A Man's Man

Where do I look for a man’s man,
To teach me to praise, dance and sing?
I turn back to my Old Testaments’ nub,
To Jesse’s root; David the King.

For God’s honor he fell a Philistine.

He took Bathsheba to Gods’ chagrin,
Still his heart longed for his Shepherd,
God loved the kings’ heart within.

Oh, the depth of my own carnality,

No hope of standing clean before the Son,
David had an innocent’s blood on his hands,
Bright white like snow in Psalm Fifty-one.

I’ve two left feet and it’s all about me,

How will I look in another’s sight?
David cared only for Yahweh’s eyes,
Kicking heels up with all his might.

Where do I look for a man’s man,

When inside there’s a scared little boy?
When David tired of facing life’s fight,
In God’s presence he finds fullness of joy!

Where do I look for a man’s man,
When time comes for leaving all men,
To walk in the Valley of Shadow,
Goodness and mercy will still follow me then.

Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash

A Cautionary Tale

 

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” ---Helen Keller

The steamed-up windows make it difficult to see outside. You strain to get a breath of fresh air. Can’t really spread fully out to sleep. You could simply roll down the windows if not for fear of evil reaching in. Car seats aren’t for camping. Could have cuddled if both of you were talking.

Years ago (in a time before cell phones), much more so than now, ‘Zimmer Fries’ abounded in Germany. It literally means, ‘room free,’ and is a type of accommodation in Germany where a local rents out a spare room in their house to travelers. The property owner posts a sign indicating a vacancy. Find the sign, check in, stay the night. Easy.  

Our travelers left late that day with the assumption that seeing a sign would be easy. Like a Vegas hotel in neon. So it may have been, on a crisp, clear day. But the rain came. Not softly like the gentle touch of a new lover. It came pouring down like it had something to prove. The wipers zipped back and forth with a fury. The only view, ropes of rain as headlights reflected off the road. And what of our couple in the car?

 What would you hear if you could listen in to their conversation? This couple, on vacation in Germany, in the midst of a great adventure? Bickering. Fear and frustration giving voice as blame. “You should have planned better!”, “You told me it’d be easy to find one.” They could have spent the time laughing, or praying, or talking each other through square breathing. The dark didn’t lift and the rain kept coming.

Late into the night our out-of-towners spy a hotel. Before paying for the room they asked if they could see where they’d be sleeping. Tired, grumpy and angry they are ready for the relief of a bed. Peering into the room their hopes are dashed. The bed is not made. Sheets are everywhere. Unkempt. They shake off the imaginary vermin clinging to them and head back off into the night.

If only they had danced off into the darkness, betting on each other despite the lack of sleeping quarters. That’s not how the story unfolded. Driving on roads they don’t know. Shoulders stiff, tension in the car mounting as they motor on. Ultimately pulling off into a rest area where they spend a cramped night in discontent.

It's a cautionary tale I tell. I’ve spent too much time imbibing particular people’s poison. I’ve let the elements and circumstance crush me instead of hoping God’s working things out for the joy set before me. That night in the car was one night on a long road. A day I wish I had embraced and not spurned.

 “Seize the day ' seize whatever you can, 'Cause life slips away just like hourglass sand.” --- Carolyn Ahrends

 Photo by Tahamie Farooqui on Unsplash

 

Rembrandt Has A Pauper's Grave

 

Rembrandt has a pauper’s grave,

The museum tourbook read,

A reminder that my life’s appraised,

By others when I’m dead.

 

How could he lie in such a pit?

My confusion here I’ll confess,

Master of both brush and light,

Off canvas so distressed.

How real he draws the prodigal,

Feel the beggar’s plight,

Oh might your heart be so gripped,

With the words that I would write.

 

His paintings are in the Rijksmuseum

Some are in the Hague,

Bankrupt of wives, children and home,

Possessing only the plague.

 

 

Sing Like A Hobbit

 

 

     

“These Hobbits Will Sit on the Edge of Ruin and Discuss the Pleasures of the Table.”

