Views from the brook

The Shadow A Thing Casts

2012-01-14T20:00:00.001-08:00

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

2011-12-19T21:43:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-10T16:09:00.000-08:00

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

*************************

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

2011-07-05T21:47:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-29T14:25:00.001-07:00

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

2011-03-31T22:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-27T21:12:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-03-09T22:29:00.000-08:00

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.

Formula For Success

2011-02-23T22:33:00.000-08:00

a+b=c. We view life as formula, if we can manipulate and account for each variable we control life and arrive at the desired outcome. We take our vitamins every morning to assure health and prolong life. A woman I know works hard to put out ‘positive energy’ believing the force of her thoughts will create favorable results. For all her gyrations, her life is chaotic and unfulfilled. Though we exercise and eat the right foods, the old lady next-door inhales a pack a day with coffee or bourbon and she turns 80 next week. The forty-year-old marathoner drops dead or is hit by a bus.

Christians ascribe to the same formulaic approach to life. They exercise, eat the vitamins and use the bible to put god into a box. Some tithe trusting God to fill their storehouses to overflowing. Many of us have lived good lives so that God would like us and grant us pleasurable lives. We work hard at turning out good works thinking God will pay back our sweat equity. We have A and B figured out but C never turns out as expected.

I live in relationship to God the father. I do not serve a wizard who rewards according to mathematical equation. That is both the scary and the stirring reality. In the midst of a broken world we never can be certain of outcomes. Having a Father that moves in relationship with me as I move through my days gives them a positive spin. Still I have no guarantee.

Years ago I went through severe financial difficulty. Pray as I would no relief came. I never landed the miracle job. I went to bed calculating how I could rob Peter to pay Paul always realizing that I owed more than Peter had ever amassed. I had plugged in my formula and God had not provided as expected.

I try to imagine how it is that God raises me up by looking at how I raise my daughter. There are days that I allow her junk food and Mountain Dew, movies and late bed times. I allow it because I know she will not need significant sleep or sufficient sustenance. At other times, state testing for example, sleep, vegetables and protein are important. By the same token our relationship moves according to periods of play and periods of trial in our lives.

In Christ we have a relationship that surprises, delights, upholds and strengthens. God will move as He sees fit; not in response to a bottle rubbed for wishes or a good deed done to bribe the Judge. If there is a formula that works it is that we give up trying to control and manipulate and we rest in the providential care of God.

Green Grass and Sweet Candy

2011-02-16T21:11:00.000-08:00

It began with a little experience and a large get-rich dream. We started out mowing one lawn. It grew to two. Soon that doubled and in months we were doing landscaping for many houses in the tract. We worked every Saturday, only Saturday. We had money to burn. We were rich. We were 12 years old.

The Saturdays were full and the work was hard. The work was strenuous, dirty and we often worked until after dinner. Keith would run the gas-powered edger (an investment we made after quickly tiring of the manual version) while I mowed the yard. When he finished he would begin sweeping up the cut grass. We cleaned up leaves and clippings rather than blowing them into the yard of someone else. I have only good memories of those workdays. I’m guessing there are good reasons for that beyond failing memory.

I worked with my best friend. Certainly we got stressed out and had the occasional argument. He usually won---because he could pull the, “It’s my dad’s lawnmower” card. We argued about pricing too; he hated telling homeowners we were raising our rates. Whenever the time came to ask for more money I was the one that had to do the speaking.

We were our own bosses. If we were going on vacation we could just change our workday. We didn’t have to answer to any board or boss. If we wanted to take a ten minute break we could. If we wanted to take a three-hour break and work until nine-we could (at least during the summer months).

We spent our earnings on whatever we wanted. Most weekends we wanted candy. We would walk down the street to J.C. Penney where they had large display cases filled with candy; non-pariels, butter-toffee peanuts, chocolate haystacks; heavenly. Nobody made us put a portion of our earnings away for retirement. We didn’t pay taxes and we didn’t worry about healthcare.

Why does work seem like, well, work now then? Is there anything I can take away from this when I roll out of bed these next days? There seems to be an answer in the Saturdays, the candy, and in the freedom. Being a kid and working Saturdays allowed plenty of time for rest. Rest is difficult now; I fight against it. I burn the candle, I make excuses to keep busy. Physical rest and soul rest come hard.

I need to spend more money. Really I spend plenty---it’s that I need to allow myself to blow a chunk of change on something that is fun even if its fleeting. Relax, enjoy life, don’t worry so much. That’s the real ticket I think. Yeah, I have to show up for work. But it’s my Dads’ lawnmower I’m pushing.

Photo courtesy of Hot Meteor

My Perverse Pleasure

2011-02-09T22:13:00.000-08:00

It is a perverse pleasure and I delight doing it in public. I can’t help myself. I found myself doing it again in the Mexican restaurant. As I ate my burrito I eavesdropped on the conversation at the next table. Most of it escaped me except this small sentence. “She really needs to know,” the woman said. She wore plain pants and a shimmery shirt which looked and hung from her shoulders as a shower curtain hangs from the rod. The guy next to her looked like Colonel Sanders with two chins, his attention glued to his ITouch. The man with his back to me was so plain as to be rendered invisible. “This tomato is huge,” the woman said when nobody responded to her earlier statement. “It is the largest I’ve ever seen atop a burrito.”

I almost stood up and walked over to their table. “What does she need to know?” Did she have cancer? Was her husband an alien; all smooth skin on the outside but scaly and oily underneath? Did he have plans to take over the world one woman at a time? Perhaps it was something simple like she’d been watching episodes of 24 on Tivo and nobody dared tell her Jack Bauer wasn’t coming back. Not knowing the rest of the conversation is the danger of my manner faux pas.

Still I can’t help but overhear snippets. Walking down the hall this week I heard, “…and those pictures would make it into porn magazines and be seen everywhere.”

The same day a gal in the back room spoke with a vendor that said, “The blood was tainted.”

“Will you sue,” the gal asked then, her body posture slacking as she said, “Or will you just let it be?” Of course I didn’t hear the outcome. Nor do I know how the blood was tainted. I assume the situation with the tainted blood and the situation alluded to at the Mexican restaurant are one and the same: Aliens are among us.

Now I am faced with a significant moral quandary. Listening in on the conversations is rude and twisted. Yet if aliens are truly amongst us then I have a duty to be the eyes and ears of the good guys. It’s the same problem James Stewart had in Hitchcock’s movie, “Rear Window.” Watching your neighbors through binoculars isn’t right but when one of them commits murder you are bound to make it right.

What is your moral conviction? Do you live in the moment and maintain others privacy? Admit it…there are times when you can’t but help overhear. If you do overhear and there is mention of space ships, mind control or taking over planet Earth…leave me a comment. We will band together and save the world.

Full Disclosure

2011-02-03T14:00:00.000-08:00

The death of a father, a missing will, a stepmother of questionable character; my sister and I spent hours on the phone discussing the implications. No information was forthcoming on the will; and the letter that arrived from the stock broker office was less than vague. The implications were these---for a brother and sister schooled in law under Jack McCoy, Lennie Briscoe, and Detective Columbo, it didn’t feel right.

My sister had seen an episode of Columbo in which the family is called together for the reading of the will. We’d had no such reading. During my seasons of studying law I’d learned all about full disclosure, A priori, A fortiori, bequests, caveats and dyspepsia. I recognized that no full disclosure was happening here.

Lawyers seem to have their hands in everything. I had a lawyer handle my divorce, and a different lawyer handle my mothers’ estate and my fathers’ will. Close friends of mine trying to navigate debt and bankruptcy issues are being advised by a lawyer. The pundits I read are lawyers as is my favorite talk-show host. One has to mind ones’ own conscience in this arena. The directive of Christ is to pursue peace and avoid advancing adversarial contests. Warnings to be wise abound in scripture as well. I hire a plumber to fix my pipes. It is reasonable to hire someone knowledgeable (albeit five times as expensive) to handle my legal issues.

So it was we found ourselves on the 22nd floor overlooking San Diego and the Coronado Bridge. We sipped cold water from glasses with the name of the legal firm etched on them and set same glasses down on engraved coasters. We received appropriate counsel and took the initial steps in the process toward discovery. Now we wait.

Waiting for anything worth waiting for is difficult; a love letter, an inheritance, next weeks’ blog post. I know some of you have been in turmoil and have suffered greatly waiting for the next post. As did my sister and I, you found yourselves thinking, “It just doesn’t feel right.” Many of you questioned my commitment to the cause, my character and my word---“Didn’t he promise a blog post every week?” Unsettled you seek full disclosure.

January found my calendar full as a new year began. I promised a blog post every week for the year 2010. These last few weeks found me feeling like the drunk man on a horse in Luthers’ parable; I sway back and forth between legalism and grace trying to just stay in the saddle. I scribble down blogging ideas at work only to find that life overtakes me when I walk through the front door. So I have fallen on the side of grace.

As January slides into February I renew my commitment to blogging and have rearranged my calendar to reflect my priority. I have carved out Mondays to post. Legalism would have me bound to every Monday, but grace allows me to promise myself and you a post sometime between Monday and Wednesday save weeks of vacations and significant calamity such as sickness or the cancellation of Law and Order. There you have it, my posting update; a priori and fully disclosed. All rise.

Note: Law and Order SVU continues to run both in season, reruns, Netflix and Hulu. Yes, Law and Order no longer runs as a series.

The Voice In The Storm

2011-01-07T18:13:00.001-08:00

Johnny placed the wooden chair out on the cement patio grabbed his coffee and sat down. Rain pelted the neighborhood; wind bowed the old trees, cold bit all six feet of his narrow torso---even as the storm energized his soul.

There is a power manifest in nature that grants perspective. The rainstorm is awesome to watch with coffee cup in hand as long as your house still stands. Lightning is breathtaking to see unless it sets mount on fire.

Of one famous storm, Krakauer wrote,

"These lower slopes proved to be the most difficult part of the descent. Six inches of powder snow blanketed outcroppings of loose shale. Climbing down them demanded unceasing concentration, an all but impossible feat in my current state. By 5:30, however, I was finally within 200 vertical feet of Camp Four, and only one obstacle stood between me and safety: a steep bulge of rock-hard ice that I'd have to descend without a rope. But the weather had deteriorated into a full-scale blizzard. Snow pellets born on 70-mph winds stung my face; any exposed skin was instantly frozen. The tents, no more than 200 horizontal yards away, were only intermittently visible through the whiteout. There was zero margin for error. Worried about making a critical blunder, I sat down to marshal my energy.”

“It would be many hours before I learned that everyone had in fact not made it back to camp—that one teammate was already dead and that 23 other men and women were caught in a desperate struggle for their lives.”

Speaking of a desperate struggle for their lives, how ‘bout those Egyptians caught in the flood? Boy, talk about a bad wind-chill factor! Point is they thought it would be an easy crossing, like the kids that play in the wash here during a rainstorm---364 days a year it’s safe and dry. Like the Egyptians we lose perspective and forget how powerful nature unleashed can be.

When the next storm hits pour yourself a cup of coffee, put your feet up and enjoy. Just don’t be like the Egyptians and forget who holds the leash. “The voice of the Lord hews out flames of fire. The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness; The Lord shakes the wilderness of Kadesh. The voice of the Lord makes the deer to calve and strips the forests bare; And in His temple everything says, “Glory!”

The Saddest Sentence

2010-12-29T21:44:00.001-08:00

It was the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard. My dad lay in ICU. Lisa was his nurse. Tubes come out his mouth, blood drips from his nose. Lisa walks to the other side of the bed and faces me, cleaning my dad with white towel. We make light conversation, discourse on dads’ courses—how much he ate for breakfast, lunch, dinner.

“Your mom came by this morning,” she says. I let it pass the first time. The next time she alluded to ‘your mom’ I clarified, “She’s not my mom. Dad’s remarried. Mom died a year-and-a-half ago.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I understand stepmom’s.” There we stood talking casually as if on a bus or in a checkout line while Lisa adjusted pillows and settled my father. She went on to tell me about her new marriage to her second husband, about her first husband meeting someone and moving away. Tying together the catastrophe that was her first marriage and the convenience that was her second she said, “I’ve given up on forever.”

I cry during movies. It’s not really crying per se---I get choked up and my eyes get extra water in them. When the boy gets the girl, when the pitcher gets his second chance at fame, when the bully finds redemption I get choked up. I’m guessing it happens to you too.

The core of our nature is to hope against all hope that good will triumph. We are wired with eternity in our hearts, a seed planted to believe in forever. To kill the seed is to sin against the eternal. Encasing the seed in steel so that it will not grow violates nature. I understand the pain that places the seed in the box. I hope that it doesn’t die in dark but breaks through to new light.

Abraham comes to mind. “In hope against hope he believed,” the scriptures say that he believed that what God promised He was able to perform---in this instance to give him and Sarah a child in their later years. God performs the impossible over and over, hope against hope, cards stacked, death against life and life wins.

Today is sandwiched between Christmas and New Years. The child born of hope, the new year celebrated and anticipated. We clink our glasses at midnight and put hands to the plow on Monday morning. Let us find the courage to stay in the marriage and believe in romance. We shall labor and believe that the work will benefit soul and pocket. May we die to self and love each other. My hope is that at the end of the road we may hear a voice whisper just before they turn out the light, “And they lived happily ever after.”

Eye Candy-Monterey/Santa Cruz

2010-12-16T14:46:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Week-G.K. Chesterton

2010-12-14T17:49:00.000-08:00

For our Titanic purposes of faith and revolution, what we need is not the cold acceptance of the world as a compromise, but some way in which we can heartily hate and heartily love it. We do not want joy and anger to neutralize each other and produce a surly contentment; we want a fiercer delight and fiercer discontent. We have to feel the universe at once as an ogre's castle, to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage, to which we can return at evening.

Five Smooth Stones

2010-12-06T22:11:00.000-08:00

For Val, my smooth stone...

"He...chose for himself five smooth stones from the brook, and put them in the shepherd's bag which he had, even in his pouch, and his sling was in his hand; and he approached the Philistine."-1 Samuel 17:40

Were they rough and jagged, large as meteorite,
When the fountains of the deep and floodgates of the sky,
Burst forth?
Mountains molded,
Chipped and chiseled,
Clanging, banging, against each other,
Sand on boulders,
Churning five smooth stones.

The God of Heaven,
Who measured the waters of Earth,
In hollowed hand,
Throws these meteors
Into His toy rock tumbler,
He who calculates the dust of the earth,
Waits and watches,
Creating five smooth stones.

The anointed David,
Who tended the family sheep,
With sharp eye and rugged hand,
Throws these stones,
Felling the taunter of God,
He who delivers from paw of lion and bear,
Delivers coming king,
Casting five smooth stones.

Elect and living stones,
Creatures of dust and water,
With fumbling hands,
Dare we doubt, do we fear?
We overwhelmingly conquer through,
Him who holds both rocks and king,
Descendant of David, Messiah God,
Crying out five smooth stones.

Like a Pat Conroy Novel

2010-12-03T17:48:00.000-08:00

His works read like this: Man leaves broken marriage to save sister from suicide. Man and sister’s brokenness is due to parental vacuousness and violence. Dark fruit falls from the family tree; line upon line, violence on violence. All set against bridges, bayous, brackish water and French colonial buildings of the South. Such are the novels of Pat Conroy. Talking with my sister made me feel as if I had just stepped into the middle of a Conroy novel (or into the movie, “Walk Hard”).

Pulling me aside at my fathers’ memorial service she whispered, “This may help explain your father...” I already knew the story, no need for her to repeat it. My father was one of three children; Julius, Leo and Rhoda; Julius being the oldest. Julius, the oldest and favorite son was diagnosed with something akin to Rheumatic Fever. The family moved to a drier climate ending in California. While Leo was a teen, Julius succumbed to the disease. Dads’ parents told him that the wrong son had died.

Fast forward a generation---My aunt Rhoda lies on her deathbed and tells my sister another story. My grandfathers’ will left my aunt a small bequest. The will leaves one-dollar to my father. So my aunt, ever the peacemaker, split her inheritance with my father. My father gave it to his 2nd wife to invest in her business.

Fifteen years later my fathers’ will leaves five-hundred dollars to my sister; one-dollar, adjusted for inflation. A series of events led to separation between sis and my dad. Snippets I remember, I don’t remember much, am certain the sister remembers more. Bathroom door with holes; altar to a fit of violence; phone cords ripped out of a teen-age girls’ wall, hard words and failures to give grace.

The dark fruit fully ripens. The daughter tires of pursuing relationship with the father, the son vows (early on) to never be angry and out of control. Dark fruit opens to seed…ever to continue the line of violence?

Bitterness and betrayal read well but are crushing and painful spelled out. It has been written that God “will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and on the grandchildren…” Bad fruit is redeemed by the Wine of redemption spilling into family lines and breaking violence. Conroy novels generally end on a note of redemption. May we say when the last page has turned that the story was worth the telling.

How Fragile We Are

2010-11-16T19:56:00.000-08:00

Death hovers like the child underfoot in the kitchen, invisible until you trip over him. Stories of death seem prevalent this week; the thirty-nine year old acquaintance, the seventy-six year old husband, the five motorcycle riders killed on the local highway. The stories seep into conversation, show up in newspapers, are whispered about at work; “Her husband died yesterday. I can’t believe she’s working today.” They remind us that we don’t know when we will get tripped up, when we will fall.

“It’s senseless death that disturbs me,” my coworker said.

