with a bright flash that lights up the fields and woods like a flare. It had been a tough choice to leave a warm bed to walk in sub twenty degree chill and sit by a tree in near darkness, but now I remember why I am here. I want, for a few moments, to be a part of something that goes on every morning and evening, an unending play that is performed daily in silence and song on a stunning stage by characters who always play their roles to perfection. It's not that the woods come to life at dawn; things are happening all night, morning just brings a change of cast.
I find the big oak selected the night before to be this morning's front row seat and quietly sit down and lean my back against it. My breath is making smoke signals and my fingers are already numb so I lay my gun in my lap and rub my hands together. And that movement, so natural for me, so strange in the woods, is all it takes for the big buck to know there is something in his living room that doesn't belong. I smile as I hear him snort and see his graceful leap over the fence, watching him fade instantly into the thick brush. It's not the first time I am out-smarted by a deer, and it won't be the last.
I settle in and try to be still. Stillness is something I am very rusty at but gradually I am absorbed by my surroundings. I see a cardinal in a hawthorn bush, a splash of red on a canvas of brown. I hear a turkey cackle somewhere up the valley and also the sticcatto "tap, tap, tap" of a red headed woodpecker. Cows start to bawl down in the fields and dogs begin barking.
I am amazed by the movement of this symphony, the way it all sounds, the rests of silence in between, all in perfect harmony with the light show breaking over the hills to the east.
This is why I am here. I was invited to sit here by this old Post Oak tree...a tree that was old when I was a young boy roaming these woods. It has stood watch over this place for countless sunrises, offering itself as home to generations of gray squirrels. It knew that old buck when it still had spots and rested under it's branches. It has proudly survived rolling thunderstorms and persistent woodpeckers. It has the rare qualities of being both strong and flexible.
Like us, it is made to exist in two realms, with roots deeply secured in the earth and its branches lifted toward the heavens. I lean back against its roughness, and I thank God for this day and for trees and especially for that one tree that held my hope so long ago, hanging suspended to unite both realms. And I realize, as the first rays of sun break through the trees, that at some point I stopped hunting and started seeking.
I feel completely exposed in my flourescent orange vest and cap, like someone just caught crashing a party they weren't invited to.
Suddenly, to the south a falling star blazes across the sky and dies with a bright flash that lights up the fields and woods like a flare. It had been a tough choice to leave a warm bed to walk in sub twenty degree chill and sit by a tree in near darkness, but now I remember why I am here. I want, for a few moments, to be a part of something that goes on every morning and evening, an unending play that is performed daily in silence and song on a stunning stage by characters who always play their roles to perfection. It's not that the woods come to life at dawn; things are happening all night, morning just brings a change of cast.
I find the big oak selected the night before to be this morning's front row seat and quietly sit down and lean my back against it. My breath is making smoke signals and my fingers are already numb so I lay my gun in my lap and rub my hands together. And that movement, so natural for me, so strange in the woods, is all it takes for the big buck to know there is something in his living room that doesn't belong. I smile as I hear him snort and see his graceful leap over the fence, watching him fade instantly into the thick brush. It's not the first time I am out-smarted by a deer, and it won't be the last.
I settle in and try to be still. Stillness is something I am very rusty at but gradually I am absorbed by my surroundings. I see a cardinal in a hawthorn bush, a splash of red on a canvas of brown. I hear a turkey cackle somewhere up the valley and also the sticcatto "tap, tap, tap" of a red headed woodpecker. Cows start to bawl down in the fields and dogs begin barking.
I am amazed by the movement of this symphony, the way it all sounds, the rests of silence in between, all in perfect harmony with the light show breaking over the hills to the east.
This is why I am here. I was invited to sit here by this old Post Oak tree...a tree that was old when I was a young boy roaming these woods. It has stood watch over this place for countless sunrises, offering itself as home to generations of gray squirrels. It knew that old buck when it still had spots and rested under it's branches. It has proudly survived rolling thunderstorms and persistent woodpeckers. It has the rare qualities of being both strong and flexible.
Like us, it is made to exist in two realms, with roots deeply secured in the earth and its branches lifted toward the heavens. I lean back against its roughness, and I thank God for this day and for trees and especially for that one tree that held my hope so long ago, hanging suspended to unite both realms. And I realize, as the first rays of sun break through the trees, that at some point I stopped hunting and started seeking.
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