Kenosis, Christmas and Hope

“Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself…”

Kenosis is the Greek term.  It means Christ emptied himself of divine attributes in becoming human. Clash of kingdoms. Spirit puts on flesh. The Christmas gospel captures hearts because of this.  Stories of humans making spiritual decisions. In spite of circumstance.  Magi setting personal lives on the shelf in response to the quiet shout of the Heavens and the words of a prophet. Joseph and Mary strike out for Jerusalem as a couple---a pregnant couple putting trust in angel words and First Testament writing over reputation. A desperate despot who thinks the writings may be true…whoa to the two-year olds.  In the midst—grace, peace, forgiveness. Which is why I find such hope in the Christmas story.

We trust in a coming king and a present God. Still normal life looks, well, normal. Water heaters still go out on Christmas.  Governments seem at best to burden the governed.  At worse they persecute them.  In early December Chinese police detained Pastor Wang Yi. “As a pastor, my disobedience is one part of the gospel commission,” Wang wrote. “Christ’s great commission requires of us great disobedience. The goal of disobedience is not to change the world but to testify about another world.”

There is another world.  A risen king. We try live in that way; crucified with Christ living as Christ.  We hold fast to Bible word; “all things work together for good, It is He sits above the circle of the earth, He it is who reduces rulers to nothing, Who makes the judges of the earth meaningless…” This Christmas, we encounter normal, joyful or dismal.  Still may we find hope.  For the things we see may not be the way they truly are. “And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse, and He who sat on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness He judges and wages war.”

Waiting Room

In wheelchair he sits and reads the list

Of medications he takes;

Should Prednisone be listed because he only

Took it four days?

His wife, caregiver, or both sits beside

Him trying to pronounce each prescription.

She sits taut and ridged like the

Words she speaks;

Germanic or Swedish some

Language that’s hardly romantic.

Her son, definitely her son, sits beside her

Affirming roadblocks for each new drug.

A young woman sits there by the window holding

Her phone and talking;

She’s alone except for the voice on the phone

And the company of a cough.

She doesn’t seem to fit with the others though

She shares a sense of the same despair.

I sit and watch them all as they wait for the nurse

To call their name;

Wondering if this waiting is better because

It’s a first world waiting.

Bound to the others by common infirmity still

I bounce and dance out into the rain.

A Time For Listening

“You reached out to touch me, I said oh no, it's too true,You and me, we know too much…” Mark Heard

A time for silence, a time for listening. A bunch of deciding between. Quiet when we should be loud. Turning up the wrong voices. Turning off the quiet ones. Some sounds are overwhelming. Shattering glass and gunfire throw off two-stepping at the Borderline. Sirens in the Sierra and Santa Monicas. Coming on the heels of mid-term elections and time change. Many voices; devastating.

Mine should be a loud voice; singing a song of thanksgiving. Hugging those close. Serving the ones with devastating stories to tell—we all have a story to tell. Whispering life to those with ears to hear. Turning backs to dark, hurtful (“hurt people hurt people”) voices; like heroes covering others in that country bar. We cover our ears.

We whoosh through life. Flesh says shut self into soundproof shell. Keep it out, keep them out. Humanity says fling open the windows. Swoosh; wind blows in, life in, air in, breathe in. The wind blows too strong some days.

The listening is important. The cross calls me to hear the cries of the world I live in. To help lift burdens; by listening or carrying. The cacophony is likely to burden. High pitched tension the norm. I must listen to my soul. Rest as I must. Too often I want escape and insulation. Jesus’ example fleshes out this tension. Daily serving, teaching, living. To calibrate he climbed mountains---to hear from his Father. May I know when to lean in, when to lean out, and how to listen throughout.

One Must Have A Mind Of Desert

One must have a mind of desert

To delight in gale and dry heat of day giving way to

Cold brittle nights forcing stars awake from under their blankets

Waking the coyotes who dig for water that

Surfaces for Bighorn sheep and Cottontails,

Water that San Andreas fault and fissures force into springs,

Hot saunas, cool oasis flowing through aeolian dirt that

The permanent shelled turtle thrives in though always sifting,

Like the wind always blowing dust, barely bringing wild rain

Pounding rapidly, soaking soil that can’t grasp precipitate but

Creosote, Cholla and Ocotillo, deep rooted, thick skinned,

Grab hold of moisture and fight to hold tight until Spring

Loosens calloused fingers, rough, brittle, from cracks grow

Fairy Duster and Paintbrush; polychromatic on stark backdrop

They make their stand; dig in for one more season.