“Right,” said I, “as opposed to healthy, normative, fun logical death.” Death still surprises us. It wasn’t part of the plan---was a result of the curse. That is why we fight it so hard, struggle so against it. I understand what my coworker meant. When both my friends, both named Eric (the other with a K) died it was difficult. Prayers for healing not answered for this life; cut down in their prime. Seemingly senseless, the question without easy answer.

“Or do you suppose that those eighteen on whom the tower in Siloam fell and killed them were worse culprits than all the men who live in Jerusalem? I tell you, no, but unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.” Christ, addressing the newspaper accounts, the whispers and whys identifies death as a wake-up call. Repent, he says. Make a decision today. No one is guaranteed tomorrow.

The message echoes through the scriptures as we hear the Preacher say, “It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting; Because that is the end of every man and the living takes it to heart.”

That is why I delight in the dark red roses blooming outside my front door. Leaving for work and returning home they remind me that life has colour and sweet perfume. Possibilities abound. That too is why I enjoy my forty-five minute commute (most days). A week ago the eastern sky was bright pink, Mt. San Jacinto bathed in crimson. Yesterday two coyotes raced across the highway and into the shadow of the windmills. So I am reminded to embrace life while I have it.

As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years, or if due to strength, eighty years, Yet their pride is but labor and sorrow: For soon it is gone and we fly away….So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Course Correction

2010-11-15T19:30:00.000-08:00

Hold on while I finish patting myself on the back. There we go. I have kept my goal of posting every week save vacations. I can see the end of the year from here. Providence has added much to my plate for these last months. To accomodate new committments, Tuesday/Wednesday seem to be more realistic for posting. Look for this weeks' post Tuesday night/Wednesday morning.

Freedom and Bondage

2010-11-09T09:10:00.000-08:00

“To the best of our knowledge, the New Hebrides had no Christian influence before John Williams and James Harris…Both of these missionaries were killed and eaten by cannibals…Forty-eight years later, John Paton wrote, “Thus were the New Hebrides baptized with the blood of martyrs…”

What cause are you willing to baptize with your blood? What hill are you willing to die on? I’ve landed on a principle which flows from Christ’s dying on a hill for me. It colors my politics; it covers the steps of my days and allows blessed sleep at night. Freedom is the hill I would die on.

A severe sample of bondage is found in Sue Fishkoffs’ book Kosher Nation: Why More and More of America’s Food Answers to a Higher Authority. “Observant Jews do not eat milk and meat together…they will not eat meat from a plate that has ever touched dairy, just in case a nano-sized speck of cheese is clinging to it for dear life.” What a way to live! Apart from freedom in Christ we all live like this. Each of us lives with the fear that some small speck of cheese will keep us from heaven, some small dark secret will open us up to public derision.

The decrees and debts against us have been openly nailed to the cross so that we can walk in openness and freedom. Paul rails against such bondage when he says, “Why, as if you were living in the world, do you submit yourself to decrees such as, “Do not handle, do not taste, do not touch!” It is for freedom Christ set us free.

Free in God it is consistent that in my politics I fight against the bondage of men. God ordains that government has two responsibilities, to protect and to establish justice. When government begins to encroach on freedoms apart from these then I will fight. If government makes rules on what my pastor can say from the pulpit we will come to blows. When we move toward socialism there will be struggle. As government seeks to limit freedom, I will seek to legitimately oppose. Government that greatly shackles mankind is opposed to the principle of freedom that there is in Christ. Whether then we are bound by spiritual legalism or earthly government we are held captive.

Freedom flowing from the crucifixion of Christ crystallizes for me the energy and motivation that directs my life. What drives you? What eats at you enough that you’d be willing to be eaten by cannibals for it?

Treasures

2010-11-01T18:57:00.001-07:00

Money is stolen and people die. The resultant tailspin will kill you if these things secure your final hope. The stories you are about to hear are true. The names aren’t changed; there are no innocents. I listen to stories over coffee. Here are three of them.

An older lady in her seventies her hand steady as she holds the coffee cup though her visage is clearly shaken. Twenty-thousand dollars in one-hundred dollar bills. This is the amount of money she told me she was keeping in her house. Perhaps I should have used the past-tense instead of present progressive here as the money is no longer in her house. It was stolen. “I want to kill the man that stole it. I know who it was,” she said. She has a guy who takes care of all her household maintenance and he is the guilty party. She’s not going to kill him though, she will let Karma do that; what comes ‘round goes ‘round. She’s spent the last months feeling deathly ill. This was all the money she’d had for retirement.

“How’s life treating you,” I ask Mike as I pull a shot of expresso on ice. He reaches for the expresso over the cart that pulls his oxygen tank. I expect talk of the weather when I ask that question; talk of death startles. “My girlfriend died two months ago. She had COPD like I do. Neither of us worked so we talked a lot. Texted a lot. She had other complications. Died of heart failure. They have me on Paxil and some other meds. Helps me through it.”

We call him ‘The Cowboy.’ When he goes home he puts on a western duster, 1800’s western garb and puts the spurs back on his boots. He’s been out on disability for three months, a knee injury, hip injury and sick wife keeping him out from work. “You go to church, don’t you,” he asks. He tells me he started going to church some weeks ago. Seems that both he and the wife lost hope during the interim. He put a gun to his head and was seconds short of pulling the trigger. What saved him? He couldn’t handle the thought of her being alone.

Marauders will come and take away those things we hold dearest. It is human nature to hold tight to those things we can taste, touch and see. Guaranteed though, in this world they disappear. In the most perfect of marriages one or both partners dies. The wisest and richest man, striving after pleasure and possessions has said he hated life for, “all was vanity and striving after the wind…”

Let us drink deeply the pleasures of life while they are ours; the laughter of friendship, kiss of a lover, money in the bank (or under the mattress). Let us also remember daily that material things are temporal. We must not trust in them for our security and significance. Investing our whole heart in treasure here warrants destruction and hopelessness. Setting our hearts on heaven secures hope and eternal security. Let us be wise with our investment.

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Photo courtesy of Kelsey_Lovefusionphoto's at http://www.flickr.com/photos/supersonicphotos/with/4483487579/

Sleeping Sweet

2010-10-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

Of the many gifts I have one elicits hate among my acquaintances. I can sleep anyplace at any time. You are either envious or you can relate. There is no in between. Can I sleep on car rides, bus rides and plane rides? Yes. Can I take afternoon naps? Check. Being able to sleep at night seems one of those nature vs. nurture arguments. It has to do with the status of your soul, the events in your life, and the chemicals occurring in your body.

As a kid I had many nights where sleep did not come because I could not breathe. There was a strong overlay of fear which made the situation even worse. The more anxious I became the harder it got to breathe and sleep became impossible. I would lay in bed and call to mind the type of winding roads found in Dr. Seuss stories and Escher paintings---roads that lead someplace but have no end. I would imagine myself hiking those roads en route to great adventure and peaceful places. Finally rest and sleep would come.

Many people see sleep as interrupting life. This belief leads to a greater failure to achieve sleep. I see sleep as a merciful escape and welcome its coming. When one spends days and nights in breathless agony, the coming of sleep is greatly welcome. The bible speaks of God’s mercies as being new every morning. If there are no new mornings however, there are no new days of mercy. Sleep is a gift.

The gift of sleep doesn’t come easy to all of us. Stress and sickness can steal sleep away from us for seasons. The Psalms speak of being “weary with my sighing; Every night I make my bed swim, I dissolve my couch with my tears.” Being quiet and still make bed a perfect place to reflect on life, but brain spinning will rob of rest.

Spinning thoughts at night rob of rest, but spinning on the bike and good diet help establish decent sleep patterns. Numerous studies attest to this many citing such chemicals as Serotonin as necessary for good sleep. On top of that is emotional health. When I can crawl into bed feeling right with God and having a clear conscience the sheets surround and dreams are sweet. Darkness in my life counteracts rich rest.

Though sleep comes easily to me it still remains a battle to get it enough and in good quality. So I write this as a reminder to myself (and you by extension) to watch diet, exercise and conscience and to watch the clock on the wall as well. Recognizing that there will be nights of short sleep and days of duress but that I can take steps to assure sweet sleep. That makes for one less nap I have to take.

Simplify Your Life

2010-10-18T21:40:00.001-07:00

"As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness."

"Before printing was discovered, a century was equal to a thousand years."
-Henry David Thoreau

A sample ballot, a letter from a non-profit requesting support, an application for Rite Aids’ Wellness program, a McDonald’s receipt, a paycheck stub, Bicycling magazine, a JC Penney coupon—these are just some of the paper that has come into my house in the last week. While all this is coming in through the door I have been working clean the rest of my house, a Sisyphean task for certain.

A search for ‘getting rid of clutter’ produced 1,590,000 results on Bing, which seems to rank up there with ‘eating well’ and exercise as a challenge we face. It is estimated that a weeks worth of the New York Times contains more information than a person was likely to come across in a lifetime in the 18th century. We have al this mail and all this information pouring into our lives. Technological advances have made it even worse.

I have boxes and boxes of photographs which I’ve taken beginning at the age of six. Prior to Daguerre (circa 1840) people didn’t have boxes and boxes of photographs. It’s not even likely that they had one or two in the living room. Boxes full of pictures, boxes full of magazines, it can get overwhelming. It makes me thankful for whirlwinds and catastrophes.

While away for a weekend the hose on my washing machine blew. With great force it sprayed water to both ends of my garage. That water landed on boxes of magazines, manuals and letters. You can’t undo water damage. Photos stick together and books warp making them useless. I was forced to chuck boxes of things. It was a great relief. I don’t miss them at all. Downsizing dramatically would be difficult though.

Have you heard of this ‘100 Thing Challenge?’ The idea seems simple: whittle your life down to 100 things. Let me just say this; I have a teenage daughter. I think there are 100 things in her bathroom. I couldn’t do it. I like my shirts (maybe twenty tee-shirts alone), I like my shorts, I like my CD collection.

It’s the clutter and the paper I abhor most. I burned out the paper shredder this past weekend. It was glorious. In the end it seems it all comes back to discipline. Organize, be aggressive, be purposeful all apply to the piles in my life as much as they do to my eating habits and my exercise regimen. I wonder if there’s a magazine I could subscribe to that would help me with that?

Letting Go

2010-10-12T23:08:00.001-07:00

He’d driven through the night alternating between murky coffee and vivid flashback. The kid was three years old when the fights began, four years old when the court order came to move out. She’d moved out later; new boyfriend, new neighborhood, same old empty soul. They’d kept renting the thing, until, if, the economy ever turned.

The house stood empty now. They were between tenants and he’d grabbed the short straw to fix up the place. Unlocking the front door he found himself staring into the backyard. Flicking up the lock he stepped out onto the brick. Overgrown ivy and trees bending heavy long branches hedged him in. Then his breath stuck in his throat. The one place there should have been branches---there weren’t.

A small sapling of an aspen he’d planted it the first year they moved in. The white branches shaded the yard; the grass greener, colors brighter by contrast in the corner where it had stood. There was no grass now only the blood brown earth where the tree had stood, roots still spread out like veins trying to bring life to a missing heart.

‘Suite No. 1 in F’ was turned full blast and he poured a Guinness as oboes, bassoons, trumpets and flutes celebrated Water Music. He suspected this would all change. The empty walls and the stark bathroom would give ground to colour and perfume.

They’d met over vegetables at Trader Joes. A common liking for water cress giving way to soup and nuts. Fruit and salad to bowls and settings led to discussions of decour, single servings, and what was best eaten over the table vs. in front of the television. Grilled cheese seemed equally suited for both. Now the discussions were all ‘hypothetical,’ what would it look like if they both did the dishes? She right handed, he ambidextrous-could they still use the same paring knife?

He thought about how he liked his music and his kitchen and the preset Favorites on his computer. It was all nice, comfortable, safe and selfish. White, plain, boring and, yes, stark like the walls in the den and the paint in the kitchen. He suspected he was going to have to learn to give up his selfishness, his space; learn to share and die to self. A world of colour seemed vastly greater than the white safety of those walls.

She’d never really touched her mom. Sure there was the occasional hug but those were quick and shallow, lack of touch the norm in the house she grew up in. So she was surprised, really, to be comfortable now—with this touch, in this place.

The sheets on the bed, the cool on the air, the body always on the bed, all made for skin that was irritated, dry and itchy. So she poured the lotion onto her hands and massaged it into toes and feet, ankles and calves, thigh and back, arms and shoulders. She eased the hair out of the eyes and brushed the hair back in place. These were the saddest days and somehow the richest.

Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit , He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, He prunes it so that it may bear more fruit.

Monday Disclaimer

2010-10-11T20:12:00.001-07:00

The stressful events of this past week (romance-wonderful but still stressful; my father admitted into a psych hospital-5150, not so wonderful; a six-day work week, and losing/finding a renter for the house) have affected me adversely so that I am currently on codeine for cough and antibiotics for lack of breathing linked to the aforementioned cough. The cough medicine strictly advises again both driving and blogging during usage. Therefore, the blog post which would normally have appeared in this specific location will appear tomorrow prior to midnight Pacific Time.

Note that posts will now occur on Mondays due to changes in this bloggers' schedule.

Fall Colours

2010-10-04T20:35:00.000-07:00

The days are shorter, shadows longer, short-sleeve shirts are stowed, long-sleeve sweaters unpacked; so begins October. My mood changes as Fall is unfurled. A somber mellowness sets in as clouds billow. The coming Santa Ana winds ignite restlessness and a bone dry hunger. Still the wind is fresh and in the crisp clear sky there is a promise of refreshing to come, things in the air too deep to fathom.

Fall brings the daughters’ birthday; fourteen this year. Fourteen rich years; unique, ever-changing and fun-filled. Two years until she can drive, twenty years until she can date. The cycle of life continues, the trees turn from greens to crimsons, changes deep, visible only in variegation.

Autumn this year is a mix, the usual solemn mood mixed with expectation, hope, longing as God cultivates a relationship begun in summer. Satisfying to the soul as mulled cider on a cold night---delectable, spicy, awakening the senses.

As the calendar marches toward Dia de Los Muertos I know this season will bring with it dark days. Dad dances with his Alzheimer's. It leads him into a psych ward then steps away to dance with another partner. The 18th mom would have turned 82. So we must all taste ‘pan de muerto.’

The swamp cooler covered, the gas furnace lit I reach for another glass of Syrah. Turning down the thermostat I crack the window and let in the chill air. The days come in an array of color complex as leaves in fall, bright as the burgundy sunset, the ‘bread of life’ ever victorious over the ‘bread of death.’

Photo courtesy of
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kikisdad/

Pessimism-The Tension We Live In

2010-09-27T20:00:00.000-07:00

I see the glass as half-full—until a catastrophe hurls it sideways. As a child I read a self-help book which advised to always expect the worse and you’d never be disappointed. Ah, the lies that seep into our minds over a lifetime. As I write sunlight streams into my window, I sip black coffee from a favorite mug and listen to soul-stirring music. I sigh…this is good. Enjoying the quiet I rise to get another cup. The phone rings, it’s the ex-wife with questions about finances and child scheduling. Silence shattered, the tension we live in.

For me it was Hillary Tower; the first infatuation, the first heartbreak. I was six, she some years older, maybe eleven or twelve. Spring and summer we did gymnastics on her front lawn, ring-around-the-Rosie, skipping and laughing. Then one day she was gone. No note, no goodbye, no warning. I remember standing in the kitchen as my mother told me Hillary was gone.

I’m certain you’ve noticed the change in my Facebook status to ‘in a relationship.’ Friendship in any form is miraculous. Let’s face it-we are quirky, selfish, scarred and scared beings. When God brings another human being into the journey with us it is an amazing gift. When that gift comes into our lives through the opposite sex we brush Eden. We know Eden didn’t stay perfect for long. That is the core of my angst.

I am a man of flesh and bone. I trust my experience; I remember all the Hillary Tower episodes in my life. I look at the glass, and the catastrophe, and forget Him who holds the glass aright, Him who drives the storm.

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” says the writer of Hebrews. We spend a lifetime learning lies and longer knocking them down with truth. Yes life sucks and evil reigns. Yet God is able to do ‘far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think…” It is to God I must look to keep from getting bogged down in my pessimism. That is the tension we live in.

The Room

2010-09-19T21:22:00.000-07:00

The dry heaves subside quickly. I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth. Lock up the house and crank the ignition in the car. Pop in some minty-fresh gum. This is not going to be a good day.

The walk from the parking lot into the facility happens in slow-motion; only my thoughts are racing. I pull open the glass doors, heavy, difficult to open, making escape difficult. Sign my name feeling out of place in shorts and tee shirt.

Down the hallway, not chemically clean, smells assault nose and mouth; urine and sweet sick smells which my brain can’t catalogue. Try not to look into the rooms as I pass by, “Doctor my eyes have seen the years and the slow parade of fears…without crying.”

Demons and darkness mingle with deaths’ odor, breathing is a struggle. I hesitate to enter the room. Dragons less an enemy than the black void I must step into.

I cross the threshold; embittered emotions from childhood veil me in. I flail about, drowning in a pool, unable to firmly grasp anything. Soul deep I feel nothing—unsure of myself because nobody’s ever met me there. No voice to give direction, no arms to lift me up. The boy becomes teenager and runs into different arms for feeling, touch and strokes.

Another step forward another deep breath. Attune my ears to a different voice. A Voice that spoke while I drowned, calling directions, giving guidance, reaching into the darkness, affirming worth, confirming value.