 A sob sticks in my throat. Images raging on Instagram fill my mind. Winds roar and fires blaze in Los Angeles. Flames flare up on the Getty museum, burning down Moonshadows in Malibu. I took a girl there once. Scorched memories. Seeing the smoke and the ruins reminds me of Mordor and darkness, of Hobbits and hope, of Merry and Pippin enjoying Long-Bottom leaf and the smoke of a pipe at the ruin of Isengard.

When my first marriage burned to the ground I cried with friends. I turned Spotify up loud while singing along with Third Day; ”There’s a light at the end of the tunnel”. Psalmodies of passion, lament and praise kept me going. The Creator has set it up so that these crack open your heart and infuse hope. The act of singing is an act of defiance. Eating and drinking too.

If you’ve never sung from a place of heart-ache and desperate loss take a lesson from Hobbit Sam Gamgee.  Believing the quest to be at an end, he sings, “above all shadows rides the Sun, and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell.” When dark pervades, I cry to God in hope. Somehow singing grounds me. As do friends, bread and good ale. Hence the attitude of the Hobbit. May we have the same!

Photo by Sergio García on Unsplash

The Darkness I Fear You'll Send

 

Nuke Oatmeal for cholesterol, fresh ground coffee, that’s my morning,
Hot shower, clean water, scented shampoo.
Read verses from my monogrammed-leather-bound bible,
Fed-ex drops a box on my doorstep,
Like the shoe I fear will drop,
The darkness I fear You’ll send.

Tension mounting in my shoulders, ever-present, this foreboding,
Storm brewing, rain coming, bad moon rising.
Hear the Ted talks speak to the wounds of childhood trauma,
Children expect hugs in the darkness.
Locusts devour the crop,
The blessed season up-end.

Sirens blaring out my window, scrolling Meta, isn’t helping,

Barren well, deer panting, heart desiring.
See all of the boundaries fall in pleasant places,
Peace erupts from a different mindset,
May the anxiety stop,
As I trust You to defend.

Killing Caroline: A Sourdough Story

Moving half-way across the country made killing Caroline 1 an easy choice. Most starters have a name, Caroline was the name of mine (Neil Diamond inspired). Is it a lie if it’s not true all the time? Books and blogs say making sourdough starter, the basis of delicious sourdough, is an easy, guaranteed process. It hasn’t been. Creating sourdough starter for me was an arduous process culminating in a vibrant sourdough, increased patience and desperate answered prayer. Starter is the building block; it’s not even the reward! The reward is a rich, tangy bread, the crunch of breaking through the crust to warm richness slathered in butter.

I’ve never gotten the rise out of Caroline that I wanted. She’s never been bubbly and airy enough. And when I made the bread, the dough was never firm enough for the initial scoring—which is both decorative and helps create rise in the oven. Summer began the creation of the new Caroline. Ideally an easy ten day process. Mix flour and water. Wait three days. Add more flour and water. Those are the basics. Like a failed Frankenstein I could not get my Caroline to come to life.

Caroline teased me with her false vigor. I’d coax her with warm tap water, with wheat flour and rye flour, even lying her down on a bed of warmth. She failed to respond. She went flat. She grew mold. She refused to put out. No bubbly proof of yeast. Week after week I waited. Restarted. Perhaps the tap water contained chlorine. I switched to bottled water. I changed the heat source. I changed ratios. For three months Caroline and I danced. She would not double. She wasn’t looking like any of the online pictures. I was near to giving up.

Making bread is an act of faith. Like scattering seed. I prayed for Caroline, that she would be effervescent, growing and doubling. God is, after all, over the rising of the sun and the fruit of the vine. Certainly, He is over the rising of a starter. After three months of perseverance, Caroline #2 blossomed. I can’t specifically tell you why. I suspect the courtship had gone on long enough to convince her I was serious.

