2 Timothy Chapter 1-Meditations On Power, Love and Discipline

The boom-boom-boom of my heart accompanied the wail of the siren. Inside the car lit up, from dark and black to glowing red. My father pulled the car over. Certainly the policeman was going to put him in jail. Seven years old I was certain my dad was guilty of something. The policeman, pure and innocent, was going to put him away. As a child I misunderstood the law and failed to trust my father.

The deacons, handing out bread-and-wine were somber, sober and serious. In silence I prayed for forgiveness as plate and cup made their way toward me. I glanced up and out, viewing the congregants. I knew the scripture—those that took the sacrament unworthily were in danger of dying. At present all remained safe and straight in their seats. As a new convert I misunderstood law and missed the heart of my Father.

Where was Timothy’s dad? Paul indicates Timothy grew up under the faith of grandma and mom. Were there positive male role models in his life? ‘Power,’ in a male context could have scary connotations. Misappropriated power seen in the violence of a horse race, the dominance of a (bad) husband, the mercilessness of a Pharisee. When God gives a spirit of power what does that look like?

“Timmy, stop calling your sister names! Go to your room now.” Discipline as a kid means changing behaviour to earn approval. Law is seen as change in outward appearance in accordance with desired behavior. The heart need not be involved.

When heart seeks the law in a context of Dad’s love it acts holistically. We seek inner transformation to become like our father. Foster writes, “We must beware how quickly we can latch onto this work or that word and turn it into a law. The moment we do so we qualify for Jesus’ stern pronouncement against the Pharisees: “They bind heavy burdens and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with their finger” (Matt. 23:4). Our hearts should be stirred by law but moved toward God in grace.

“For I am mindful of the sincere faith within you,” “I am sure that it is in you,” “Guard the treasure entrusted to you,” Paul says to Timothy. Timothy doubted God’s strong presence in him. Note the scaffold—no fatherly input in childhood coupled with doubt that God loves and treasures you. A certain system for the creation of timidity.

Paul pounds his point into Timothy’s head, “You have faith, you are treasured, you are loved.” Understanding the whole picture sets the solid framework, “God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.” May the boom-boom-boom of our hearts beat in tune with the Fathers’.

Hoover Dam and the Uncertainty Of Riches

“Since announcement of the construction timetable (to build Hoover Dam), hundreds of jobless men had been streaming into southern Nevada in caravans of wheezing automobiles, in Union Pacific boxcars, on horseback and even on foot…Most of the newcomers were greenhorns—unemployed factory workers, mechanics, salesmen, store clerks, lawyers, bankers and students---who had never performed physical labor or lived outdoors…”---Hoover Dam An American Adventure, by Joseph Stevens

Some seasons are simply paycheck to paycheck. We live in tension between need and want, living and longing. In my case, as of late, longing has given way to dissatisfaction. With discontent creep in goblins of greed whom do their best (and damned good they are) to steal joy and darken day.

I had a dog. For a season I had the Australian shepherd, the big yard and the gas barbeque. I miss the freedom ownership of a house brings. I long for the house, the garden, the storage---the stuff. I compare my stuff to the Joneses stuff. My stuff is older, smaller and less shiny. I get bogged down in the seeking of riches believing my contentment lies therein.

Hot showers and a full fridge are things I take for granted. I overlook the joy that flows out of a Sunday free from work---stretching out on the new couch with a good book and hot cup of Costa Rican. Wind on my cheek and warm sun, orange juice in the morning, buttered biscuits and bacon, the purr of my car engine, and even ‘hellos’ in hallways at work are deep riches to delight in.

I practice delighting deliberately. Sunsets in the desert can be beautiful. I walk outside to view a good one. Days off are spent with a loved one and started with hot coffee in a favorite cup—made more glorious today as cold wind and hard rain assail the neighborhood.