I listen to that Voice now, cast myself into those arms. Raise my hands to do battle. Sweat breaks on my forehead; I recall a man without soul, a manipulator of people; hiding emptiness with a smile.

A choice I must make---we must make. Does my past own me? Am I beholden to darkness?

I step into the room and greet my father. He barely responds. I pray over him. I pray to the Father that frees from darkness, demons and guilt. I kiss my father and embrace the day with all it brings.

H/t to GB for help with the creative process

A Time For Every Purpose

2010-09-12T19:13:00.000-07:00

Meteor fire lit up the sky, and we spoke of things burned in life’s wreckage.

And there is a time for every event under heaven—

Relationships destroyed by betrayal and boredom, livelihoods lost due to economic downturn, houses sold by short-sale and children seen on weekends.

A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted. A time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build up.

I told him there was a delightful new woman in my life; he prays for reconciliation—at times-hungers for the arms of a woman.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Blink and you miss God’s gifts, streaking into your life in a blaze. The workday week brightens as a customer becomes friend also; heart to heart while on the clock. The five a.m. text-the baby’s born via C, and there he is on your cell phone screen.

A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones;

At a baby shower on Saturday, I asked the dad when the baby was due; he said he wasn’t sure; they’d just changed the date. I’m guessing the mom knows.

Boy leaves the house for college, girl leaves college for the mission field, stones cast, arrows loosed.

a time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.

Dismal stories of broken marriages, I hear them too often-he is bored, he found someone else; they don’t talk, he doesn’t listen.

Lovers, misunderstood, trembling and fearful, come together and fulfill the promise; “How blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, Whose sin is covered.”

“The conclusion, when all has been heard is; fear God and keep his commandments. For God will bring every act to judgement, everything which is hidden whether it is good or evil. "

Neighborhood Beautification

2010-09-05T23:29:00.000-07:00

He should have been wearing a trench coat. The knock on the door always jars me. Opening it to see my neighbor I expect the normal request to borrow money. Nope. “Do you do a lot of shopping,” he asks. In response to my confused look he counters, “I have this friend that will sell you forty dollars worth of food stamps for twenty dollars. All the neighbors are partaking.”

Cindy is in good shape for fifty-seven. She waitresses at Carrows. Her garden inspired the planting of my rose bush. She waters her garden in bikini, but sometimes in silk dress; depending on if she wants to dress up. Currently she sleeps in her backyard (her bedroom is being redone.)

Wednesday I came home to find Cindy digging a trench in front of our houses. “You missed it,” she says. “The clouds opened up and poured rain. It was raining and hailing. I’ve never seen hail like that here! Another minute and it would have been running into our houses.” I asked, “How long you lived here?” “Since 1974.” So when she says she’s never seen hail fall like it did in this flood it carries some weight. So we spend the last hours of daylight digging a trench in-case the floods returned.

Sunsets are awesome in the high desert. I step outside to catch the colors in the sky and find ‘Junior,’ the two-year old playing in front of my house, no parents in sight. “Hey dude isn’t that an awesome sunset,” I ask, pointing to the sky. Junior isn’t very articulate. I go on to spend a small chunk of time with the kid chattering on about rocks and colors in the sky. Junior now runs to greet me every time he’s outside.

Junior is a child at risk. His mom is a teenager. He’s being raised by grandma and grandpa-who are maybe forty-years old. All live next door. All four have different colored skin. I gave grandpa James a drive to work and heard more of the story. Grandma had an affair and broke up with James. Subsequently she went to jail, was released, went back to James. The teenager is hers—but I’m not sure she’s his.

Cookie came to my door one night begging me to call 911. We wave to each other now and talk about roses. Since I’ve planted my Ingrid Bergman she has decided to begin planting flowers again.

The coffee-cup saying is to ‘Bloom Where You’re Planted.’ Christ’s words are more sobering, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” Time to open that front door and connect with our neighbors. God will supply the means; a call to 911, digging a ditch or raising a rose bush. It’s up to us to reach out and connect beyond that. Then to enjoy the resultant bright blooms our neighborhoods.

Questions, Peace and God

2010-08-29T22:37:00.000-07:00

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

“Christians would share this verse with me about ‘peace that passes understanding,’ but I felt no peace. Laying there in the hospital, I questioned my salvation…” I asked my friend if he ever received that peace. The answer surprised me. “No, I haven’t.” Four years since his car accident and my friend, a mature follower of Christ, hasn’t known peace.

This chunk of conversation rattled me so that I’ve been chewing on it all week. I understand lack of peace. Finances are ever an issue. I look at my bills, eyeball my bank account and walk away overcome with anxiety. Guilt is an issue too. Guilt projected by others, guilt piled on by self-you should visit your dad in the hospital, you should be the perfect parent, you shouldn’t have gotten into this financial situation. The car dying when I couldn’t afford a new one, the marriage ending period; all trials potentially rob us of peace.

Scripturally, peace seems the end result in the process. And it is a process. First fight anxiety by thinking rightly about God. Think rightly about circumstances as well. Having my material ducks in a row allows me peace. Ducks in a row make great targets for Satan and circumstances though. Which ducks did God promise would remain standing? Perfect health? Owning a house? An intact marriage? Peace eludes me, too, when I insist on having things never promised by God in the first place.

Peace is seen as smooth and happy circumstances when it’s often the opposite. We think of it as the lake without ripple, its water like glass. Truly it’s more like the old beer commercial-the bull is running amok in the cafeteria but your table is calm though the bull rages. The internal and external pain may still rage, the questions still persist, peace permeates all.

Peace is derived from the right perspective. We give thanks because all things come from the hand of God. The grappling and the pain, the qualms and the questions God will honor when they are based in scripture and set against His true character. It will never arrive via false facts and fairy tale expectations.

Lasting Friendship

2010-08-22T22:00:00.000-07:00

Three months is a long time to a girl of thirteen years. It is a tenuous age and having one close friend by your side a strong security. Times are turbulent and the friend must move where the family goes—where the work is.
“Three months isn’t long,” I say.

My daughter sees not only empty time but perpetual distance saying, “You’d feel badly if Matt moved or you couldn’t talk to Glenn,” alluding to some of my friends. The conversation doesn’t take place in a vacuum. We are driving home from a visit to family of a friend I’ve had since fifth grade. In his kitchen, days earlier, John had noted, “There probably aren’t many folk like us; who’ve been friends since childhood.”

75 % of us have close friends, while 25% of us have no close confidantes, according to a controversial article in the American Social Review (June 2006). “These close bonds of friendship don’t just happen,” I say, “They take work”

What makes for lasting friendships; camaraderie of close confidantes, as opposed to an acquaintance you’ve known for years? How have we built on that initial connectedness?

Thinking through my rich connections two key components are factors in each friendship I have. We make time to talk; phone-to-phone and face-to-face. We take time to construct common experience. In each strong friendship I have I can name hikes and dinners, bike rides and shows, gut busting laughter and spirit breaking tears. In all these things we aggressively take time to touch base.

My daughter’s only begun that rich adventure we call friendship. You’re well into the journey. What’s set your friendships apart from the rest? What would you say to my daughter? En route I’m hoping that my having more than a handful of heart-healing, soul-stirring friendships speaks through these months and into her years.

Picture courtesy of Collection of The Jewish Historical Society of Greater Hartford

Death The Elephant In The Room

2010-08-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

The rage percolates and pours out on family and caregiver. Violence hurled at the nurse during the ultrasound, “You poke me with that one time and you’ll be wearing it.” Scarier still that minutes later he said he couldn’t remember the incident. The anger deep inside, spilling out from a soul still in rebellion.

Dad’s in the hospital again. Talk of congestive heart failure and rehabilitation, going home and getting better. We make small talk while he eats his lunch. Death is the elephant in the room.

“What do you want on your tombstone,” the counselor asked. The answer easier now than ten years ago: Lived large, laughed out loud, fought his fears, quit posing and pretending, taught his daughter all the above.

The Preacher wrote, “It is better to go into a house of mourning than into a house of celebration for that is the end of all men; and it causes the living to take notice.” How are you doing at unpacking your pachyderm? What do you want on your tombstone?

The Problem With Prosperity

2010-08-01T22:11:00.000-07:00

" I spoke to you in your prosperity; But you said, "I will not listen!"

When cancer comes or the lover leaves it’s God’s fault. When there is food on the table, money in the bank, and health in relationships it’s due to personal discipline and acumen. That’s been my paradigm most of my life. Growing in my knowledge and experience of God I still teetered between two beliefs: 1) God is the giver of all good things 2) Things come my way because I deserve them.

A chunk of my life was spent on cruise control. Got married, had a kid, went to church, went to work, rode the bicycle, hugged the wife, went to sleep. I made time for prayer and bible reading, went to meetings with men and dinners with couples. Funny thing about cruise control, it’s easy to fall asleep at the wheel, to trust in pride, arrogance and the way you’ve always done things.

“God needs to heal this marriage or blow it up,” I choked out over the phone. The threat of restraining order came quickly after. Three weeks of confusion as night after night found me sleeping in hotels. Pride and arrogance weren’t much help.

The marriage blew up. At the end of my rope I was ready to listen. One of the lifelines God threw me happens on Tuesday.

I spend every other Tuesday with a bunch of men. A group of guys that pray like this, “Grant me continued humbling, brokenness and transformation.” Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? “Blessed are the poor in spirit…blessed are those who mourn…the gentle…those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…the merciful…the pure in heart…the peacemakers…” Most of these guys were controlled by demons, drugs and even basketball. Today they count it joy to be controlled by God.

Prosperity isn’t the problem. If it were the book of Job wouldn’t end with God restoring his fortune twofold. The problem is with me. Prosperity allows me to be complacent, money in the bank fools me into thinking I’m good without God. May I remember that Jesus blessed those poor in spirit, but to the man who relied on silos full of grain he said, “You fool! This very night your soul is required of you.”

Photo courtesy of:
George Grantham Bain Collection (Library of Congress).
http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/ggbain.09237/

Preferable

2010-07-22T16:52:00.000-07:00

"Surely our griefs He Himself bore, And our sorrows he carried;
Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten of God, and afflicted."

Bloody, mangled,
Escape through barbed wire,
Gashes preferable,
To His crown of thorns.

Bloated, swollen,
Swimming through jellyfish,
Stings preferable,
To the jagged whip.

Battered, raw,
Crashing through pane of glass,
Clarity preferable,
To soldiers' fists.

Body, broken,
Crucified upon a cross,
Mercy preferable,
To deserved wrath.

Clean Underwear

2010-07-20T18:48:00.000-07:00

I did my dishes, made my bed and cleaned the crockery-a months’ worth of cleaning in a day. Leaving town on vacation, nothing like coming home to crisp clean sheets and shiny sinks. That’s the face, the place; I’d like you to see. I’m lying to you. I clean for another reason.

One mustn’t leave the house in dirty underwear. If you die in a car wreck, or a helicopter drops on your head, or you choke on a Clif Bar it’s imperative that you are wearing spotless skivvies. Irrefutable logic it’s not, still it appeals to a maternal archetype.

When the plane plummets into the ocean and I die (the seat cushion as boogie board-good; as flotation device-not so great) I don’t want you to find my house in its usual state of ‘controlled chaos.’ There’s something else I don’t want you to find and I hadn’t even thought about it until one night of live theatre.

The folks at “Mortified” describe themselves as “a comic excavation of the strange and extraordinary things we created as kids. ...Adults sharing their own adolescent journals, letters, poems, lyrics, home movies, stories and more.” Funny stuff and for me, frightening. I’ve kept a journal since high school. You remember high school? Oh, you don’t?

I’d left the place clean but in my closet was a box of journals. When I got home I ripped the box open. Opening to the journal entries for my senior I found entries such as the following:

Thursday Jan. 19: I had a dream. Something with Jude and I fell asleep. I woke up and she was gone. I went to school. I brought my squirt gun.

Friday Feb. 10: Demi is soooo cute.

Monday Feb. 14: I gave Valentines to Judy, Dana, and Cheryl and Demi.

Monday Feb. 20: Keith and I went to meet Barbie and Lynette for brunch.

Wed. March 29: Neca called. Date is all set up for Friday night. Last show ever of Carol Burnett was on. Sob, sob.

Cleaning underwear is easy. Bonfires and Wite-out leave evidence behind.

This Old Tent

2010-07-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

It has touched the thigh of a woman and the nose of a bear. It has sat underneath the lightning storm in Spearfish—more awesome than the Black Hills Passion Play, the reason I camped there. From the warm Virgin waters of Zion National Park to cold snow in Yosemite she’s experienced it all. The tears and turmoil of the brutal break-up with my first love was seen through the same eyes that saw my 40th birthday celebrated with wife and child while camping in northern California.

Hailey and I were going camping for Father’s Day. Pulling my tent out from storage started me thinking about the places the tent has gone; Twenty-five years of adventure, a quarter century of road trips; hail and hunger cycling from San Francisco to Malibu, ecstasy and elation on the top of Mt. Whitney, tears and questions in Zion, imagined Indian attacks at Canyon De Chelly. Each journey was a rich time of exploration, awakening and growth; each quest brought perspective and satisfaction of soul.

A tent serves not only as shelter, but as altar to gain perspective and remind of what God has done. No wonder Peter wanted to set up tents at the transfiguration (“Lord, it is good for us to be here; if You wish, let us make here three tabernacles (tents): one for You, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”) After bringing the Israelites out of Egypt, God told them to live in tents seven days, commemorating their foray into freedom.

This summer when you take out that tent, when you unpack that camping gear, when you bring out that old ice chest-stop and give a thought to where it’s been, to where you’ve been. When you arrive at your vacation spot and you are settled in, take time to look forward. What does your future look like? What kind of wilderness is God leading you out of? Then take the next steps forward knowing what you’ve already walked through.

Elder Care

2010-06-27T20:27:00.000-07:00

I understand my dad’s unwillingness to go to a hospital. I would think this would motivate him to take his medicine. A handful of medicines correspond to alphabetized ailments-Alzheimer’s, blood pressure, congestion, diabetes…Possibly they make him feel tired or anesthetized, perhaps he doesn’t like the chemicals, maybe he likes control. Perchance he’s just plain paranoid.

My daughter Hailey and I went to visit dad on Father’s Day. He was very weak and every breath was a struggle. When I spoke to him about using an inhaler he said, “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He will use expletives when he wants to be left alone. Vitriol and violence seethe beneath, leading to constant outbursts.

Straightforward and direct, Hailey lets me know her mind. Leaving my dad’s house we set out for dinner. Over sandwiches at Jersey Mikes we discussed my sunset years. The thirteen year olds’ bottom line: If I’m as cantankerous as “Grandpa” I won’t have Hailey’s support.

The way we react to the trials of old age are a response to the person we’ve become on the way there. I will respond differently to old age than my father. Albeit Alzheimer’s comes knocking my actions will be poles apart from papa. Primarily because Christ is at work in me to kill pride and promote humility. From that point of grace a thousand other decisions have led me down a different road than that travelled by my dad.

A friend’s mother, a godly woman and gentle spirit, wrestles with senility. After returning from visiting a long-time friend she commented, “I’d like to go and visit Ann.” My friend replied, “Mom, you just saw her yesterday.” To which she replied, “Oh! Did I have a good time?”

The weekend was a good reminder that my actions don’t occur inside a vacuum. Character qualities that I practice will, by God’s grace, flow out naturally in action.

“For you have been called for this purpose, since Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example for you to follow in His steps…”

Photo appears courtesy of: Collection: A. D. White Architectural Photographs, Cornell University Library Accession Number: 15/5/3090.00176b

Riptides and Wilderness

2010-06-21T20:10:00.000-07:00

"God would never make it in the travel industry because He’s always leading his best clients into the wilderness. He even led His own son into the wilderness first….So there must be something good for us in it."--John Piper

I am consistently amazed at people that visit a National Park and think that they’re just visiting a bigger Disneyland. “Hey Marge, go pet that Buffalo!” Dead Men Walking, a report by the Wilderness Medical Society reports that in National Parks for the period from 1992 to 2007 there were 78,488 people involved in 65,439 SAR (Search and Rescue) incidents. These included 2,659 fatalities, 24,288 injured or sick people, and 13,212 "saves," or saved lives. The wilderness is a dangerous place.

Wilderness humbles. As a teenager I would drive thirty miles through winding canyons to get to the beach. Watching waves crash on shore solidified my faith in a God that “sits above the circle of the earth, And its inhabitants are like grasshoppers, Who stretches out the heavens like a curtain and spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.” One summer, caught in a riptide, inhaling salt water, the waves brought only terror.

I was caught up in a financial riptide once. Ten years ago my debt was overwhelming. Each month I borrowed from one creditor to pay another. I’d see land and another wave would roll in and slam me under the water. Air-gasp-wave-slam. I made it to shore gasping and heaving.

I alternate between fear and excitement. I look back in fear. I press forward in anticipation. My manager post, my current apartment, phone calls from friends, all appeared when I was certain the next wave would drown me.

There is one other thing I realized-between breaths, before dying, during the gasping and heaving. I wasn’t bored. I was fully alive.