---Inspired by the poem, The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens and by prompts on writing poems at https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/

Ninety Nine

A desolate drive,

Not desert,

Farm after farm,

Occasional tree,

Two hours in,

Choking smell of cow.

Sister studied there,

Rural school,

Miles from home,

Chasing art and wine,

Five years in,

Fleeing parents’ grasp.

Truck stops and fast food,

Each off-ramp,

Bathrooms aplenty,

Billboards boast lawyers,

Eight eight eight,

Marring the landscape.

Dinuba Reedley,

Nuts, raisins,

Short stretch to sis,

Where’s the Kings river?

One short hop,

Sweet time with sibling.

A regal river,

Citified,

Time changes all,

Images remain,

Fifty years in,

Cherished moments still.

Luck Has No Face

Photo by Quinten de Graaf on Unsplash

You can’t bargain with luck or argue with luck. Can’t go eye-to-eye or toe-to-toe with it. I throw on a favorite jersey, short and that comfortable pair of socks. There are a variety of socks I wear cycling and certain ones I wear most of the time.  Part comfort, part tradition. Here’s an embarrassing confession. Some socks feel luckier than others.

I’m rational. Intellectual. There’s no luck. So why, when my wife says, “Don’t get killed out there,” do I think I’m more likely to die today? How is it that a mug, a shirt, pair of socks, a pen go from utilitarian to idol? And idol it is.

“Who even comes close to being like God? To whom or what can you compare him? Some no-god idol? Ridiculous! It’s made in a workshop, cast in bronze, given a thin veneer of gold, and draped with silver filigree…” Giving luck a hat-tip belittles God and dehumanizes me. When I have a good day on the bike it’s because I’ve trained well. The muscle that turns the pedals, the blood carrying oxygen to muscle, the tires that hold air, the driver seeing me…all God.

Luck doesn’t have a face. Or heart.  I give to it a face like a little plastic tchotchke or imbue it with ‘energy’. How silly. We are impacted, and impact, the living. God has a face; bloodied and scarred. Friends and neighbors; faces all. If it feels like bad luck came calling; deal with the circumstances. When ‘good luck’ happens in bolt or streak; identify the reality of the event. Then celebrate with those individuals involved—face-to-face. Through it all give thanks to the God that blesses and makes His face shine upon us.

Morning Ritual

On working days and vacation days—one morning ritual. The face gets washed; hot water or cold water; soak the hair, brush it out. Small life-affirming ritual I’ve been engaging in for longer than I’ve been drinking coffee. More consistent than brushing my teeth.

Twenty bucks would buy me a new one! It’s a dark black, solid plastic piece that my dad probably bought from a local drug store. Or the Fuller brush man. I haven’t been parted from it—so to speak. Constant for forty-two years. It wasn’t mine. It was dad’s and it worked pretty good for what I needed. My sixteen years-old long hair needed training and dad’s brush was perfect. When he left the house, he left it behind. Must not have been important. Now I think maybe he knew? How do we lock onto these little things?  

In high school and college I carried a comb in my pocket. Always the brush in the morning. Combs disappeared but the brush traveled with me.  My mom’s pink bathroom to a summer in Chicago; the upstairs bathroom in a house full of guys to the strained and cluttered baths of my first marriage. High desert years alone with my daughter to beach side songs with my beloved. The brush has been along for all of it. In suitcases and toiletry bags; on hotel counters to permanent bathroom drawers. Recently I bought another brush for travel—so nothing happens to the good one.

Why this brush?  Does it feel perfect in hand and on hair (weight, smooth plastic, firm bristles that penetrate to scalp) because it is; or because I’ve used it so long. Is it that ‘one thing’ of my dad’s that I own? I don’t know all the answers.

I do know this. Tomorrow morning the sun will rise.  I’ll get out of bed. Pour a cup of coffee. The face will get washed. I’ll put my head under running water. Then I’ll brush it out with the ideal hair brush. Life goes on.

A Hopeful Call

There are two ways to argue.  The first is to use facts and principles to arrive at a solution.  The second is to degrade your opponent hoping that he will just cave under your attack.  For example in a marriage in the first solution you both are looking to solve the problem so you might say, “Going out to dinner isn’t in line with our budget.”  You are using a solid measure; the budget as a principle and trying to arrive at an agreement.  The second argument might sound like, “You are a stupid moron and don’t care about my hunger!”  In this instance the attack is personal and less concrete. I am dismayed in believing that individually and as a nation we are not principled unless the principal is me.