I am learning to enjoy all things. Riches, the prophet tells us, will surely sprout wings and fly off to the sky like an eagle. This week I am practicing satisfaction in the riches I already possess. Concurrently I am cultivating friendship with the Joneses in hopes that they’ll let me house sit while they leave town on vacation.

The Shadow A Thing Casts

I am squeezed dry---a big hand reaches down and wrings me out. Consistent with that no tears come. I slam the car door and cross the parking lot to the trail that marks the Big Morongo Preserve. God and I had met here before. I came hoping to hear him speak; knowing He’ll certainly listen.

The setting echoes my mood. Dry Alder and cracked Cottonwood line the trail, broken branches and cracked limbs scattered by wind without water in this dry California winter. The thought comes, “Elijah was a man with a nature like ours…”

Here’s the funny part. I am not going through an Elijah like dry period. It’s been a year of sun, rain and harvest. I just got married and every facet of life goes well. It’s the inner demons and shadows that cause the sunlight to flicker.

It is the shadow on the horizon that threatens. A friend fears his step-daughters moving in next month. She has struggled with addiction but is currently clean. Sunlight flickers. A neighbor watches his finances dwindle month by month. How fast until it is all gone? Star eclipsed. A sister will be released from her treatment program back into ‘real life.’ Clouds obscure. I wrestle with possible monetary loss. I question character issues I’m faced with. Dust darkens.

I come to the Preserve not for answers but for peace. In my own darkness the kitten at the door looks like the “lion seeking to devour.” Solomon was right when he said that the little foxes spoil the vines. I seek perspective. I look up from willows and alders hoping to catch a glimpse of Bighorn sheep. I look higher, to the hills ‘from whence cometh my help…My help comes from the Lord, maker of Heaven and Earth.” Like clouds blowing across the face of the sun peace evades. I catch a glimpse---and it’s gone again.

I walk back to the parking lot. I hang onto that fleeting glimpse of sun; a peace that is shattered when I focus once again on billowing shadows. Still it is that glimpse of the largesse of nature, a glint of Him who names the stars that energizes me.

“Then (Elijah) prayed again, and the sky poured rain and the earth produced its fruit.”

“I pray for you, that all your misgivings will be melted to thanksgivings. Remember that the shadow a thing casts often far exceeds the size of the thing itself (especially if the light be low on the horizon) and though some future fear may strut brave darkness as you approach, the thing itself will be but a speck when seen from beyond. Oh that He would restore us often with that 'aspect from beyond,' to see a thing as He sees it, to remember that He dealeth with us as with sons.” –Jim Elliott

A Fiery Christmas

Forty years later and I still remember smoke pouring into the room. It was Christmas Eve. My sister and I opened the door and looked out the window over and over-again. I got so wound up that a major breathing attack was triggered every Christmas break. The tree was up and decorated, candles lit, fire burning, mom smoking. Not the ideal clear air quality for a little asthmatic kid. I wheezingly anticipated the arrival of friends and relatives.

Mouths watered as we waited on the viands. Kugel was coming, chopped-liver checking in soon, breads and fruits, crackers and cheese. Coffee percolated in the kitchen as cousins and friends began to arrive. Hors d'oeuvres were unwrapped and set out to eat. My dog Sam the Samoyed told, “No! Get in the kitchen.” He knew somehow that his persistence would pay off and was soon back amongst the food and the children.

The main course arrived later year after year. We were hungry for dinner and antsy for presents. Plus it was past bedtime-but tonight that didn’t matter. After dinner everybody adjourned to the big white couch in the living room. Mom and Aunt Rhoda fought the yearly battle over doing the dishes because ‘guests don’t do dishes.’

Every family has their gift-opening tradition. At our house the youngest passed out the gifts and we tried to open them one-by-one. Christmas music was turned down as Pacehelbel gave way to presents. I don’t remember what everyone got that year though that my cousin, ever into music, got a Neil Diamond record. As the evening wore on white Christmas faded into Hot August Night.