Technological Slaughter of Suburbia

2010-06-13T18:40:00.000-07:00

In the early 1900’s radio was blamed for the disintegration of neighborly community. A ridiculous concept, of course, as everyone knows television slaughtered suburbia. These theories are now all passé—current thought is that keyboards are doing the killing. Charles Blow states, “I increasingly believe that less neighborliness is becoming intrinsic to the modern American experience — a most unfortunate development,” and, “I am very much aware that social networks are rewiring our relationships and that our keyboard communities are affecting the attachments in our actual ones.” I see Mr. Blows’ smoke, um, point here while at the same time wondering what world Mr. Blow lives in.

While visiting the orthodontist this week my daughter, Hailey, ran into one of her friends. The girls eagerly chatted while both I and the other dad sought to exit the office with girls in tow---with no success. We, the fathers, introduced ourselves and spent the next five minutes discussing work, his daughters’ adoption, the local junior high school and retirement. Pulling out of the parking lot I made comment to Hailey that he’d had his daughter since she was three. “Boy, he shared a lot with you,” she said. In five minutes we’d established a delightful neighborly bond.

Satisfying my desire and keeping an earlier commitment I purchased a rose bush this week; an Ingrid Bergman, mildly scented and burgundy red. While out in front of my house (and perhaps that is key) watering, two of my neighbors stopped by and commented. One told me that she’d moved into her house last year with thirty plants but only three had survived. She loves roses and was now planning on visiting the local nursery to buy one. Cindy’s tree shares its shade with my yard. Cindy’s flower-bed inspired me to add color to the front of my house; and we had a short conversation regarding the beautification of the neighborhood.

I sit in front of my computer as much as the next guy (though maybe not as much as the girl I work with who is addicted to “World of Warcraft.”) Walking out of my front door life presented opportunity for “tangible, meaningful engagement” with a network of neighbors. I even asked Cindy to water “Ingrid” while I was on vacation. Perhaps all it takes is being approachable and a willingness to say, “Hi.” Reaching out with hands wide open makes us better ourselves and leads to stronger community---there Charles Blow and I fully agree.

Spandex and Cotton

2010-06-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

Past the junkyard,
I bicycle,
Empty shells and cars in disarray.
In the open space,
Two men trade money,
For contraband.

Beyond the dump,
Black Ravens,
Swirling in and out of the refuse.
Near the dark water,
Penguins of trash bags,
Flutter and fly.

A verdant pathway,
I dismount,
From the table, you rise to greet me.
Around the courtyard,
Lavender, Iris, Summer Phlox,
Perfume the air.

At the table,
We converse.
Form tight spandex and flowing cotton.
Amidst the flowers,
Talk of the Father,
Traversing lives.

Path gives way,
To blacktop,
Tangle of jungle gyms and homeless.
Next to the park bench,
Rucksacks and cardboard,
Obscure the grass.

Back towards home,
I race,
An old man totters in jogging shorts.
Back onto cement,
Salty silt and sweat,
I wipe my eyes.

Divorce and Forgiveness

2010-05-31T19:58:00.001-07:00

Pop quiz: Think of one or more of your divorced friends. Have they moved on past their divorce or when they talk of ‘the ex,’ are they still bitter, angry and unforgiving? I’m betting you chose B-bitter, angry and unforgiving. If you’re divorced, what about you?

I hear the objections, everything from mental abuse to not adequately doing the dishes. My wife claimed my failure to consistently do the dishes drove her to an affair with the guy who put the tile in our bathroom. I’ve done battle with desire for vengeance and vindication over forgiveness and mercy.

Why choose forgiveness? Primarily we must forgive because Jesus commands us to. As one of my friend’s jokingly states, “It’s in the red letters, so you have to do it.” We have said the prayer many times, “And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.” The verse goes on to say “But if you do not forgive others, then your Father will not forgive your transgressions.”

What is forgiveness? It’s a complicated answer and I’m a simple man so I think of it in simple terms. Forgiveness is not seeking revenge but actively seeking blessing for the one who wronged us. It’s a helluva lot easier on paper than it is in real life.

I still feel the rolling rage. When I first found out about the affair I would have moments, minutes and hours that I felt intense, marrow-deep, blood-red rage. The rage would come out of nowhere-there was no predicting when I would feel it. I rarely experience it now but it still comes, unbidden and then quietly exits.

In those dark days it was a mental battle to choose forgiveness. A forgiving attitude swam against the current of my emotion and my desire for vindication. Speaking of those mental battles Paul used imagery of warfare, for such it is, “Though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh—for the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but are divinely powerful for the destruction of fortresses.” Of which he means mental fortresses, not material ones.

Be patient with yourself in the process. Forgiveness isn’t the initial feeling, the immediate thoughts you have aren’t going to be positive. At that point simply allow yourself to be willing to be willing to forgive. Give God the process. Keep giving God the process. It will be an ongoing battle.

A healthy heart and head are the final reasons to forgive. Failure to forgive will ensure that your thoughts are continuously on your ex. They will continue to enslave you through your failure to forgive them. Cutting them loose with forgiveness frees your head and heart to pursue better things and newer adventures.

Fight to forgive then for we do not want to be those old bitter men we experience in our bible studies and bars and who we overhear grumbling at the supermarket. Life has so much more to offer us as we press forward in forgiveness and mercy.

Between The Air-The Conclusion

2010-05-23T19:52:00.000-07:00

“His name was Ivars. They met in one of the refugee camps before coming here. She was fourteen, he, seventeen. They were in love. Days before mom was leaving with the family for the states, he disappeared. Nobody’s sure what happened. There were rumours-KGB, CIA. I just know that for years mom kept his picture next to the cyanide capsules she travelled with. At the end he gave her the music box, a little piano.”

“So the piano’s the key to this thing. Come on kiddo, let’s go see if we can stir up a little treble with this Sara girl.” I drove, she gave directions. Not a bad start for a relationship. Miss Sara has a little apartment in the hills above the city. Climbing the stairs up to the door nearly gave me a nosebleed. Looked like somebody had beat me to it. On the porch there were small drops of blood. Knocking, no Sara. “Kyra, you keep lookout. I’ll let myself in. If we get company, you holler.” She gave a slight nod.

I looked all the obvious places, the lingerie drawer, the bookcase, her desk and came up empty. Leaving the bedroom I heard the scream.

Kyra knelt in the entryway. “Damn step,” she said. “I got bored hanging outside and thought I’d help you search. I know her better than you do. On my way down I touched this under the lip of the door. No blood,” as she stood back up.

“She placed the key in my palm, drawing her hand back over my fingers as she let go. The tag on the keys read, ‘Hat Top Hotel-Rooms and Boxes by the hour.’ This case was getting to be like a little matryoshka, those Russian nesting dolls.

Down the stairs, into the car and away to the Hat Top Hotel, our relationship was moving fast. There was no main office just a main door leading to rows of P.O. boxes. This was too simple. The key fit easily inside the box and there was the music box. I handed it to Kyra.

In staccato words between tears she said, “Everything looks okay. What now?”

"Tomorrow we’ll go back to Sara’s. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I’ll meet you at the office at 9:00”

This trip found Sara in her apartment. While Kyra looked like everything you’d want in a dress, Sara looked like she could beat up your kid brother. “I figured we’d cross paths sooner or later,” she said. “Find anything interesting in my apartment yesterday?”

“Sara, we were so worried about you! The blood yesterday, and bad blood thanks to your quick disappearing act. Have you seen mom’s music box, Sara?”

Sara spoke slowly at first and gradually increased tempo, “This is going to take a while. Can I get you anything? Fine. The blood came from me. I really need to get those damn cracks in the cement fixed. I tripped coming into the kitchen and ripped off a toenail. Nothing major.

I’m CIA. I know Kyra, it’s hard to believe. After that incident with the police, I gave up trusting authorities in uniform. I rebelled. Then I decided that, I at least could be good. I could stand for something. So after college I enlisted.

While working on a case dealing with Nazi spies I came across information about the music box, I remembered you and your mom. Sorry Kyra-please forgive me.

We don’t know who Ivars worked for, if he worked for anyone at all. We do know this. He had compiled a list of top Nazi officials. Perhaps he thought it would help the war effort, perhaps he thought it would be useful after victory, I don’t know. What I now know is this. He had it engraved between the wood on the music box. Your mom’s music box."

I enjoyed the cool feel of my clothes as they touched my skin, dry material on dry skin. The air conditioner purred like a kitten with no fear of the thermometer. The knock sounded loudly on the glass pane of the agency door. I sat in my chair and awaited the next paycheck as Kyra led our new client back to my office.

Stretch Break-Between the Air Part 1

2010-05-16T21:45:00.000-07:00

Between the air-conditioner and the news broadcast on the FM, I missed the first knock. “Coming,” I hollered mid-stride. There were few benefits to summer, and the way she dressed was one of them. The sun-tanned arms, the curves of her legs, the piercing steel-blue eyes. “Wow,” I thought, hoping I hadn’t said it out loud. “Come in,” I said, motioning toward my desk.

She sat across from me, her calves not much wider than those of the red-leather chair that half-surrounded her. “Kyra Bronson,” extending her perfectly manicured nails in my direction.

“Mac. Mac Flintridge,” I stated. What Mac Flintridge looked like wasn’t important. It was the solidity of his presence that impressed itself so heavily on the senses. “Which is it, something lost that you need found or something you found that you wish still lost?”

She breathed shallow, tears welling up in those eyes, “My mom, well, something of my moms’. A music box. She fled with it, through the camps and coming to the country. I think it has something to do with Sara.”

“Coffee Miss Bronson? Or would you prefer something that packs more heat? Who is Sara?”

“I’d best have coffee,” she said as she recounted this story from her high school years.

“It was late. We’d gone driving with a group of boys, they took one car, Sara and I took hers’. Sara kinda thought it’d be fun to play ‘hide-and-seek’ and veered off onto one of those little dirt roads that crisscross the outskirts of the valley. We thought nothing of it as we flew down that little dirt road.
The cops came out of nowhere. First we thought it was the boys messin around but then we saw it was a cop car. Lights flashing and siren wailing we were pulled over. Sara opened the car door and stepped outside of the car. The cop screamed, “Freeze!” He walked over to Sara and threw her against the car while screaming questions at her. “Why are you out here? What are you doing?” He unclipped his flashlight and shined it into her eyes saying, ”Why are your eyes dilating? What are you up to?” Sara screamed at the officer, requesting his badge number. He slammed her up against the car again with an injunction to be on our way. When we got home we called a friend on the force to complain, but were told to forget it-we’d never get anywhere.
Sara changed after that. She started hanging out with the rough kids. We drifted apart that year, her and I. Later on I heard rumors of drug use. She was in and out of violent relationships; the violence was mutual I understand.”

Kyra was briefly silent. I heard the air conditioner grow louder as if in fierce battle with the heat. Kyra picked up her story. “We connected again through an old friend. Things were going well. We seemed good together. When my mom was sick she spent a lot of time with her. After my mom passed….”

Her coffee sat untouched. I got up to grab myself another drink from the cabinet. Something cold, organic, healthy; I reach for a Shiner Bock. Raised my eyebrows in question of another drink for her. I take in the scene, the red chair, the blue summer dress, the long black hair falling straight. “She died, your mom?”

“Yes, cancer of course. Sara was with us much of the time. She was a great help to me, to, to, to us both. Later though, when I went to look for the box, I couldn’t find it, can you help? My mom left a little money. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

I had ulterior motives, no work on the docket, and an air conditioning unit that was on its last breath. “Sure I’ll help. Tell me more about this box. Then we’ll go talk to Sara.”

....To be continued

Anxiety, Paralysis and Baby-Steps

2010-05-10T22:05:00.000-07:00

I dislike confrontation. I have a passive bent. I have a house that needs to be sold. I spent chunks of time this week worrying about calling the realtor and the renter. Decisions would have to be made-would the renter freak out and move out? Is this a wise move in this economy? I found myself frozen in a ‘paralysis of analysis.’ Hesitant to move, I thought of the Israelites.

Pharaoh wakes after a bad nights’ sleep to find every firstborn mammal dead. In roiling anger, army in tow (six hundred select chariots and the second string chariots behind), he screams out after Moses. Fleeing at midnight Moses and company have already left town. As the Egyptians bear down on Israel they experience their own paralysis.

With the Egyptians behind and the sea in front Israel panics, “Is it because there were no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the Wilderness?” they say to Moses. Moses seems to stall out himself until God nudges him saying, “Why are you crying out to Me? Tell the sons of Israel to go forward.”

The sons of Israel had to begin moving before God ‘swept the sea back.’ The first guy in line placed his sandal in Red Sea sludge trusting the next step wouldn’t be his last.

That is what frees from paralysis. The first step sets in motion a series of events. Step-by-step as each step unfolds take the next step and “do the next right thing.”*

So the sons of Israel walked on dry land through the midst of the sea. The following morning Moses stretched out his hand and the sea returned to its normal state and the Egyptians were overthrown in the midst of the sea.

While life doesn’t guarantee us miraculous victories, we are promised wars in the wilderness. If we freeze and fret victory is impossible. Forging forward solidifies faith and allows God opportunity to guide.

“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.”-Jim Elliot

*H/t New Life Ministries

Summer Contrasts

2010-05-02T20:46:00.000-07:00

The monsoons come in summer. At sunset Hailey and I plant ourselves on the trunk of my car and watch the lightning show. Atop the hills to the east, north and south the lightning bolts flash. It is quite the show to watch as darkness overwhelms twilight all grows dark. Then the lightning flashes. Five, four, three, two, one…we count until the thunder comes. The results of the high heat and humidity also bring about frightening and revolting consequences.

The Sawtooth Complex fire was started by lightning on July 9, 2006. The fire burned 61, 700 acres and destroyed 58 homes. The fire burned for nine days and was fully contained on July 18th. While the threat of fire is frightening there are less life threatening consequences of summer as well. The high heat bakes the Salton Sea and a collapsing temperature inversion creates algae blooms which microorganisms eat-creating a very strong sulfur stink.

One thing that doesn’t stink about summer is sleeping in. When the daughter sleeps over the rest of the year I have the privilege of kissing her goodnight and kissing her awake in the morning. Day breaks early on school days and the battle for quick breakfasts, furious face-washes and timely teeth-brushings seems never ending. Summer mornings I plant a kiss on her cheek and nudge her to move over and we catch a couple more hours of sleep. Breakfasts are bigger; bacon in the microwave, pancakes on the griddle.

Temperatures in the lower desert will hover around 115 degrees while in the high desert we get off with temps around 100. In the lower desert the air-conditioners run non-stop. Folks either leave town or become daytime prisoners in their own homes. Hence business slows down considerably. We take vacations.

This year will find us kayaking an ocean estuary and riding rail through redwoods. I truly enjoy the high-desert summer heat but it is good to go someplace where you need to sleep with a blanket.

Soon enough those blankets will need to be pulled from the home closet again, the swamp coolers covered back up and the air-conditioners turned off. In the low desert old folks will come outside again. Life will speed up and Fall will be upon us.

Coffee and Cigarettes

2010-04-25T19:53:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow someone will hand us a large amount of extra time and a big chunk of extra money. What will we do with it?

“Coffee doesn’t taste good without cigarettes,” Elsa rasped as she explained why she’s cutting down on both. In her twenties, looking every bit the archetype of a Norwegian, she posed for some pictures. She went on to be on the cover of a magazine in Norway- the kind of magazine her parents didn’t tell their friends about, though dad may have read copies while in his youth.

Even models have biological clocks. At the age of twenty-five Elsa set her career aside to raise three boys. Fast forward that digital clock thirty years ahead. The boys are all grown up and Elsa’s life consists of coffee, cigarettes and trips to the high desert for massages and marijuana-until this month. This month Elsa is giving up cigarettes and coffee to begin focusing on herself. She had made phone calls to some magazines to see if they want to do a retrospective, the model at 60.

Five years down the road my daughter will be college age. Twelve years down the road I’ll be retirement age. Hailey’s hurtling toward twenty will mean more time on my own. Do I invest it or squander it? Do I try to get some interviews and relive my glory days, “Blogging Barista Bicycles into Sixties?”

Pastor John Piper has challenged my thinking in this area (you can read his book “Don’t Waste Your Life online): Do I want to spend the last years of my life standing on a beach in my Bermuda shorts and throwing shells into the sea? Or can I leverage my retirement to invest it in mankind?

Plan, Pray and Dream: If I’m going to leverage my time and money investment later then I need to think through options now. My present time investment is in Hailey-school and clubs and homework. Dreaming big but practical-What’s my heart desire for five years down the road? For me it would be some involvement in missionary work, World Vision is located two hours from home, my church is located five minutes from my doorstep.

Whether to give up coffee, cigarettes or self isn’t the right question. The correct question is what gives greater significance to life. In the final retrospective; what will they write in our obituary?

Clock courtesy of AlexKerhead

Joshua Tree April

2010-04-19T15:41:00.001-07:00

Wind of Refreshing

2010-04-18T19:18:00.000-07:00

The sweat tickles your nose and burns your eyes. You remove your hat to cool yourself off and the sweat flows down your face and your neck. All day in this wilderness and the heat is wearing you out. Placing the hat back in its place you find partial shade and a large rock. The shade helps but the rock is hard and warm to the touch. Laying down on the rock you watch as the horizon rises up toward the sun and shadows appear. Your senses subconsciously notice before you are aware of the change……….

Last Spring saw the death of my mom and a season full of hospital visits, funeral preparations and property issues. That season is still vivid and the fatigue still felt. On the heels of that year visits to the hospital to see my dad and watching his slow demise are harder dealt with. A small emotional ogre preys on me powered by dad’s violent attacks on his wife and the phone calls after each outburst. Arguing with my dad; his self-hatred and control-issues; the ogre crouches in the depths of my psyche.