The John Adams quote, “A government of laws and not of men,” is often heard. We are girded under by law, by principles which find their precedent in the Bible. These are principles of truth and logic which have been held to for thousands of years. As a nation when we argue we should seek solid outcomes based on law. Not based on opinion or name calling. As individuals we should seek truth (and peace with all men) via solid basic facts. Our heart and our feelings are not rational determinants of the highest good for one or all.

The heart is deceitful above all things. As Solzhenitsyn says, “But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.”  We dare not argue without compass or plumb line. Then we may see only our truth and be guided by our perception; not the highest good of other or outcome. We may sink to name calling; and it is difficult nay impossible to improve if you’re being called a dork—What does ‘not a dork’ look like?  Can we do that?

I hope for more. I think we can argue rationally; honestly, and with respect for each other. I have a friend that lives in Berkeley, CA. He believes it’s impossible to argue rationally because people will cite social media and tidbits. I think higher of my fellow man that this. We have the ability to listen to each other and to hear. It’s got to be more than ‘he said, she said.’ There is truth. 

Though constantly saddened by the evil that men do I still have hope. Hope that we will choose light over darkness. That in our striving and arguments we rest on principle, law and the highest good of the other. For law has as its outcome the highest good of man.

The Antidote Is Community

Curled up; sorry for self. He lay in his bed. He’d blown through a red light in the company car.  Hit another car; wounded passengers. Put a teenage boy in the hospital. His fault, his mistake. Giving up. Then the phone call came. Somebody needed to talk; somebody else was hurting.  So, he got out of bed. Community gives purpose. Community motivates. Community heals.

Despite the evidence our proclivity is to hide. Like Adam we run from God, we hide from Eve, we hole up. We have so many options to run to. Writing on America’s opiate epidemic, Sam Quinones makes this point; “the drug…makes being alone not just all right, but preferable. I believe more strongly than ever that the antidote to heroin is community.” Studies of mortality consistently show that individuals with the lowest level of involvement in social relationships are more likely to die than those with greater involvement.  One study cites ‘compelling evidence’ linking a low quantity of social ties to physical healing. We must learn to step out when we want to stay in.

We walk into a messy humanity. In church, the local art class, or wherever you go. Community isn’t just rubbing elbows with others it’s going arm-in-arm. But we’re broken. Others more than us, others less. That’s where the beautiful mystery is revealed. When we come alongside each other in that hard season. I’ve had friends walk with me through addiction, through divorce and through parent’s sickness. Friends are there to share my baby’s birth, newfound love and quiet seasons where nothing changes. This is where the healing begins.

It’s been said that we should have as many close friendships as we will need pall bearers at our funeral. And “I’m being placed in an urn,” isn’t a valid argument against community. So that the funeral will come later, so that the wounds will heal faster, so that life will be richer---step into community.

Slipping, Sputtering and Aging

Our mental gearing sputters and slips as we age. Things get muddled. A skinny old lady I know confuses the words genealogist and gynecologist. Granted they’re similar---one looks up your history and one looks up your...

A long life history gets condensed. “It’s from that great little store in the mall,” my 88-year-old Mother in law says.  “We used to pop in there all the time!”  She hands me the battery charger and has me read the product logo---Radio Shack. I inform her that Radio Shack has gone the way of the dinosaur.  Age old events merge with events from last week.

Time-lines shrink so there is only what was and what is---and they connect. A vacation taken thirty years ago is recounted like it was last week. Last week’s adventures have dropped off the time-line altogether. Whatever grey matter tethers time to memory dissipates.  The belts slip maybe or connections misfire.

RAM is disrupted. Roughly 40 per cent of people over the age of 65 experience some form of memory loss. Oddly enough professionals say this isn’t an issue unless you don’t think it’s an issue.  Being cognizant of loss is good. 

“Unfortunately, in most cases, there are no obvious signs a timing belt is near death; it will just break.” For cars you replace the belt before it blows.  We just fray. Experts say routine helps.  An investment in life helps. Both body and brain strengthening exercises.  Then the last seconds; power doesn’t come, engine seizes, body stops with a jar as hitting a wall. Cam, crankshaft collapse. “Furthermore, men are afraid of a high place and terrors on the road…For man goes to his eternal home while mourners go about in the street.”

Dreams, Goals, Shot Glasses and Shakespeare

She spun the glass in small circles. Amber fluid, amber table, amber lighting. He lifts his glass to his lips; less to drink than to think. Sets it down. His heavy mug, her petite shot-glass. He leans in. The band plays the bridge.

“Do you dream?” he asked. 

  

“Not much I remember. Mostly black and white.”