One by one the gifts were opened. Meanwhile the children began throwing wrapping paper into the fireplace. Different papers inspired flares of variegated colour; greens, blues and reds; big flames and fiery ignitions. Then it happened. A wrapping paper tube was set into the blaze. But only partially. Smoke, instead of going up the chimney, went up the tube and into the room. Children screamed for parents. Easily remedied the tube was pushed all the way into the fireplace.

Many Christmases have past since then with many changes, death and sickness among them. ‘Long lays the world in sin and error, longing for His appearance’. Fires of life and darkness of death have taken many family members over these forty years. This year I celebrate with different family and new traditions. Every year I still look to Christmas with bated (and still a bit wheezy) breath ‘A thrill of hope; the weary world rejoices.’ An opportunity for new and rich memories, and treasured old ones. And hope for the future.
‘For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Christ is the Lord!
O praise His Name forever,
His power and glory evermore proclaim.’

The Christmas Wars

Where are the faraway kingdoms of dreams?
They vanished in the mist with Saint Nicholas,
and lie scattered to the ghettos and the war zones.
Why? Why? Why?
I said, "Why? Mama, why?"
Why can't I sleep in peace tonight underneath the satellite sky? ---Mark Heard, Sattelite Sky

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At the core of Christmas ever lies the tension between peace and war, self promotion and sacrifice. For while the angels were saying “On earth peace to those on whom his favor rests,” Herod was slaughtering every child under the age of two. At its core the Christmas manger lays in a field of battle.

“Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born.”

The Dragon slaughters and roars and makes war with the saints. It doesn’t feel that way though.

We get caught up in a storm of busyness. Presents are purchased, goodies baked, parties made, lights hung up, cards dispatched---and we become short-sighted. It is easy to lose sight of our service and our worship. We cuss out the woman who bumps into us in line at the store then get into our car and turn on the Christmas music. There is a disconnect between our actions and their purpose. We are in danger of losing heart and soul amidst the material.

The soldier learns to eat his MRE in the midst of battle and the ER doctor tells a light-hearted story while stitching up her patient. We sit in stuffed chairs and tell tepid tales of Santa Claus and reindeer as if the heavenly powers war over the identity of Kris Kringle. We give no thought to our own allegiance. We are content to bring our picnic baskets out to the battle and eat our cheese and crackers; “Oh I do hope the good-guys win.”

Good was won the day Christ was born. We live in the intermission. Though we may sing, “Give peace a chance,” the dragon will continue to roar and Herods will persist in persecution. Our call is to make known our allegiance and suffer hardship accordingly. Next time when you are out shopping and someone runs into you, or you hear that screaming child---listen and you may hear the dragon roaring. Do not be afraid for there is news of great joy, “Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth pace among men with whom He is pleased.”

Questions My Father Left Me

It’s said that children are great observers of life but lousy interpreters of information. The memories of my father are primarily negative. I knew him as a quiet, non-communicative man. So much so that his tombstone reads (in part), “A quiet but funny man.” In the framework of my father I’d wondered why he had gone away so long when I was young. Why he’d not written or called. Then last night, in a box of my moms’ stuff, I came across these letters. Many long letters where he chronicles his days, his struggles, his loneliness.


When parents die they leave behind cartons of memorabilia; boxes of questions we didn’t know we had. Going through mom’s stuff I came across a pile of letters dad had sent her. It was 1967 and apparently there was no local work in L.A. for a plumber so dad took a job in Rochester, NJ.

“ They knocked off the night shift. Come anyway and we will have a good time.” “You should get a check for $300.00 Live it up or pay off some bills. Buy a small bikini, or a girdle, or a dress.” “I have been staying at a motel but it is 5 dollars a day so it gets expensive.” “I move to the new apartment tomorrow.”

Then this: “It seems I will also have to send you some stationary. It has been two weeks since I received a letter. I think you can find a little time to write…..The apartment is big enough for the kids also. Explain again to me why they can’t come for the whole summer? See you in 14 days. Love, Len.”