Every work day draws a different battle. My staff overlooks things I think they should see. Quality seems less important than maintaining personal energy for their personal lives. Things constantly break. I constantly fix. I realize the problem is primarily me. I’m not energized by work, feels like classic burn-out.*

Life is static on the home front as well. Don’t reach for the psych manual yet. I’m not suffering from depression. There are aspects of the day that I fully enjoy, days with my daughter and jaunts in Joshua Tree. There’s a present dryness there though.

…….The wind is coming-a cool breeze, a hint of moisture, a drop in air temperature. As you breathe in through your nose you are reinvigorated. Steps seemed impossible in the heat but that little puff makes you want to dance the jig. It is a wind of refreshing. It is what I am praying for in this coming season. Join me, will you?

*Except I don’t believe in that.

Agajanian On Fire

2010-04-11T20:09:00.000-07:00

A girl named Olga stole my heart,
For a second while I fixed her bagel,
Light cream cheese, she blinked
And my heart skipped a beat.
A strong beat, perhaps with raucous guitar and
Piano accompaniment or,
Segovia on strings, Agajanian on fire,
I dream.

Windows open in my big house
By the ocean, the breeze blows in,
Wind over wheat fields,
Garth Brooks croons of dances past,
First love and fireworks.

A synchronicity of nerves on edge,
From battles at work,
Squirrel Zippers, perhaps,
But they make my feet tap,
And I don’t feel much like dancing.

Father flails in hospital again,
In the dark of my living room,
I pursue perspective,
Jars of Clay carries me,
Balanced between hope and angst.

Heart longing to touch,
Something bigger than itself,
Again,
I’ll choose Waits, he knows that pain,
And Powell, who knows the Healer.

Passover Deliverance

2010-04-03T22:34:00.000-07:00

“But when Pharaoh saw that the rain and the hail and the thunder had ceased, he sinned again and hardened his heart, he and his servants.”

“Moreover, they shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and on the lintel of the houses in which they eat it.”

Drawn together by thin cords they came to celebrate the Passover Seder this sacred week.

Gaunt and Goth, all in black she embraced each family member. Her once gorgeous curves reduced to straight lines by diet and drug, nicotine and nerves. The loss of a sister, failure of heart; the loss of a son, unending questions; the loss of a husband, bitter betrayal. Sweet of heart and gentle of spirit, who will lift the darkness?

Her hair cut manly-short, her clothing masculine-but not. Pink blouse cut to accentuate form, stylish slacks, womanhood waits, wrestling, underneath the surface.

The bronze silk shimmered; her dress too tight around her waist reveals stomach. What was too tight around waist was too loose up top, discloses breasts.

Their child of two-and-a half, conceived of science and in third-parties, all little girl she chased the puppy around the back-yard.
Deep seated anger and gender confusion are part of a bigger brokenness.
Hearts dying to love, the water turns to blood. Who can cleanse and purify, making the water pristine?

The hail fell hard on his life. His first wife dying young, unexplained heart problem, divorce took number two and Mrs. Number three battling cancer. Pacing, he took a phone call; busy with business, can’t sit for blessing. Moving, talking, joking; masks for his lack of peace and quiet. Who is big enough to shield and protect from catastrophic pain? Who can restore the years the locusts have eaten?

Arms akimbo, His arms frame the doorposts, the blood of The Lamb, slaughtered, stains the doorway.

For Christ our Passover Lamb has been sacrificed.

Testimony

2010-03-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

(For Hailey)

I lusted after that magnifying glass. Today I can still feel the smooth glass, see that beautiful orb encased by a gold band and the way it slid softly into the round leather case that it was attached to. It was owned by my neighbor. I stole it from him. At seven years old I was fully acquainted with my own evil and the shame that sin produces.

My father was in prison and my mom was in and out of the hospital. Dad was a plumber for Los Angeles County, fixing all the county buildings including the jails. Mom worked as a nurse at Valley Presbyterian Hospital.

I first heard Jesus’ words in a Mormon living-room*. On the days that mom worked the Mormon family down the street took care of my sister and I. I remember hearing Jesus talk about loving your neighbor. Statements about ‘removing the log from your own eye before removing the speck from the eye of your brother’ struck me as true. This man did not teach as normal men his message was deeper, different.

I attended the Junior High Youth Group to meet girls but stuck around for the sermons. It became clear to me that Christ was God incarnate. Understanding enough doctrine to know that I wanted Christ to lead my life, I made a public profession and was baptized at the age of sixteen.

One college afternoon found me walking across the campus lawn thinking, “Is this all there is?” That same season we had a new pastor at the church. Lanny was the first pastor that I’d heard preach from the bible and exegete the text. During this time I enrolled in an evangelism program. As I trained for the course I came to fully understand that I was a sinner and could not earn my salvation. I grew increasingly hungry to read the bible and spend time in study with other Christians.

Growing in grace began to free me from the extensive guilt which had ruled my life. The process would be lifelong, but understanding that God chose me before time began and loves me unconditionally radically changed my outlook on life. Guilts’ little brother anxiety had followed me around for a long time as well. He began to leave me alone after I realized that I could “cast all my anxiety upon Him, because He cares for me.”

In the years since God has been gracious and compassionate, though that sometimes meant using a two-by-four to get my attention. Christ is ever sweeter, joy is ever greater and mercy is poured out abundantly on this sinner saved by grace.

* God shielded me from the counterfeit while calling me to the true.

Embracing the Possible

2010-03-21T21:05:00.000-07:00

It is one of the rules of the road trip. When scanning for music on the radio you must listen to whatever musical station the scanner stops at. Hailey and I were out on the road listening to the radio. The first stop of the dial was one of those top-40s stations. I raised my hand to hit the scan button-road rules or not. From the back-seat I hear, “Embrace it dad.” So I took a small step out of my comfort zone and listened to the music.

Most of us approach life like we approach the roll of plastic wrap in our kitchen drawer-being careful to avoid the cutting edge. Really though, where’s the true joy? Where do the greatest rewards happen? Where does the greatest character growth occur?

What does the cutting edge look like to you? We stand on the brink of difficult times as a country with more people than ever in need of assistance. Go grab your calendar and check-book. Could you invest in a neighborhood shelter, take part in the reading program at the local library that you’ve thought about on and off (and off and off) for the last year?

Maybe start smaller scale. Be thankful for one more thing today. Take one small step toward that big God you’ve been avoiding. Write that letter to Aunt Sophie telling her how much her cookie recipe has always meant to you.

Put your hand to the plow. Listen to the music. Step out of your comfort level. Embrace the challenge.

In 3D

2010-03-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

I have received many responses on the dating site I participate in---mostly rejections. Granted my face is less ‘ruggedly handsome’ and more ‘ravaged’ per the Janis Ian song. There is another reason that I don’t do well on the dating site. Though I’m good on paper, I’m much better in three dimensions.

I should have seen it coming. I was working for a large insurance company when email came on the scene. Slaving in the quarry of cubicles my neighbor would email me rather than greet me in person. Corporate bosses would email messages rather than face me with an issue—“Greetings Dillo. How does a nice long vacation sound?” Nobody would leave their ergonomically positioned chair to interact person to person.

Professors across the country are banning laptops from classrooms.
José A. Bowen, dean of the Meadows School of the Arts at Southern Methodist University, is removing them from lecture halls and urging his colleagues to "teach naked" — without machines. Bowen says class time should be used for engaging discussion, something that reliance on technology discourages.

“Taste and see,” are words the psalmist uses to drive our experience of God. An experience that engages all five senses will have a greater impact on us than an event that is only seen. Partial engagement equals distractions. At the bowling alley I saw a girl bowling and texting at the same time. Needless to say she was not fully engaged. I guess you could say she was on ‘pins and windows.’ Fullness and joy in either event did not occur but only dissipated involvement in each.

Laptops and cell-phones are great tools for interacting with the world. A friend of mine is a truck driver. Texting and phone calls allow us to stay in touch throughout the week. Those electronic messages are but a shadow of the interaction we enjoy when we get together for a meal. Face to face we are fully engaged, Facebook to Facebook is a quick note in passing.

You Will Call and I Will Answer

2010-03-12T17:34:00.000-08:00

A thought-provoking and powerful interview of William Stuntz on death and suffering.

Water Comes Back To Joshua Tree

2010-03-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

Instead of water my last visit to Barker Dam found a wide expanse of stinking green algae. The effects of a drought year with .67 inches of rain. God gave rain this year and the dam is full. A stormy winter will make way for a splendorous spring.

Boredom An Epiphany

2010-03-07T20:33:00.000-08:00

"From 7:00 to 8:00 we take our early evening nap, and then for an hour before we go to bed at 9:00 we waste time. "As you can see, that leaves almost no time for brooding, lagging, plodding, or procrastinating, and if we stopped to think or laugh, we'd never get nothing done."

"You mean you'd never get anything done," corrected Milo.

"We don't want to get anything done," snapped another angrily; "we want to get nothing done, and we can do that without your help."

"You see," continued another in a more conciliatory tone, "it's really quite strenuous doing nothing all day, so once a week we take a holiday and go nowhere, which was just where we were going when you came along. Would you care to join us?"

"I might as well," thought Milo; "that's where I seem to be going anyway." -The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster.

****************************************************************

An attack by pirates would be a welcome change. Steady winds and a strong sail propel the boat miles offshore. Long passed are the shipping lanes and boats staying close to harbor. Now we are out, somewhere, in the middle of the ocean.

The sea grows calm and smooth as glass. The wind, no longer steady, has ceased blowing. To complicate matters there is no motor. The only thing that could make matters worse would be… “Yes it would have been a good idea to recharge the battery for the GPS.” Drifting without direction, powerless and visionless I count the minutes until I leave work.

Like the Polar Bear at the zoo I pace back-and-forth. I stand and sip coffee as I face another day without challenge, another visionless morning. Even as I stare out the window my mind seeks to grasp something solid. Thinking through options that make life interesting I have an epiphany.

Difficulties and trials stretch one's limits and allow little opportunity for boredom. I grab a sheet of paper and proceed to outline the last five years of my life. It looks something like this:

2005: Move to desert. Start new job. Get kicked out of house.
2006: Move into new house. Find out about affair. Begin divorce proceedings.
2007: Look for new job. Fret about finances. New job opportunity.
2008: Divorce final. Mom gets cancer. Take care of mom.
2009: Mom passes away. Lose consulting job.

Looking at the list I think to myself, “Maybe boredom’s not a bad thing.” Quick upon the heels of that thought two others rush in:

1) Boredom is another trial. 2) I must learn to fill the boredom with things that make a difference.

Unlike the Polar Bear I can make my time productive. In the lulls at work I can pray. I can create and plan ways to encourage others. I can dream big and not let boredom become my master. Could it be that boredom too is a steady wind moving me onto greater adventure?

What do you think?

Blood and Betrayal: Why the Cross Matters

2010-02-28T19:33:00.000-08:00

“You did it again, didn’t you? I can’t believe it. You are such a loser! She quickly turned away and walked toward the back room. He drew in a breath as his chest tightened against his pounding heart. He felt the adrenaline rise along with the anger and hopelessness. He followed her into the bedroom. He tried to speak but was interrupted with cussing and soul-tearing accusations.

Defending himself against her fiery darts he had to take a stand, had to be heard. Bringing the back of his right hand down into his other palm he prefaced his statement. Loud and in staccato he said, “I was on the computer signing up for a group to help me with my ‘problem.’ That is why I am late.”

The call came the next day as he was pulling onto the home street. “You have one hour to take a suitcase and get out of the house. If you are not gone I will get a restraining order from the local women’s shelter.”

They sat in the office of the marriage counselor. She shouted, “I am done-done-done (more staccato) with this marriage.” She made it perfectly clear that she was not going to talk nor do any work toward healing and reconciliation.

He found the bills by accident: The plane ticket for two to Las Vegas returning to Los Angeles two days before the meeting with the marriage counselor, the restaurant bill for 300.00 two weeks after he was forced to leave the house.

Years later the marriage is over. The wounds have healed. The questions linger and doubt’s still stirred by a scene in a movie or a conversation with his kid.

Where do you go with that pain? Who can you talk to who will understand? How can you get out of bed to face another day in an unfair world?

Christ was betrayed by one of his close friends. Convicted in a kangaroo court and crucified for sins that were not His. The purest man killed in the foulest manner.

Talk to Christ. He understands betrayal and back-stabbing. Roll out of bed and put those feet on the ground. Give the evil of the day to Him who “suffered leaving you an example to follow in His steps, who committed no sin, nor was any deceit found in his mouth; and while being reviled He did not revile in return; while suffering uttered no threats but kept entrusting himself to Him who judges righteously.”

Recalibrating: Reading, Riding and Relaxation

2010-02-21T21:37:00.000-08:00

I pulled the hands away from my throat. I moved my hands down and placed one hand inside my pocket. I pulled out my asthma inhaler and took a quick puff. I moved deliberately to avoid disrupting the people behind me who were focused on the players upon the stage. My enjoyment of the play was interrupted by the old lady sitting next to me layered in fur, polyester and perfume. Initially I presumed she was just vain. Soon afterward I would realize that she was suffering from depression.

Science proves that our physiology and our mental state are inextricably intermeshed.
Scientists from Tel Aviv University recently linked depression to a biological mechanism that affects the olfactory glands. It might explain why some women, without realizing it, wear too much perfume. Physicians such as Dr. John Sarno are convinced that significant back pain significantly correlates to deep repressed anger.

I observed my boss’ look of amused concern as he stood next to me and I asked my vendor if he knew “where in the hell my delivery was.” The angry reaction was out of character for me. I knew it and, apparently, my boss knew it. The anger had been percolating all week. I took it out on vendors, myself and other innocent folks that I had short-changed as I dealt with them from a base of anger. There is one other person who always gets the fully brunt of these emotional outbursts. That’s one of the dangers of being a Heavenly Father-your imperfect kids throw temper tantrums.

I stomped around life for some days lacking energy and zeal. Disconnected from God I focused one-hundred percent on myself, as opposed to good days when I focus on myself ninety-nine percent of the time.

This particular flare-up came up against a 58 mile charity ride on Saturday which motivated me to take Sunday off work as well. The ride went well though I still felt ambivalent without focus. Sunday morning I planned on church but ended up bowing to my pillow. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. Had I really slept twelve hours?

Taut and tired I was in need of rest. The pressures of the previous week; driving 6 hours to visit dad in the hospital, the dryer blowing up and stagnation at work had affected me. Vigilance failed and I’d let wariness seep into my bones and soak into my spirit. I needed to recalibrate.

When the ship I’m in consistently crashes against the reef I know that my anchor isn’t grabbing ground at (at least) three main points.

1) Reading. If I’m not spending time in the bible my focus will be off. Surprise, surprise; carving out the time to read allows a solid chunk of time for decompression.

2) Exercise. Adrenaline pours through my veins accompanied by caffeine. A dangerous mix when combined with stress, anger, depression and self-pity. Exercise casts those demon energies out of my system.

3) Rest. Deprive me of rest and I become a roaring monster. Running on five to six hours of sleep makes me a coward. I bend to every evil and succumb to every sensation that strolls into the unguarded castle of mind and emotion.

Like the scent of perfume from a fur encased lady the stressors of life will choke out peace. It is up to me to live on the qui vive against these marauders. I shouldn’t have to crash-and-burn only to be saved by the flashing red lights of my own emotions.

Fatherhood: An Equal Reaction

2010-02-14T18:56:00.000-08:00

I catch a glimpse of the wall behind my computer. Squeezed in-between the world map and cycling goals are notes from my daughter; “Dear Dad, thank you so much for helping me move my bed! You Rock!” There is an envelope next to it addressed: To The Best Dad In The World.

If I reach inward I can taste and feel the anger. I was aware of it at seventeen. I was achieving the rank of Eagle Scout. I knew that even if my dad attended the ceremony he attended in name only. The award had been achieved with no involvement from him. The same could be said of my turning eighteen.

The phone calls from my dad’s wife, Ethel, are predictable. She will be (understandably) at the end of her rope because my dad is pulling on it. He will have been angry, violent, abusive or---D: All of the above. The calls often incite guilt in me (see last weeks’ post) for not calling or visiting.

There are two basic laws of physics known to everyone: ‘For every action, an equal reaction’, and ‘an object in motion will stay in motion.’ These two laws have made me a different father than my dad.

An object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force. Simmering anger was normative in my life. Christ taught me to forgive and give up control. Being acted upon meant the last thirty years with my dad in my life and a grandfather in Hailey’s’. Reacting to being fatherless I am aggressively involved in the life of my daughter.

A driving force guiding my decisions is to be the father for my daughter that will prevent gaping holes and vacuums in her heart. The key is to do it with a focus on her being a whole person and not letting my chinks and chasms get in the way.

A Platform of Peace

2010-02-07T20:34:00.000-08:00

“Take your age and subtract two. That’s the number of years you’ve spent forcing yourself to say “yes” when your essential self wanted to say no.” Martha Beck, Finding Your Own North Star

I own the entire Magnum P.I. ‘Season One.’ I became a fan of the series during its’ original run in the 80s. The good P.I. that he was, Magnum would oft follow his hunches. To key you into his thinking, Magnum would say something such as, “A little voice told me not to visit her vast coastal mansion.” When he listened to the little voice, things went better. Failure to listen to the little voice meant disaster.