“Daydream?  If we weren’t here…Where’d you want to be? If you could be…”

Her turn to drink. “You gonna eat those fries, mister?” Eating the fry like a professor using a smoking pipe. “Don’t know. Travel, teach….” Shoulder shrug. “The business, the bills…You? Why?”

“It’s just; there’s gotta be more! The poets and the Instagram people; Acuff, Goff. Different leages? Different card hands?” Speaking of hands; raises his, flags down the waitress. Downs his drink.

“Before this,” she takes a long swallow. “Before this I thought I’d save the world. Make a dent. But it’s hardly a dent. Maybe a ping; if that’s a thing.”

“I think it’s Shakespeare, “The pings a thing to catch a king.” She rolls her eyes. “So if God’s as big as we say; what if?  Is this it?  Should there be an ‘after this?’ Or a ‘during this?’ If so; then what?”

“So does more...?,” her voice trails off. “What does more look like? Is it inside us?  Outside?” She stretches her legs out straight, leans back into the chair. A horn honks in the street. The band plays a new set; saxophone heavy.

“Maybe we’re to constrained; to adult, to serious,” she says. “What if we stretched…? He raises his eyebrows. “Stretched one thing, risked one thing towards dreaming this week?  Worst case…more hop in our step. So? What’s your goal?”

“Stay alive. Then; I don’t know.  Is praying a step?”

“I think so,” she said.  “As long as you’re moving.  Standing still’s not a step.  Unless you’re listening---then it's a step.”

“Praying’s my step then.  Yours?”

“I’m going to research world-changing agencies!  I’ll share Tuesday!”

“Til Tuesday then,” he says stepping outside with a small hop in his step.

Straw Men and Image Bearers

"The easiest thing to do is throw a rock. It's a lot harder to create a stained glass window."...Jon Foreman, Switchfoot

Straw men garner all our attention. Easier to argue with the label on the lapel than the flesh and bone man inside it. Christian, gay, liberal, Nazi, white, black, homeless we categorize each other. Blind to the Imago Dei; the image of God in you I see myself as a little god and strip you of your humanity. No matter who you are. No matter what you say. Both the transient and the man living at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

I have more rules about people than Seinfeld. I judge on the image presented instead of image innate. Seeing all people as image bearers means constant reorienting. My prejudice submits. I consider you more important than myself. When we disagree I don’t call you names.  I seek to understand your point of view.

Baptist theologian James Leo Garrett offered a good rule of thumb: “Until you can state your opponent’s view so well that he himself says, `Yes, that’s what I believe,’ you aren’t ready to debate him.” That takes work and a willingness to listen. More difficult still a willingness to change, or adjust, your view. Its easier to mouth mantras spoon fed to us. Having a different view doesn’t make you less human.

Where to begin? The people across the street with the ‘vote no’ on my yes issue? The coworker that baits me with political talk? The unfortunate that I exchange nods with down by the river? It starts where I live. Extends to wherever I go. All people are created in God's image. There’s a parable like that. Turns out everybody’s my neighbor.

In The Waiting And The Hoping

Putting life on hold for seven years is a death sentence when you’re fifteen. “So Jacob served seven years for Rachel….” Hope is tied to waiting. We wait because we expect an outcome. We save money (hoping). We exercise (hoping). We do chemotherapy (hoping). Jacob waits (expecting).

Probabilities differ. The outcome isn’t assured---hence hope. Money into stocks is a safe bet. She’ll get pregnant. You’ll get hired. Nobody’s hiring. Housing market implodes. Baby doesn’t come. The cancer doesn’t go into remission. Jacob had the sure bet, right? 

Waiting is wired into process. The process has purpose. We want instant. Character grows in the waiting. Jacob for Rachel, Israel for the promised land, mother for baby, the new car, the retirement. In the waiting God is working.

“Put your hope in the Lord,” is a continuous cry in the book of Psalms. In the desire, in the stretching, in the asking, during the doubting this is what God longs for.

The sweetness of the prize colors the waiting.  Jacob opens his eyes in the morning and... it’s Leah!  Laban lies!  Jacob agrees to work seven more for Rachel. One could grow angry and bitter in such circumstances. Yet the story says that it was to Jacob as a few days because of his love for Rachel. How sweet is our prize?

In difficult days and long seasons let’s check our hearts.  Are we hoping in God? Is our prize worth it? Changed for better or becoming caustic? Morning light may startle us with different realities.  With eyes on the prize we’ll look back and see. Our waiting was but a few days.