The letters, only read now four decades later, and the man that lived in my house make me wonder what happened. My dad could be exceeding gentle and extremely violent. Yet I have no memory of his being communicative. There is this box of letters that shouts otherwise. How did he go from reaching out to shutting down?

There is no way for me to know the answer. Character flukes are evident in the letters; evidences of strengths and tenderness as well. The crisis my father faced began a life of shutting up and shutting down. May I respond to crisis with the heart of my father; being open, transparent and available.

Guns At Fifty

In fifth grade you don’t do ‘Guns at fifty paces, ’you race fifty yards. The memory still stings like a lead musket ball. We raced for honour and Susan Bronson. I am doubtful that in fifth grade we knew what either of those meant.

Erik had thrown down the gauntlet. At high noon, aka, lunch time, we would race for Susan. There we stood atop yellow lines painted on blacktop. The heat waves radiating from the tar, the pink bungalows in the distance, the small crowd of students standing still….waiting and watching.

I should not have worn long pants that day. Forty years later and I still don’t accede Erik the victory based on being faster. But won it he did. What would have changed if I had won that day? I wonder about that.

I wonder what would have happened if I had kissed Dawn McD when she made me that paper necklace in 3rd grade; “Kiss me, I love you.” Dawn went on to become a cheerleader in high school. I played violin in orchestra. Similarly I was surprised when at my 20 year high school reunion Amy told me that her interest in me went beyond the hours that I tutored her in English.

As a teen I’d resolved to live my life to the fullest. The principle reason was a poem I’d cut out of the church paper, “…wondering what would have happened if you had truly dared to be alive.” So I’d resolved to live without having to ask, “What if?”

My youth was concerned with girls and sating the hole in my soul. As I grew up I fleshed out this principle. Maturing widened broadened and brought healthier application to live life more aggressively.

Each of us screens decisions through a filter. Most are reactive, few are deliberate. A key component of my decision making grid is to make choices that add adventure and spice. Some will say, “That is how you are wired!” Au contraire. My default position is—be safe. I would rather retreat than risk hurt. I easily succumb to the “paralysis of analysis.” Daring to be alive is a tenet that drives me into a fuller life.

A famous coach once said of training that the process consists of, “buffet(ing) my body and making it my slave.” Let us be deliberate in our decision making. For the sprints and for the long haul.

Ankle Biters

It’s a blistering ninety degrees today. We are not ready for it. I was scraping ice off my windshield seven days ago. My swamp-cooler is still wrapped. Though some revel in the heat---most seem on edge.

My fathers’ life is in probate. I distrust his wife, distrust the lawyers more. I spent the morning creating PDFs of wills and trusts, attorney letters and property profiles. Picked up the daughter from school. Then drove to the pharmacy for meds and to Stater Bros. for frozen pizza and ice-cream.

The daughter, or “Dot” was on edge. The geometry teacher (she has a great brain, little compassion and should be doing research in a cold cubicle far from mankind) gave the class 100 problems for a take home test. My little over-achiever was freaking out. “If I fail this I may have to take the class over. What if I fail state testing? I’ll have to take it over. I’ll never get into college….”

Trying to calm my daughter down I told her life is full of surprises. Grades aren’t the end all, be all. She got personal. “You didn’t get good grades and you got a crummy job.” Like out of a sci-fi movie, I knew if I put on the magic sunglasses I’d see her mother peering out from my daughters face. I replied, “My crummy job has allowed me to attend every one of your school and life events. We make choices.” And still the temperature hovered around ninety degrees.

As the daughter succumbed to stress, tiredness started to overcome her. Not a pretty combination. While cutting pizza and calming daughter, her mom calls to get the data for taxes on a property we still share. Finish that and another email comes---the lawyer wants more information.

Brought “Dot” back to her mothers’ house. I told her mom that Hailey was tired and had been working on math since she’d got home. I strongly urged the ex not to push Hailey as she was tired, brain-dead, and had been working on math the entire day. And her mom said, “It’s good practice for college.”