My dad’s Jewish and from my youth I’ve come to strongly identify with Jewish food and Jewish guilt. Everybody struggles in this area, but I struggle more. My whole life people have been telling me, “It’s your fault.” During one dating relationship my mate had me convinced I was responsible for the start of World War I. At the same level I’ve chosen to listen to the voices of other people and to stifle my own. After I became a Christian this talent made it easier to quench the voice of the Holy Spirit.

While married I often kowtowed to the voice of my spouse knowing in the depth of my heart my own opinion was contrary. As the marriage disintegrated and counseling was integrated I grew in regard to listening to that voice.

Now when the midnight call comes saying, “Dillo, yah dad’s sick and you need to come down here immediately,” I process the information until the voice is solid. I run the information through a grid.

1) Am I just responding to the tyranny of the urgent? In high pressure situations people want me to make immediate commitments. Usually immediate action is not necessary.

2) What does God say about it? These are the easy ones. Many an issue has no obvious moral or biblical solution.

3) What are my priorities? Does it interfere with my goals at work? Does it negate promises I’ve made to my daughter?

4) Try standing on the different options. One of the options will be a platform of peace. Stand on that platform.

Who’s voice is loudest in your life?

Helicopter swoops in to save the day; music rolls in and fades out.

Latvian Pilgrimages or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned To Love Capitalism

2010-01-31T17:43:00.000-08:00

Mēs esam kā starp vārtiem,
Starp vārtiem uzcēluši savas mājas
Kur tautām pāri staigāt.

We are as if between gates,
Between gates we have built our home
For other peoples to trample over.
— Anna Brigadere, Latvian poet

"The Nazi invasion interrupted that brutal occupation—one horror replaced by another. When the Germans retreated, a choice of one evil over the other was the only option to escape the coming Soviet onslaught."

He came into the store to buy coffee and to complain about the bran muffins, which he insisted contained no raisins. His lapel bore the words, ‘Latvian embassy.’
Dillo: Do you speak Latvian?
Muffin man: Yes, I speak Latvian and Russian.
Dillo: My mom was born in Riga.
Muffin Man: Have you ever been?
Dillo: Yes, once during the occupation and once after independence.
Muffin Man: Occupation, that’s a funny thing to say, though, I guess, it was.
Both: Sveiks!

My first visit to Latvia occurred in 1978, the year I entered college. In 1978 the country showed on maps as Latvia, S.S.R. Military officers could be found on every corner, and it was common to see tanks drive down the street sporting trench-coated officers in black leather boots. The oppression was stifling; you saw it on people’s faces and the way they walked; shoulders stooped, steps plodding. It’s hard to move with a gun in your back.

The Statue of Liberty (seen above, holding three stars, one for each Baltic state: Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia) stood in the town square, facing outward. At the opposite end of the square stood a statue of Lenin also facing outward. The running joke was that there was a reason they stood back-to-back.

As tourists we could buy groceries in approved stores. These stores had a decent supply of groceries by soviet standard. You could find your bread, rice and salad makings. What’s more, you could get in and out in an hour or two. A citizen living in Latvia shopped at approved stores also. For them this meant long lines with no guarantee of finding what they needed once they actually entered the store. For the tourists and locals each was small with few shelves and minimum variety.

The zoo in Riga was a collection of animals in boxes. Some of the animals may have had runs and some space, but basic at best. The entire city was like this. No bright colors only grey and a pigment which Sherwin-Williams catalogs as Ancient City Poop Brown.

On August 21, 1991, Latvia claimed Independence. My second visit to Latvia took place in July, 2001. The first full day after arrival I went out for beer. After some strong encouragement and some, “You need to see this,” I also went shopping for groceries.

The grocery store took up nearly a block. Grab a cart and enter through the shiny glass doors. Right into the produce department which is bright with color, full of fruit of every type. If you had a child, you could push them around in the carts which were shaped like big cars, horns included. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. No approval necessary, and the tourists and the locals shopped side by side.

We took the bus to the Riga zoo. The old zoo has a new look which rivals anything found in San Diego, Portland or New York. The special exhibit that day was South African frogs and insects, I think. A huge display of grotesque and fascinating creepy-crawlies. As you meandered along a trail winding through tunnels each animal was displayed with appropriate lighting, and cages that were clean and spacious.

My conversion came at the lions den. Here were these large cats in a life-like setting with ample space, clear signage and interpretive video displays. Displayed behind the cats on the main wall were a number of large posters. Each poster was a brightly lit ad for the Latvian version of Friskies. It hit me then. Capitalism and a free-market supported an environment that allowed for growth.

Walking through Riga we could see a number of positive changes brought about by the new government and freedom. On the street though you could also see the older folks. They were easy to spot by their drab single color clothes, hopeless gait and bent bodies. It would still take some significant time for the oppression to lift. The shackles of coercion are not easily cast off.

Despots of Doom

2010-01-24T18:30:00.000-08:00

I hesitate to ask. There are two women at work that I dare not greet with, “Hey, how are things?" Their talk targets tragedy. “The morning, no, it’s not good. Medical issues, you know, make it hard to get out of bed-lucky to be alive, really.” I ready myself, knowing the litany of medical issues will be addressed. The sky’s too blue, the sun too bright. The co-worker that they thought had their back---stabbed them. Their mom is an evil sorceress, their family tree full of traitors and thieves.

I am not one to always see the glass half-full. I have dark days and somber spells. Why do these despots of doom and tyrants of tribulation trouble me so much?

When invited into your space they enter in as thieves, violently seeking to rob you of joy. Their world is a world without hope.

I have hope that Heaven, bought with blood, will come eventually. That God pours out blessing like the rain, falling “on the just and the unjust.” Can anyone look at a sunset, or enjoy their morning coffee without hint of hope? I delight in laughter with my friend; get drunk on hugs from my daughter. When the waves of life assail, these are the anchors that hold steadfast.

When you share your time they steal it away. Spewing selfishness, they seek to feed their aching hunger.

You’ve seen the movie, you know the scene; you are being sucked into the vortex. You stretch out your arms, your hands grasp whatever they can, your nails bleed as you are dragged along, deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Why is it always about them? Christ calls us to consider one another as more important than oneself. Most of us connect with one another as fellow travelers, encouraging each other along the way. How is it that some seek so hard to trip us up?

So, fellow traveler-Who are the thieves in your circle?

Be wary and consider the warning. Laugh, hope, and be thankful. Attend to your hearts and your time. Rejoice in your many blessings, renew hope daily. Be vigilant and ever on your guard. For thieves will come to consume, and use you to sate their hunger.

Drive With Me

2010-01-17T18:59:00.000-08:00

Deprive yourself of sleep (the alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m.). Slurp some coffee. Inject adrenaline into your system. Now you are ready. You’re driving to work with me.

Hook up your Nintendo Wii. Strap into this video game. The drive to work has four levels. Success and safety at each level will advance you to the next level. Completion of all four levels will get you to work on time. Failure at any level and you’ll arrive late. Or die.

With one hand you control the stick-shift and turn the steering wheel. With the other hand, you hold your coffee cup. By the end of the first sip, you are ready to enter the highway. Easy does it. The speed limit here is 50, but most folks keep the speed up to 75.

Passing the Walmart on your right, the defunct auto mall on your left, you need to slow to 40. No, not 55 or 60! Officer Camacho is radar ready. Look for him in driveways. He hides anyplace. Don’t look too long though…Oh, you almost hit the pedestrian. Fortunately spilled coffee does not result in a penalty. A speed of fifty-three may get you a warning. Give him sass and Macho Camacho (aka “TicketMaster”) will write you up.

You made it through Mini Mall Canyon and into downtown. The speed limit increases. You leave the city behind, along with the city lights. The landscape opens up, as do you, up the hill to the top of the grade. Oh, no. While you were wiping the coffee off of your chin a pick-up truck spilled booms, beams and studs onto the highway. The darkness hides them. You go up on two wheels, slam back down, and cruise to the top of the grade in a state of shock. You advance to Level II.

Gravity tugs you down the grade to the table land. Moonlight bathes the basin, casting shadow on the foothills, reflecting off the snow-covered peak above the steering wheel. You sit solid on this road amidst this big beanbag of a universe. Lulled into daydreams, you fail to slow down when entering the next town. You blink and you are through town and spiraling down the next grade.

The drunk driver in the Yugo next to you wants to race. The truck driver behind you bears down on your bumper. You avoid the guard rail---moving the stick-shift like a drug addict with DT’s. You advance to Level III.

Wow. City lights are spread before you, blanketing everything to the base of the mountain. In the distance, the sky spread out like a sheet, bright pink, a flashlight behind it.

Pulling off the freeway, you crest the first bridge crossing the sand dunes. If a truck driver coming up the other side is asleep, you die. It is hard to tell with your eyes full of bright light from the oncoming car; but aren’t they presently in your lane?

Sand blows and swirls, dancing in your headlamps. It clatters on your windshield, obscuring your views of the oncoming traffic. The road widens as you reach the main city. You advance to the next level.

“Safety,” you think. A major city with good lighting, two-lane roads and traffic-signals; a major city with a population of tourists and retired folk. Beware the car in front of you. Why can’t you enter the parking lot from the left lane? Behind you, is that a police car? Taxi---and he obviously is not planning on entertaining the yellow light.

You pull into your employer’s parking lot on time. Congratulations. You have completed level IV. You stroll into work, facing customers with light-blindness and veins flowing with coffee and adrenaline.

Ten Years In Three Words

2010-01-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

The wife urinates. Chemicals react. The stick changes. A baby’s coming!

Babies take preparation. Clean the room. Empty the room. Paint the room. Reorganize the house. Sort the stuff. A small house. Having two bedrooms.

Parents need training. We take classes. Friends get pregnant. Friends take classes. We are excited.

A bittersweet time. We are expectant. We share joy. We are stressed. We have fights. Stress levels increase. The battles increase. Demands, always. Insults, often.

I’m let go. A message left. Fired by voicemail. Typical Prudential. We retain insurance. The stress increases.

Hailey arrives! What? No instruction manual? Hailey turns yellow. We meet jaundice. Hailey loses weight. Kristina loses weight. Hailey breastfeeds badly. Mom’s frustration increases. Newborns should delight. Mom is overwhelmed.

The wife crashes. Not physically; mentally. The hospital awaits. Chaos, no diagnosis. No recognition either. I am Satan. Unknown to her. Follow the ambulance. The clinic awaits. As does sleep.

Newborn, without breast. Bills piled high. Impossible, balancing everything. Two jobs ongoing. Hungry baby cries. Cavernous eruptions inside. Open door closes. I quit training. Goodbye new job.

“Cabbage,” she cries. Breast milk recedes. Angrily she punches. Girl takes blow. She’s locked up. Fifty-one-fifty.

Baby on bottle. Emotional roller coaster. Let’s try Zoloft! The coaster continues. Try drug cocktails. Find measured success.

Things finally stabilize. God provides work. Managing medical management. Working nights also. Feed the baby. Sleep comes late. Mornings come early.

Hailey continues growing. I continue fathering. Rich blessing indeed. Hailey turns three. Money is invested. We change houses. Property is bought. House size increases.

Another layoff comes. Teaching has possibilities. I begin school. I work nights. Money is tight.

Doubts haunt Hailey. “I love you?” A question spoken. Awaiting an answer. The answer comes. “Love you too.” The ritual roars. The memories echo. The mother crashes. The baby traumatized.

Doubts haunt me. The assaults increase. Lips spout violence. “You are retarded.” Working, she escapes. We try counseling. She barely participates. She constantly berates. She works late. She avoids home. She avoids Hailey.

Grandfather’s house calls. “We must move!” She wants out. Everyone must go! Uprooting the family. Homestead is purchased. She desires escape. Flee the city. Flee the marriage. Grandpa built it! Logic isn’t important. Palm Springs or bust! Wife threatens divorce. Confused, I cave. I give in.

Chaos ensues. I cry out. Lead Lord Jesus. I seek resolution. The earth rumbles. Divorce is imminent. Blackmailed, I leave. Homeless, I wander.

The wife fornicates. Partners react. Life changes.

Today's Note on Resistance

2010-01-09T21:44:00.001-08:00

Wouldn'tcha know?

Pressfield says, "Resistance seems to come from outside ourselves. We locate it in spouses, jobs, bosses, kids...." Todays attack of resistance came at work. One of my employees fell off her bike yesterday, and damaged her hand. Tomorrow being Sunday, my first writing post is due.

Todays' shift was a 12 hour shift. I'm tired. My back hurts-bad. Tempting to give in to resistance. I press on.

Rivers In the Desert-Resolutions for 2010

2010-01-05T19:41:00.000-08:00

I made no New Year Resolutions in 2009. We’d celebrated Christmas eve in the hospital at my mom’s bedside, then moved on to a local restaurant. Come New Year I couldn’t see past the cancer diagnosis. The cancer stole my resolutions for last year.

I start this year with three simple resolutions.

The first has to do with the previous quote from the War of Art, by Pressfield.

I resolve to work at writing. That means fifty blog posts where I’ve wrestled with words and typed them at this keyboard. There will be other posts with pictures, or quotes, or postcards, but those do not count toward THE FIFTY. Furthermore, I will have at least one post up by each Sunday save special circumstances such as vacations. (Yes, this post counts).

There is a bike ride from Seattle to Portland (STP). Seven years ago I was talked into attempting said ride---in one day. We rode 185 miles of the 200 plus miles before running out of daylight. For my friend Glenn and I, this summer marks our turning fifty. We’ve resolved to finish STP this year.

Attempting Seattle to Portland in 2007 nearly killed me. So, before I go, I resolve to establish my Will.

God has a plan for 2010. Speaking in the book of Isaiah, He says, “Do not call to mind the former things, Or ponder things of the past.
Behold, I will do something new,
Now it will spring forth;
Will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert.”

I believe 2010 will be a life-affirming year. Let us resolve to press forward, drinking deeply of the new rivers that flow into our lives.

Quote of the Week-the War of Art

2010-01-05T18:54:00.000-08:00

“You know, Hitler wanted to be an artist. At eighteen he took his inheritance, seven hundred kronen, and moved to Vienna to live and study. He applied to the Academy of Fine Arts and later to the School of Architecture. Ever see one of his paintings? Neither have I. Resistance beat him. Call it overstatement but I’ll say it anyway: it was easier for Hitler to start World War II than it was for him to face a blank square of canvas.”
Steven Pressfield, the War of Art

If We Have Food and Covering

2009-12-16T23:18:00.000-08:00

Birds have nests, foxes have dens,
But the hope of the whole world rests
On the shoulders of a homeless man
You had the shoulders of a homeless man
No, You did not have a home---Rich Mullins

And she gave birth to her first-born son; and she wrapped him in cloths, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.
___________________________________________________

Two customers, two different experiences:

“I really need a coffee. I was up until eleven-I’m house shopping with my parents. We’re going to live in a house together. We looked at five-bedrooms and some seven-bedrooms. One of them was 3,500 square feet. I really don’t need a pool….”

*****

“My dad is about 89 or 90, something like that. He has a tumor between his heart and his bladder. We gave him some poison, from a scorpion. They said he was going to die but he’s lived three years. We grew up in Mexicali, my dad played in a salsa band. When he came home, (no air conditioning) he’d tell me to wave a piece of cardboard until he fell asleep, ‘when I fall asleep, I don’t feel nothing.’

We lived in a house with mats-we didn’t have furniture. Little house, with, (he illustrates with his hands, and I understand it to be) a thatched roof. The river had everything in it, shrimp and crab, and fish. We have a picture of me as a boy with big shrimp. Poor, what’s poor? We had everything. "

"For we have brought nothing into the world, so we cannot take anything out of it either. If we have food and covering, with these we shall be content.-1 Timothy 6:7,8

Not Quite Writers' Block...

2009-12-13T19:33:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know. I've got ideas spinning around in my head. I scribble notes. I imagine photographs. I laugh at my own jokes. I second guess myself and stop writing. I have a good idea at three a.m. and forget it by morning. So, I promise a new post before Thursday.

Do you have any ideas? Anything you'd like me to write about? Questions you'd like answered? Let me know, and check back in Thursday. I promise something new---just don't know what.

Blessing In The Wilderness-When God Leads Out

2009-12-04T19:00:00.000-08:00

Now when they had gone, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Get up! Take the Child and His mother and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is going to search for the Child to destroy Him."

God blesses us not only in what He leads us into, but what He leads us out of. Lately, security has been on my mind. I seek to find financial security in my work and in my investments. I revel in a relationship that will be there through my fading years. Pray for protection and maturity for my daughter to carry her into adulthood and all the adventures that await her there. Though God blesses by these still waters, greater blessings oft come as we walk down darker roads.

As I embarked upon adulthood, a friend gave me a pamphlet which reads, in part, “…but it is likely God will keep you poor, because he wants you to have something better than gold, namely, a helpless dependence upon Him, that he may have the privilege of supplying your needs day by day out of an unseen treasury.” It is from this unseen treasury that God desires we find our security.

Previously I lived with my family in a nice five-bedroom house in a nice neighborhood. We went to a church where most of the dads worked, and the moms stayed at home. Getting a well paying job would have kept me there. The status quo meant moving to the desert-literally. No job came, no door opened. God dragged me out to the desert. My marriage ended, and I ended up in a small rental house on the bad side of town.