The Moustache I Want

“Kissing a man without a moustache is like eating an egg without salt.” Carlos Fuentes

Wanting a great moustache isn’t like aspiring to walk on the moon. For most men, and some ladies, growing a basic moustache is attainable. But to grow a top-notch moustache one is up against 3 things. It takes time. A great ‘stache is more than hair on a lip. It is Michelangelo’s marble shaped into David. A beard grown, trimmed and shaped.  A culmination of desire realized. Stylized and personal, it’s an external trademark; think Tom Selleck, Salvador Dali, Groucho Marx and Mark Twain.  A superior growth of facial hair requires superior genes. And finally, one must deal with their native culture; and when I say culture I mean my wife.

She says hair on other men’s faces is ‘fine,’ but not on mine. The corollary rule is that all of us must be neatly shaven. No burly-home beer-brewer beards, no ZZ Top like facial hair and your moustache must be clean and clipped unlike that of Albert Einstein or Sam Elliott. To continue to be kissed I can’t keep growing the moustache I want.

My dream is to have a Handlebar moustache. A rich, thick growth of hair that can be waxed and curled on the ends. Of the 12 mainline moustaches this one says rogue and nefarious with a hint of evil cartoon character thrown in, Snidely Whiplash with a swagger. It’s not that I want the ‘stache for the same reason some guys like their Dodge Rams. I’ve had beard and moustache, one or both, since college save for a season when my employer forbade it. There was a week or two when I shaved it off from boredom only to realize that I did not like the look. This I realized from both looking in the mirror and from a constant lust after other men’s moustaches.

The wife and I have reached some sort of compromise. I can grow it out for the month of November. This is hardly meeting in the middle. To put it another way, Michaelangelo took 3 years to carve David. But relationships always involve some compromise. In The Princess Bride, Westley (sporting a wimpy pencil moustache) works with a vengeful, sword-carrying mustached Montoya to save his love. True love always sacrifices. So I’ll wait for the moustache I want.

Refugee Hope

 I eat lunch with a group of refugees every week. I drive home elated, saddened and burdened. These are brave men facing difficult circumstances. Coming alongside, I feel inadequate.

I can’t know this; what it’s like to be alone in a place, not knowing the language or the cultural norms. Falling with no safe-place to land.  To be a professor in Venezuela but a nobody here. He formulates a plan. He knows somebody who sells him an old car for a couple thousand dollars. Been carrying his life with him in a back-pack, through-country. His identification, registrations, originals of his doctorates and degrees, his whole life. Driving back to his apartment he stops inside a gas station. Leaving backpack—and keys—inside the car. Perfect target in a big city.

There are worse things stolen than cars. Dark stories abound, as if you’d want to dwell on these. One of the men, Henry, having flown from the middle east was put into a hospital for some serious surgery. In the process, without consent they removed one of his testicles. Smaller infractions occur in living situations; with management companies randomly trying to raise rent-rates and evict tenants unfamiliar with the law. So much treading of water that it’s a delight when somebody splashes up onto land!

The agencies working with this population generally come alongside to transition the refugee to life in Dallas. They provide them with housing, bed, kitchen, healthcare and a case-worker to help them navigate. Most are efficient as any big government agency like the post office or DMV. So when we found our Rodger hadn’t had a bed for two months it was a thrill to see individuals team together to find a bed (and a microwave), rent a truck and deliver them. Beyond the basics; Rodger has been able to obtain his permits and drivers’ licenses and to obtain numerous jobs; Uber eats, doing clean-up at a local hospital, then leaving that to clean carpets for a local company. The refugees themselves keep looking forward to these successes seemingly not paralyzed by the failures. Resilient human hope keeps them going, helps them move forward.

Some amazing stories are shared over pizza. Heartbreaking losses too. On a macro scale the odds look overwhelming; from fleeing home to flying here. If there’s a secret to their perseverance it is this. Hope lives in each small moment. Woven through each shared meal, the laughter and the bread are life-giving.