We all have days like that. Fortunately His mercies are new every morning. For tonight though I can still open the window and let the (finally) cool desert breeze blow in as I crawl beneath the sheets.

Breathing and Boxes

"There is nothing left to cling to that can bring me sweet release I have no fear of drowning It's the breathing that's taking all this work" ---Jars of Clay




"And He has said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness."

Q: What’s green and skates?
A: Peggy Phlegm.

That’s the joke that I had rattling in my brain as I sat in urgent care. I battled the “cold’ I get every year. It starts in my throat and moves into my chest making breathing difficult. Difficult is an understatement. As a child I’d visited the emergency room six times for breathing problems. Six times I remember that my asthma was out of control---and so was I.

I like my trials in a little box, my ducks in perfect rows. God doesn’t will that our trials be neat and tidy. Rather they come at you like a boxer with well timed punches or the whirlwind whirring out of the wilderness (Job chapter 1). The writers of the epistles say they are multi-faceted. The next blow is coming but we don’t know from where.

I like breathing. I like breathing automatically. One shouldn’t have to think about breathing. I was thinking about breathing a lot. Now here’s a funny thing. Thinking about breathing is scary. When you are scared you tense up. Tensing up restricts your airway. One grows scared. There is no controlling this. Nothing works. Hence the visit to urgent care.

My mind kept thinking about the infirmity of Paul. He preaches to the Galatians with a bodily ailment so bad that he expected to be loathed and despised. The condition of his eyes was such that, “if possible, you would have plucked out your eyes and given them to me.” Bodily brokenness opens the door to spiritual healing---for ourselves and for others.

Victor Frankl argued that “Life is a pursuit of meaning itself, and that search for meaning provides the basis for a person's motivation. Pain then, if one could have faith in something greater than himself, might be a path to experiencing a meaning beyond the false gratification of personal comfort.”

The cold has passed and I breathe easily now. On the next wind or round the next bend will come another trial that takes breath away. The challenge is to be at peace in my weakness. My little box, my little trial, is pushing me beyond personal comfort and into the life of others and the fullness of God.

Picture from the bus at Grilled Cheese Grill

Cibachrome Sand Storm

There was no mistaking the plumes’ trajectory. Drive through it I must to make it home. I drove right into it. Whiteout conditions---they should have closed the road. I turn on the headlights to make myself visible. Hopeless, really, as I can not see road nor auto ahead. Wind whips the sand across the highway.

The patrol car races by, colored lights bright and crystal clear; blue, red, deep colors stand out against the white cloud surrounding it. Vehicles crawl near the edge of the road afraid to go to fast, courage lacking, angst ridden they avoid the center of the lane. There it is! End of the rainbow for the cop car, no pot of gold only shattered chrome. A handful of cars spread like jacks in the other lane.

They line the side of the road like fans at a sporting event---but these are the players. One hunched over, one walking and covering mouth and face with cloth, one running- head and neck protected with shirt worn Lawrence of Arabia style. In my minds eye I see a Mideast village, the townsfolk covered, pelted by stone. Now I see them out my car window: crimson red, solid green, white tee-shirts; Cibachrome colors against a wind that whitewashes all else.

Still the wind pelts our players. They stagger in sand, averting the dust as they move toward the sound of the sirens. With wind gusts of up to seventy-two miles per hour clean up will not be easy.

The vehicles continue their crawl past the wreckage. Looking out my side-window I nearly plow into the car ahead of me. Dust and debris make normal speed unwise.
We clear the site and head on home.

Cibachrome prints are marked by stunning sharpness, intense color and clean whites. Plush reds and solid blacks leave no room for grey area and shadow. Dust may blow into our lives violently or we may invite it in. Bold colors and honorable hues are a direct result of choices we make minute by minute…solid cibachrome color or dust in the wind.