Through that whole experience of reliance, I grew in character. I grew in my trust of God for the daily things. Living in a hotel room for three weeks, hot showers were a cause of praise, not something I took for granted. Forcing me into the wilderness showed me that (quoting Lewis) my faith was built on a house of cards.

To have stayed would have meant a faith on cruise-control, never shifting to higher levels, never growing solid, never growing real. I can see a shadow of these now five years out. Outwardly, I would have felt more secure. Certainly the grass would have been greener, heck, I would have had grass. Inwardly though, I think I would have died a slow death through boredom and lack of heart. Comfort and complacency would have killed me.

Then when Herod saw that he had been tricked by the magi, he became very enraged, and sent and slew all the male children who were in Bethlehem and all its vicinity, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had determined from the magi.

Postcard Collection-Bear Band Vacation Show

2009-11-22T15:04:00.000-08:00

Because, when life's a bear, you need to crank up some tunes....

The Disney Gallery
New Orleans Square-
Dave Feiten, 1984

Cedar Breaks Nat'l Monument

2009-11-20T21:08:00.000-08:00

More pics from the road trip to Utah in July. Finally. These are from Cedar Breaks, a small national park outside of Cedar City.

A Plea For Compassion

2009-11-15T17:40:00.000-08:00

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For just as the sufferings of Christ are ours in abundance, so also our comfort is abundant through Christ."

“God pulled through,” I said.

“Really, God pulled through?” My friend John said, sarcastically. As if to further say, “Duh, of course God pulled through. Doesn’t He always?”

God doesn’t always ‘pull through’ in the way that we expect or hope for. To miss this fact is to miss the heart of a person in the midst of significant struggle. God did not save my marriage or heal my friend Erik of cancer. My brothers and sisters in North Korea are still martyred daily.

Well meaning Christ loving brothers and sisters often recount the story of Job with those going through a season of trial. They remind us that God restored Job, giving him seven sons and three daughters. They quote Isaiah 61 to the hurting brother, saying that God will bring ‘beauty from ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning.’ Yet we mustn't fail to recognize that Job initially lost his first children in a tornado. Acknowledging beauty from ashes means that something burned in the first place.

If we are to encourage people in their sufferings, we must be willing to meet with them on a heart level. This necessitates identifying the reality of the trial. God may not heal the marriage or allow the prisoner escape from his fetters. Remember that Jacob wrestled with God and was blessed, yet suffered a dislocated hip (to this day, the sons of Israel do not eat the sinew of the thigh-Gen. 32:32).

Paul tells us to “rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn.” The day of rejoicing will come. Until then, let us not discount the fires that were walked through along the way.

Go Ahead, It'll Take the Edge Off

2009-11-11T16:42:00.000-08:00

Hell. I was going to ride anyway.

Got home from work and popped open the browser. Didn't find the email I was hoping to find. Found one from an old friend instead.

"I am in major marital and financial crisis - divorce papers filed. I can tell you more details over the phone. Very concerned about---, as our child still needs his father in his life. ---has little or no family/friends to support him during this difficult and heart-renching time. Has he by any chance contacted you? If not, perhaps after we speak, you could try to reach out to him as he needs a stable and loyal friend right now. I feel his mental, emotional, and psychological state are very low, most likely even suicidal. Don't know where he is."

A dark, dismal, grey and windy day outside which, now, suited my mood just perfectly. I jumped on the bike and furiously road into the wind. Screaming at the wind, and the world, I roared, "Come on! Is this all you've got? A little wind? Come on! Come-On."

Last night at bible study, another friend shared that while he was at the courthouse fighting his divorce, he got a parking ticket. He said that formerly, he would have stewed about it for hours. He said at this point, he feels it's just another skirmish in the battle. He just says, "Bring it on!"

Screaming, and mashing on the pedals doesn't make for good speed or an even cadence, but it takes the edge off of a bad email---or a bad circumstance of any sort for that matter.

How My Being Republican Kills People

2009-11-04T13:40:00.000-08:00

My being a Republican could kill people. How is it that something so important to me could be so deadly?

1) My identification with being a Republican mars my identity as a Christ follower.

To illustrate, let’s say I head over to my Dad’s house for Thanksgiving. Inevitably, I will be attacked for belonging to the same party as Sarah Palin, or George Bush. We’ll have a heated discussion about something that matters as much as the weather.

If I’m attacked, it should be because I follow Christ. I believe that without a heart changed by becoming a follower of Christ, there will be no real change in behaviour, hence no change in the social structure. Finally, failing to follow Christ results in spiritual death, and permanent separation from God.

2) I give credence to the idea that doing the right thing (being a conservative) makes you a good person.

Fact is, none of us are good people. None of us is perfect; all of us are deserving of Hell. Wearing a Republican lapel pin doesn’t make you any nicer person than belonging to the socialist party or the democrat party. Here’s the strange thing-If you are a follower of Christ, your political affiliation, ultimately, doesn’t matter. You are still fully God-approved, and a citizen of Heaven. (Granted, I’ll fight you tooth and nail regarding the earthly difference it makes).

3) My energy is focused on things that lead away from God.

The book of James says, “Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.”
Though my energies as a Republican are much toward this end, still I wonder how much more I could focus on learning about God, and helping orphans, widows and the poor in their distress.

I imagine my wrestling with this issue will be similar to the illustration Luther gives of the Christian balancing grace and law; like a drunk man riding a horse, you tend to always fall to one side or the other.

Clown Make-Up and Joy

2009-10-31T17:18:00.000-07:00

Of course there was an award. The best costume of the day would win a $25.00 gift certificate.

I dress up for fun. I find the entire process enjoyable; conception to culmination, there is delight in being in-character. I'm satisfied to push a little on my personal envelope, even as I step out a little beyond my box. I know the outfit rocks. The customers love it as well. Some say they need the laugh, others just stop in their tracks.

I was delighting in the experience, finding joy in the process, until somebody said to me, "You will probably get the award." Suddenly, my focus changed to the award. For some brief moments, it became about getting the prize. When that happened, I felt joy leave, and a heaviness ensue. Now it was all about the competition and the prize. Furthermore, now it was up to others to vote me "Best Costume." The end result of the process wasn't up to me.

This end of joy can come to us just as quickly in the midst of everyday living. One moment we are finding joy in the presence of God, in the fellowship of friends, laughter, wind and Sun. Moments later, perhaps unawares, our focus changes direction, and joy is lost.

I need a new job, that shiny car, the new girls' attention, the 47-inch screen television. These become the goal. My joy is now up to somebody else, and a positive end means getting that goal met.

Joy is found in those things I can change. Joy is found in the process. Joy is found in the present. Joy is satisfied in the future. Ultimately, joy is its own reward.

"...Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

Sydney Meets the Kat

2009-10-19T17:24:00.000-07:00

This time, the body was far better than the voice; and the voice had already caused him some lack of sleep. Not much information in last nights’ telephone call, a vague description and the name of a coffee bar.

Walking across the hard wood floor, his brain was still processing. Golden blonde hair cut shoulder length, blue skirt slit past the knee exposing thigh, followed by shapely legs. “Hello,” he said extending his hand, “Sydney at your service.”
Rising, she stood up to meet him. “Kat with a K. Please be seated.”

Sitting down, he was aware that the rich smell of coffee; chocolate, earthy, nutty, had receded. He was intensely aware of her perfume. Light and sweet, floating gently, hiding itself from full revelation to the senses, like the woman who sat across from him.

“You said you had some crucial information for me,” said Sydney.

“We have Veronica.”

“Damn,” thought Sydney. “Why doesn’t anyone ever kidnap Roscoe? Please explain.”

“As we speak, she is my prisoner. Foolish girl can’t bypass a pass and a drink. She lives still, bound and drugged…”As Sydney drew a breath to speak, Kat (with a K) said, “This time, against her volition.”

“Do you know how much I hate conversations with quotation marks? What do you want?” As he asked the question, he reached for the shortbread. In doing so, his hand met hers, sending electric shock up his arm, while at the same time igniting his brain at the hint of how soft and smooth she was.

Kat stared directly into his eyes. “We need you and Roscoe out of the picture for three days, beginning in two days. Then, when you return, perhaps we can meet for more than coffee.”

He’d wanted to say that Hades could freeze over before he’d enjoy her company, but Kat had got his tongue (and a few other parts) and what he said was, “That would be delightful.” Like espresso acid on a baristas’ hands, she’d already begun to seep into his soul.

Meanwhile, in a warehouse not far away….
She wasn’t sure which was worse, the dryness of her mouth when she was aching with thirst, or the spit that dripped down her neck after they’d poured the water down her throat. She made a mental note to herself not to drink with strangers. The hard, cold cement grew harder and more uncomfortable with each moment. She could not find a comfortable position. Warmth was just out of reach, and cold was ready to completely envelope her.
To be continued…..

Now That Was A Dumb PR Move

2009-10-16T20:14:00.000-07:00

This week, Las Vegas is hosting Blog World and Media Expo, in which tons of bloggers and Tweeters will descend upon the city. In this case: What happens in Vegas....gets blogged and tweeted to the rest of the world.

Picture this: A large group of Mommy Bloggers make reservations at a hotel (I believe it was the Renaissance). These bloggers have an incredible network, a coffee klatch online. These are women who are used to networking, whether sharing recipes, raising children, increasing breast-cancer awareness---this is one well networked, large group of bloggers.

Hotels, apparently, like airlines, overbook. Which they did, and in this case told the bloggers-"No room at the inn." Thus alienating all those moms. Moms that won't be checking into any of the Renaissance Hotels the next time they take a family vacation.

Rows and Rows of Lockers

2009-10-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

I’m not naked. On one side, a cement ramp rises at a fairly steep slant, the ramp is bordered by a handrail, a thick tube of solid steel. On the other side, rows and rows of lockers. Lockers of the type you see in high schools, or, movies about high schools. The wall of lockers extends, seemingly, forever in both directions. I race along the cement path, seeking to find my locker. I can’t find it. Or I do, and I’ve forgotten the combination. Why race to find my locker? I forgot about a test. A test I must take. To take the test though, I need to get something out of my locker.

I’m not naked, as I said before. Nakedness, the stereotype of bad dreams, would be a slight embarrassment, a minor inconvenience compared to the terror and angst this nightmare produces. I’ve had this particular nightmare, in various forms and in various degrees, going far back as the ramp and rows extend. If life puts me under significant stress, I expect the dream.

I’ve not had it yet this month though. I expect it in the midst of financial fear, a result of not selling a large piece of real estate, coupled with a bad economy, and a job that pays too little. It’s mom’s birthday month too, and I can’t pick up the phone and call her. Can’t call my sister either, she’s not talking to me. So, I expect the dream. Haven’t had it in a while though.

More concrete than the ramp that ascends along the row of lockers is my faith. A faith that’s grown in these last years, through divorce, and child-rearing, and friendships, and richness of life. Walking this path, I’m learning to “cast my anxieties on Him,” because He cares for me. I know that He whom allows the tests, gives me grace to come through the tests. If the dream comes, I shake it off, and press on.

Picture of Lego art by Nathan Sawaya, at Turtle Bay

Sasquatch Summer

2009-09-30T21:13:00.000-07:00

Darkness looms large at age twelve. Bone chilling cold, a still, thick darkness at arms reach, and closing in. A cold hungering something living out there. It’s the reason children close their closets at night, and double lock the front doors.

It should have been a simple hike. We were at that age; talk often turned to the important things in life, girls, God, sex, Sasquatch. In the early nineteen seventies, talk of Bigfoot was everywhere.
There was no water piped to the mobile home we were camping in. The three of us set out before dusk to fill water jugs from the local spring. Three teenage boys on family vacation from junior high school. As boys do, we took our time getting to our destination. Slowed by conversation about girls and dreams, observations of bugs and slugs, we made our way to the wooden tank which housed the water. Filling jugs with water is hard work, the jugs grow heavy, and the heat and humidity grow proportionally. Boys at rest in the presence of water slow proportionally.

The sun continued to set. As often happens, the minute the sun hit the horizon, night was upon us. We set out to return to the mobile home. We couldn’t find the trail. Though we’d done this hike morning and evening for a week, still every rabbit and deer trail looked the same. We circled the wooden tank completely. No trail looked familiar; no light shone in the distance, no direction seemed the right direction to go.

As we walked around in search of the trail leading home, we grew in panic and fear. Normally, camping out on a warm summer night is every kids dream. Not when you are lost, away from parents, food and comfort, and in the presence of panic, fear, and whatever lay just beyond that small tree in the distance.

As we listened for voices from home, we heard a different sound very close at hand. A trampling through brush, then, a loud cracking of a stick. To make that much sound, a large stick must be broken. To break a large stick must take an animal of significant weight. Bigfoot was upon us.

We continued to circle, increasing in doubt and panic. Fear came upon us wave after wave, as we imagined (or didn’t?) what was stocking us. In the nick of time, we heard noise coming up toward us. The girls had come, lanterns in hand, to find us.

To this day, when I hear tales of Bigfoot, for the most part, I scoff. Yet something made those noises in the woods. An animal big enough to break large sticks. What if?

Zion With Wheels

2009-09-18T19:09:00.000-07:00

Puff the Magic Dragon

2009-09-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

"Travers handled her declining health with bravery and generosity, showing her love to friends and family "with great dignity and without restraint." "It was, as Mary always was, honest and completely authentic," he said. "That's the way she sang, too; honestly and with complete authenticity."

Enduring, endearing. There aren't many groups that I can think of that I'd be telling my daughter Hailey, "She's with Peter, Paul and Mary. You know, they sing 'Puff, the Magic Dragon." I can't even tell you where I first heard them, or how I came to enjoy their music. It may be that I went to see them with a friend in college and got hooked. However it came about, I can still put on my 'Best Of' tape and sing along with great joy, tears in my eyes because 'Jackie Paper came no more." Timeless.

Mary Travers of Peter, Paul and Mary dead at 72.

Bad Company

2009-09-08T21:44:00.000-07:00

“Do not be misled: "Bad company corrupts good character." Come back to your senses as you ought, and stop sinning; for there are some who are ignorant of God—I say this to your shame.”

Bang, bang, bang went my screen door. I opened my door to a face taut with agony, a woman I did not know. “They are rampaging my house. Call 911. I’m at 58540,” with that, she ran off.

I called 911. Truly an efficient network. They quickly routed me to the local desert police.

The wind howled; and stopped howling precisely when the screaming began. Soon thereafter, I saw a shadow through the trees, and heard my neighbor yell, “I’m here, I’m here.”

Leah’s baby was four weeks old. Leah left her home in Arizona, and had my friends pick her up in Blythe. She was finally ending it, finally leaving her husband. She’d had enough of the abuse. She was afraid for the baby.

The media, and our experience, tell us that it’s always the good woman beat up by the bad man. Dr. Laura points out that its actually more of a ballet, and less one person in the lead. She abuses and strives for control too, just differently.

Leah returned home to Arizona after three days. Left again, and went to her dad’s. Same story. Two days later, she stole his money from a drawer, caught the bus and headed home again.

We try all kinds of dances for control and power. Different steps to assuage the brokenness of our hearts. Ultimately, we’re not satisfied until we let God lead, no matter the tune the band is playing.

Bodies In Motion-An Overview of Last Weekend

2009-09-04T20:43:00.000-07:00

The Friday morning bike ride:

“I can’t go on,” Darryl said, his face bright red, his body sagging against a tree for support. I handed him the last of my water.

“I won’t have you dying on my watch,” I said. “Can you muster the strength to go on for the remaining three miles?” I coaxed him back onto his bike, after we’d walked our bikes the last half-mile. We finished with a slow and wobbly ride, cresting the final hill and descending down.

The Friday night phone call to my sister goes worse than the morning bike ride:

Trying to communicate and move forward on my mom’s estate becomes increasingly difficult.
Me: “The last conversation we had I felt you were very derogatory.”
Her: “Here are the reasons I was derogatory.”
Overall, the whole phone conversation modeled Newtons Third Law of Motion:

“Whenever a first body exerts a force F on a second body, the second body exerts a force −F on the first body. F and −F are equal in magnitude and opposite in direction.”
Or, as the Beatles penned it, “I say high, you say low, You say why, and I say I don't know Oh, no…You say goodbye and I say hello.”

Saturday night date:

Dinner and a movie (Julie and Julia), and then chilled at Fridays’. The evening flew by and before we knew it, it was one o’clock in the morning. I drove home, barely making it alive---the two Cokes didn’t help stave off my fading while at the wheel.

Sunday at work:

A unique individual from another store filled in at my store on Sunday. When I met her, she told me, “You sounded taller on the phone.” Hmmm. She brought her own rubber gloves, and her own cleaning kit. To work in a coffee kiosk?

Clashing, aligning, realigning…bonking, eating, laughing; and cleaning. Bodies at rest, bodies in motion, bodies colliding, bodies reacting.

Zion Nat'l Park-1st Set

2009-08-21T22:01:00.000-07:00

The hike up to The Emerald Pools during our trip in July. A long, hot hike past the first two pools, which weren't pools at all. The third stop was a pool, though hardly emerald.

Don't Shoot the Cat

2009-08-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

Candace Donato is experiencing the first-half of his fifteen minutes of fame.

Donato, who isn't even five feet tall, is now training Mr. Bones, a seven foot long albino alligator...in the water!
So far, he can "stop."
"I place my hands over his eyes and he stops," Donato said.
The white alligator will be swimming around, and then pauses when Donato's hands cover his eyes. Mr. Bones can also "shake hands."