Photo by Alan Hardman on Unsplash

Freedom Of Limits

 "Art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame. If you draw a giraffe, you must draw him with a long neck. If in your bold creative way you hold yourself free to draw a giraffe with a short neck, you will really find that you are not free to draw a giraffe.” G. K. Chesterton

In part the hope was that the surgery, cutting my back open, would heal the right foot. It had been getting progressively more useless prior to the surgery. There was a slight healing, but a full healing, they said, could take a year…or more. Or never.  For the next day, or year or however long I live God has ordained this limitation of my strength and of my healing. Weak as I was before, there has been some increase of strength. Strong as I could be, it appears a significant weakness will remain in my foot. The human body as designed is bound by weakness. Theologians (h/t David O. Taylor) make the point that Christ Himself came to us in a limited body.

In Atul Gawande’s book; Being Mortal he says that the end is ‘just the accumulated crumbling of one’s body systems.” At one point he asks a well published gerontologist if we have discerned any particular, reproducible pathway to aging. “No,’ he said, ‘We just fall apart.”  

Wrestling with this framework I can see two sides, one depressing and one positive. The downer is that the body will wear out, break down, fall apart. The upside is that In this clay frame, in this finitude there is freedom. A freedom to lean into God, to love one another and to celebrate what we have.

Photo by meriç tuna on Unsplash

Call Of The Lover

Trembling, I felt unable to move. An eight-hundred foot drop on either side kicked into gear my existing fear of height. Crouching down on the saddle that separated arduous switchbacks from five-thousand-foot peak, fear had me frozen. Having twisted up three-thousand feet of elevation gain I had two choices. Retreat back to safety or finish the climb?

How was it that I ended up there anyway? The answer to that question lies inside of another question; where does it go? Where do those roads in every Dr. Seuss book lead? What does that line on a map look like in the flesh? A confluence of events led me to Cub Scouts. Cub scouts led me farther outside the city. Nature led me into beauty and adventure.

There are premises hard wired into us that when pursued lead to peace, ignored they lead to our detriment. Anxious and fearful in my teens, I felt no fear in the outdoors. No fear of snakes, bugs, or bears---and a limited fear of heights. Scouting was the vehicle God used to move me from sea-level walks to glacier high climbs.

My first major purchase; a dark blue, external frame backpack. My second purchase, a pair of hiking boots. The pack leaned against my wall, being filled or emptied, unloaded or made ready.  Short trips every other weekend. Long trips every vacation break. From rolling coastal walks in the Santa Monicas, to craggy climbs in the Sierra. An Easter trek down Hermits’ trail in the Grand Canyon, summer solstice in the the Bob Marshall wilderness of Montana. That backpack fit like a glove, those boots broken-in, part of my body.

Like the gentle feel of a lover’s finger on your cheek, are the feelings stirred by the outdoors. The sense that you can fly when the backpack comes off after an eight-mile hike. Your shirt wet with sweat; spreading yourself out on a large shale boulder for warmth. Feeling the world spin as the sun goes down and that first star climbs into the sky. That first band of sunlight warming the camp after a frigid cold night. A place to sleep that smells of pine and not like cigarettes. Gurgle and crash of ice-cold water over rock as you fill your water bottle for the day. Your lover keeps calling you back.

When friends bid you, come with us to hike the Virgin river and trails of Zion, you say yes. Celebrating your final day in the park you go all in for a day hike to Angel’s Landing. A straight-forward path to the top brings you to the final half-mile portion, bordered by a chain which you can grab hold of to navigate the trail. Hopefully avoiding the steep drop offs into Zion and Refrigerator canyons. This is where paralysis set in. So my friends encouraged and prayed me through the saddle. To the top of the landing where I sat in the middle, far from the edge. Having made it to the top it was easier to make the trip back down the trail. A trip which I would make again some years later. Same trail, same quaking prayers, same positive result. I knew somehow that straddling that precipice was central to who I am. Nature would always be a place I found self. The hard wiring is the call of the lover.

Photo by Gregory Brainard on Unsplash