"They put this gator back of a Ford truck," he says, "cause they wanted to show how the bed of the truck was 'Ford tough." Alligator swung his tail roun and destroyed the bed of the truck." Such was the story I heard from a man in Memphis, while on a road trip through the south.

The same road trip took us to Kleibert's Alligator and Turtle Farm, in Hammond, La. (Britney's been there too!) The tour guide went to great depths to explain that alligators are driven purely by instinct. Killing instinct, in fact. As I remember, he then threw a gator a piece of meat. He explained the gator roll, and how they use their body of solid muscle, to spin numerous times at great speed while holding the prey in their teeth. This kills and rips their prey simultaneously.

Sigmund and Roy thought the cats were safe too.

On October 3, 2003, during a show at The Mirage, Roy Horn was bitten on the neck by a seven-year-old male tiger named Montecore. Crew members separated Horn from the tiger and rushed him to the only Level I trauma center in Nevada, University Medical Center. Horn was critically injured and sustained severe blood loss. While being taken to the hospital, Horn said, according to sources, "Don't shoot the cat!"

I'm guessing that someday soon, Mr. Donato will experience the final segment of his fifteen minutes. "According to sources, while on his way to the hospital, Donato gasped, "Don't break Bones, don't shoot Bones."

Alzheimers and Attitude

2009-08-13T15:18:00.000-07:00

Sitting across from my dad, you would simply think he’s a quiet old man. Quietly dreaming, lost in his own thought. Sometime he cusses and gets ornery. He’ll track with you when you’re talking and make an appropriate joke. Then he’ll ask you (for the 12th time in thirty minutes) if you want something to drink.

My dad has Alzheimer’s, whatever that means. I think it means different things to different people depending upon their experience. I suspect, for instance, that even if my dads’ health was normative that he’d be ornery. Perhaps at Eighty-one, he’d do nothing but sit and rest even if his mind were more alert.

The wife of my father is heading out for a short five day vacation, and I’ll be heading into town to hang out with him. It’s not with great anticipation I do this, nor with anxiety or angst. I am just not looking forward to it.

I dread the long periods of time with my father. I see them as empty and boring. I’m uncomfortable in his house. I’ll have no access to all of my stuff, my computer especially. I’ll be hemmed in-freedom restricted, life curtailed.

Mired in this mindset, a thought flickered in my mind-What does this say about me? It’s four days-out of my comfort zone, granted, but also off work, time to rest, pray and think. Time with my dad.

Time to readjust my attitude and my thinking and make a choice. I have a magnet from Newlife ministries (http://www.newlife.com/) on my fridge that says “Healing is a Choice,” followed by 10 tenets, all positive, all life affirming. Choice number 6 is “The choice to embrace your life.” So I head out today, embracing the weekend with positive expectation; albeit teeter-tottering with dread and pessimism.

Not Atwitter About Twittering

2009-08-04T12:05:00.000-07:00

I'm out of touch with culture already as I don't watch television. Now I'm missing the Twitter boat. Everybody is doing it. God's apparently doing it. Yup. Traditionally, pilgrims visiting the Wailing Wall in Israel leave their prayer requests at the wall, verbally, vocally, or in writing. Now you can Twitter God from the privacy of your own home, or while at work, or even, gads, while driving. I'm not certain, however, that God has a Twitter account. Otherwise, wouldn't Jesus have made the Lords' Prayer less than 140 characters?

Past presidents are doing it too. Quincy Adams will start twittering soon. This could open a door to all types of Twitter notes. Mark Twain on Twitter? Ayn Rand on Twitter. Famous composers like George Frideric Handel on Twitter; nah, they're de-composing.

Finally, fellow bloggers are all up in arms because of Sponsored Tweets. You knew it'd come to this, of course-Tweeted commercials.

Don't look for me on Twitter. Takes me a day to text two sentences to my daughter. If you want to talk, you can e-mail me or call me on my cell phone (the one that doesn't take pictures or link to the Internet.)

Update: Everybody's doing it except for the Marines. "The Marine Corps on Monday issued an administrative directive saying it was banning the use of Marine network for accessing such sites as FaceBook, Twitter and MySpace. The order doesn't affect Marines' private use of such networks on personal computers outside of their jobs."

The Theology Of Suffering-God's Purpose in Pain-Part Two

2009-08-03T13:42:00.000-07:00

"God has appointed who shall suffer. Suffering comes not by chance, or by the will of man, but by the will and appointment of God."
-John Bunyan, quoted in The Hidden Smile of God, by John Piper.

"God permits what He hates to accomplish that which He loves."

***

Oft times it happens suddenly; the phone call in the middle of the night, the truck crossing the median, the dive into shallow water. Immediately you are thrust into a difficult period of life, a season of struggle, a short or long period of trial.

Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that life should be easy. Difficult experiences were the rarity, the intruders, and the abnormal freakish events. Historically and biblically I’ve had it all backward.

In thirty years, I’d never had a call from my friends’ mother, then, one night it came, “John didn’t want me to call until he was certain he’d live…” In short, a truck had crossed over the median and straight into his car, all family inside. John had to be extricated from the car with the “jaws of life.” All four of limbs shattered, both eyes blinded by battery acid. His wife suffered spinal injuries, one child a small concussion, the other fine. Three years later John has made great progress, but struggles daily with the damage done to him in the accident.

One of the best-known, present day stories of struggle is that of Joni Eareckson Tada, who, “26 years ago, was lying on a hospital bed in suicidal despair, depressed, discouraged, after the hot July afternoon when I took that dive into shallow water, a dive which resulted in a severe spinal cord injury, which left me paralyzed from the shoulders down, without use of my hands and my legs.”

Since God is for us, and since,
“All the inhabitants of the earth are accounted as nothing, But He does according to His will in the host of heaven” ---Why trials? Like the climber with his piton (a piton acts as an anchor to protect the climber against the consequences of a fall), I need fixed concepts for my mind to hold onto. So I wrestle with trials, to grasp their purpose, to gain solid hold in a slippery chasm.

Joni lays out three key reasons for trials in our lives.

1) They are like a sheepdog leading us to God. Nobody is naturally drawn to the cross.

2) People suffering great conflict always have something to say to those who are handling lesser conflict. As Paul says in Corinthians, “Blessed be the Father of mercies and God of all comfort who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort …with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

3) They increase our capacity for God.

As I wrestle with the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of each difficulty that comes across my path, the pitons holding me up are rooted not in the possible answers to the why questions, but in the ultimate purpose of a God that has love, mercy and goodness as key components of His character.

Make time to watch or listen to the video, because, as Joni shows, “People with disability are gods’ best audio-visual aids to how we should handle trials.”

They've Killed Rosie!

2009-07-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

I remember the call to this day. I remember the horror and devastation in my wife’s voice. “They’ve killed Rosie,” she said combining scream and sob into one. “They were cutting down a tree, and one of the branches…They killed Rosie.”

Rosie, as she became known, was a small bare-root that we’d received from close friends as a wedding gift. She was my first rose bush, and I’d spent hours learning how to trim her, when to trim her, and when to fertilize her. I’d raised her from the initial planting; through rain and drought, aphid attack and rust. With soap sprays and ladybugs, watering and pruning we’d watched her grow into a beautiful rose bush, producing full red blooms throughout the years.

They hadn’t killed her. Rosie was resilient. Smashed, dejected, broken she was, but still clinging to life. Rosie had survived all three of our moves, including the final one to the desert.

When I moved out, Rosie didn’t come with me. I wasn't sure where I was going, or how to move Rosie. Without loving care, Rosie’s certainly died.

I thought of Rosie today, as I looked around at my new plants. Come Spring it will be a good time to honor her resilient spirit by planting anew; a Deep Secret, Chivalry, Imperial Chrysler. Maybe even a Rambling Rosie.

Reno-Things Lost

2009-07-15T15:29:00.000-07:00

Hungry and tired, we finally find a place to eat dinner. Finally, we are seated. I set my camera bag down on a chair, which I never do. After a dinner of pulled pork, cornbread, corn and drinks (Ale for me, lemonade for Hailey), we head back up to the room where we get stuck on the life of Kat Von D (consider it cultural research; where I live everybody has a tattoo).

Visiting the bathroom, I notice my camera battery which I’d left charging before going to dinner. “Crumbs,” I scream (this version has been edited for children) and come out of the bathroom in high freaked out mode. Hailey’s up and on her feet, already realizing what I’d realized-I’d left my camera bag and all its contents on the chair in the restaurant!

We are staying at the Silver Legacy, a large casino that is connected to two other large casinos; the El Dorado and Circus Circus. By luck we had originally found our way to a barbeque place for dinner in the first place. We are now forced to find our way back through three casinos at midnight high on adrenaline. The adrenaline helps significantly, the cigarette smoke not-so-much.

Everybody from the restaurant is gone, except the cleaning staff. No, they’ve not seen a camera bag. Had it been found, it would have been turned into security, downstairs. Hole in pit of stomach gets deeper.

Hot on Haileys’ heels we run down the stairs, navigate through the slot-machines, and find the guard in the security booth. The security guard, Juan, searches the data-base. No camera bag has been turned in. Hailey crying and me in the midst of depression, (while hitting myself on the head and saying “Stupid” over and over) we head back up to the hotel room.

“Dad, you said that God always does things for a purpose.”
“Yeah, maybe somebody really needed a camera,” I say, bad attitude showing.

“Dad, we should pray.” So, we pray. Reminding myself that the camera is just a thing. People lose things much worse. Fortunately, I’d traded out the memory card, so we still had all the pictures. Time-12:00 p.m. Hole in pit of stomach feels permanent.

12:20 p.m. We are awakened by the phone ringing; Hailey answers it as I can’t discern what the heck is ringing. It’s Juan, from security. Someone has turned in my camera bag.

Time again for the casino marathon; down the stairs, through the smoke, by the slots, up the stairs, through the corridors, down the stairs. Juan isn’t there, but the other security guard knows the story. My camera bag is returned.

It’s a God thing. I’d not left my name with Juan, but my camera strap has my name on it; and there was an envelope in it addressed to me. The security desk is in Circus-Circus, but we were staying at the Legacy. The bag was turned into the Deli, across the hallway from the restaurant we’d eaten in. Mysteries all. As is the way that God watches out for his children.

Zion National Park-Things Fallen

2009-07-15T14:10:00.000-07:00

We’d hiked the trail to Zion’s Weeping Rock; a trail that was short, but not easy as touted. Staring up, we heard a loud clanging noise to our right like a metal pipe falling onto pavement. Sure enough, there was a lady on the ground, and to her right, the pipe-metal guardrail (bottom picture) that had obviously come crashing down.

Dodging tourist traffic, we took our share of pictures and headed back down the trail, catching up to the woman, hobbling down the trail with one hand on her cane, and the other holding her husband. Taking into account her fall, her hobble, and the steep pitch of the trail I offered to go fetch a park ranger. Hailey offered to stay with the couple, Margaret and Richard. I went down the trail to find a bus driver to radio a ranger.

(Little side note here: The new bus system in Zion National Park is awesome. Used to be you had to battle thousands of cars for road space and parking space, often spinning in circles to find parking at the site you desired to visit. The new propane powered, air-conditioned shuttles run every six minutes and make continuous loops through the park. They stop frequently, within walking distance of every destination.)

Catching a bus driver, I told him of the couples plight. He laughed when I described the woman as “older,” maybe in her early sixties, about 250 Lbs.

Soon, the ranger arrived and I led her back up the trail, meeting Hailey half-way up. She had run back down the trail so that she could assure the couple that help was on the way.
We found Margaret some yards from where we’d left her. One leg quickly swelling, the second leg (recently broken) felt as if things “were shifting around” in there. We left Margaret, Richard and the ranger deciding on hospitals and ambulances as we went back down the trail.

At trails’ end, we realized that this was an answer to our prayers-not that Margaret’s leg were broken, but that we’d bless others in our travels.

Celebrating the Fourth of July

2009-07-03T22:08:00.000-07:00

"They're having less fireworks displays this year. Good thing. Too noisy, too much traffic. It's all for kids anyway," so spoke one of my elderly customers to my eldest employee (a bit of a stick-in-the-mud himself). I must be a kid then!

Since childhood, I've rarely missed the fireworks. The most recent was after my divorce. Being single, and alone, I decided not to attend any celebration. Oddly, I'd felt more alone staying at home than partaking someplace. Prior to that, my mother had booked travel to Latvia on July Fourth. What was she thinking?

Growing up, we'd drag the dogs along to the local park, and try to hold them down and quiet them during the explosions. Yeah, placing a small childs' hand over a dogs' ear should help. While we grew older, so did the dogs. We left them at home, hoping that they'd feel safe inside the house. One year my mother turned on some classical music---soothing the beasts, she hoped.

When my Hailey was little, we dragged her along. She was worse than the dogs! The first couple of years she would close her eyes and cover her ears, all the while yelling "To loud, to loud!" It took forever (seriously, years) to get her to at least open her eyes.

I've seen fireworks displays at the high school in Prescott, Arizona, the stadium at University of Wyoming, the Chicago waterfront and with the Boston Pops on the Esplanade. Last year I drove out to the Marine Corps Combat Center for my third time. This year, I'll be driving to the local high school with Hailey. I hope I don't have to hold her ears closed all night.

"And I’m proud to be an American,where at least I know I’m free.
And I wont forget the men who died,who gave that right to me.
And I gladly stand up,next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,God bless the USA."

Taking Life For Granted

2009-06-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

“Man, he looks like he’s had a bad night,” I thought to myself, as I pulled up next to my mechanic. I yell to him through the open car windows, “I’m finally bringin her in for a check-up.” “I’ll be right in,” he says.

As he walks toward me, Michael is talking on his cell phone, “No, she’s great. She made it through. I haven’t seen her yet today as they keep real strict visiting hours. I love you too.” Now I’m starting to realize there IS a reason he looks like he had a bad night.

“When my wife was 9, she fell off the porch and hit her forehead. She broke the skull underneath…” At this point he pauses. “One day she’s sitting and watching TV, and she starts screaming, and shaking, and crying.” He calls for the ambulance and she is transported to the emergency room. They find that she has a temperature above 104, and massive infection throughout her body. It turns out that they never knew that she had broken her skull when she fell from the porch, and now, years later, her brains’ grey matter is leaking through the crack in her skull through her sinus passage and into her body.

They put her on powerful antibiotics which need to be infused through an IV. This process takes 4-1/2 weeks. Ultimately, though, they have to operate, because, as the doctor told Michael, “Brain fluid only belongs in the brain.”

The operation involves cutting open her skull, pulling down her face, and fixing the crack in her forehead. There’s a 5% chance (yes, five) that things will go well. There is a ninety-five percent chance that she’ll go blind, lose hearing, lose feeling, be paralyzed and/or all the above.

Coming out of the surgery, Michael’s wife saw him and told him she loved him. A day later she was beginning to eat and hold full conversations with him.

My pastor is fond of thanking God for “…another day which you did not promise us.” Amen.

Burning the Journals-Musings on Being a Writer

2009-06-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

Did you develop a writing discipline?
I wrote my first novel when I was 14. I was a big fan of Raymond Chandler, Hemingway, all those guys. I had read a wonderful book of Chandler's letters. In it he said something like you should spend four hours every day doing nothing else but writing. I took that very seriously. That became my discipline.

There must be various strains of the same disease. I've never spent four hours a day writing; heck, I barely spend four hours a day sleeping. I have been known to carry a notebook to scribble in though, and I've filled many a paper coffee cup sleeve with poetry and personal observations. Do I bleed ink though? If I was banned from ever writing again they'd have to put me in a rubber room, this I know. Of course they can't stop you from writing the story in your head.

I've filled journals since I was in high school. Which I'm thinking of burning by the way. Why would I do that? While going through the 10 boxes of paper (refrigerator boxes, not shoe boxes) I hauled out of my mom's house, I came across one of her reviews from her last employer. It was a horrible review, my mom was still working at age 70, and may have been a tad burnt out. Reading it provoked all type of bad thoughts and feelings about my mom; not necessarily balanced or rational. Gads, I thought. What will they think when they read my unedited, gut level, no-holds barred journal entries?

Four hours a day is impossible. What if I just commit to writing more? Writing about daily adventures? While writing this note, my ex-wife called to remind me the mortgage on the old house is due. Is there a story there? Hailey and her friends were over tonight for grilled-cheese and pineapple. That's the title of a children's book right there.

What do you think? What lights you up? What if you did that an hour more a day? Let's give it a shot.

Liberty, 1886-Celebrating D-Day: Postcard Collection

2009-06-06T16:42:00.000-07:00

Sixty-five years ago today, the US, Britain, Canada, as well as Australia, New Zealand, Norway, Poland and others, sent their best young men to storm the beaches of Normandy and liberate an entire continent from the iron grip of a madman and a cult of death that surrounded him. Over 150,000 of them charged off of the troop carriers; at least 2500 never made it off the beaches, or in some cases, not even onto the beaches. No one actually knows the exact number lost on D-Day, and many of the dead were never found. The official casualty figure, including wounded and missing, exceeds 10,000.

Postcard: Construction of the Statue of Liberty on Bedloe's Island, 1886. Courtesy Barbara Cohen, New York Bound Books. Copyright 1985 by Dover Publications, Inc.

Catalina Photos-Set Two

2009-06-01T20:48:00.001-07:00

Catalina Photos

2009-06-01T20:42:00.000-07:00