Burning Bushes, Revival And Rest

Vacation week couldn’t come fast enough. I arrive at this week tired of working.  Tired of people.  Tired of me being tired of people. Tired of all the little things that bug me when they shouldn’t.  But they do. Road-tripping to Utah. Leaving humid beach-cold for dry summer hot. Hoping God would speak. Looking for revival.

No burning bushes. In red rocks, in rushing water, slot-canyons and slick sandstone God’s work is evident. My soul finds rest in nature as always. Replenished joy in desert driving; long talks with the wife. Coming alive through stair-stepping hikes and slow-river walks on slippery rocks upstream. Heat feeling good. Invigorated but not energized for work; for people, for little-foxes that spoil the vines.

Home through arid one-grey-colored desert to attend the sons’ Indian-themed engagement party. To see on my newsfeed that Anthony Bourdain is dead. A post on Facebook tells me cancer took a high-school friend. The miracle of dating; the dire end of depression.

My father had his dark days. He once told me that sunrises motivated him to live. I am fortunate to delight in sunsets (sunrises come too early) and the glories of nature. Laughing with family and friends is a well of the purest water for me. This confluence wets my tongue for more of life.  No burning bush?  Perhaps the fire was there all along.

This Ache For Home (This Is A Far Country)

You might say it was just a house. I saw it as hope for life-long connection; for community. We bought it with the hope of first marriage; the efflorescence of daughter. I put in sprinklers and planted a little lawn. Walked to school with the five-year old. Got a dog; black and white Australian Shepherd, Collie mutt. The neighbors from around the corner brought over cookies.  The neighbor next door complained about the dog. The grass grew; daughter too.

We had birthday parties in the backyard; Spongebob Squarepants and reptile themed. Invited the cookie-givers children; all three. The daughter played with two boys from down the street that brought their parents. Summer days we’d pull up the cheap plastic chairs and chat in each other’s backyards.  In my heart I thought I’d found it---constancy, Americana, neighborhood, a place of permanence.  I was wrong.

It all frayed at once.  The threadbare marriage showed jagged tears.  The two boys houses down moved North with their parents. A kindred had formed with the cookie clan but job loss here meant a new job elsewhere. With the marriage barely intact Providence thrust us out of the house, out of the area and into a place we did not know.

So it goes. This hunger for permanence and place remains. A perceptible ache that is always there below the surface.  This ache for home; for that far country. For we wander “in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground,” til we finally, God willing, come home.

Stagnation Is Easy. Satisfaction Takes Work

“One does not surrender a life in an instant - that which is lifelong can only be surrendered in a lifetime.” --- Jim Eliott

“In the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.” ― Jack Kerouac

The mountain top and the therapists chair are lonely places. Places where baggage is left behind or stripped away. That avocado green Tourister with the extendable handle and Teflon wheels for instance. The angry self-protectiveness that stems from---where?  The crowd isn’t clamoring to give up the perception of safety. Not hungry enough or hurting enough.

The lie is this; satisfaction will come easy. A glimpse of a thing is not the thing itself. The river is beautiful seen from valley’s edge, but you can’t taste it.  Beautiful but it won’t slake your thirst, clean your face, soothe your feet, shake you awake. Have we always been so naive?  Feeling ‘in love’ isn’t the core of marriage; spilling semen isn’t sex. Rendered skin deep we call it beauty.

Time and self are difficult to give up. Deepening relationship requires both. Stagnation is easy. For now the mountain is a picture on your desktop. Personal growth hurts and leaves hollow. Reward seems nebulous.

We commit to the not-yet tangible. Remind ourselves. Short ascents where we push hard, feel shale and smell pine. At home we’re willing to have those deep, tough talks; play and wine with the mate. We do the difficult work. Sit in the lonely places. Listen in the lonely places. Stagnation is easy; satisfaction takes work.

“In a sense everything that is exists to climb. All evolution is a climbing towards a higher form. Climbing for life as it reaches towards the consciousness, towards the spirit. We have always honored the high places because we sense them to be the homes of gods. In the mountains there is the promise of… something unexplainable. A higher place of awareness, a spirit that soars. So we climb… and in climbing there is more than a metaphor; there is a means of discovery.” ― Rob Parker

Swimming

We swim in an alien atmosphere. I remember early voyages. Passing through a white, steel gate; walking down a narrow corridor you smell it. Chlorine saturated water steams from wet cement. An adult beckons; parents push. The first step into clear blue water; foot feeling the tension as it breaks the surface, then the other.  Oh, the cold!

I’m not comfortable entering a pool.  My asthmatic lungs seize up with quick temperature change. I can barely breathe. I’m leaving the safety of air and firm footing. One step down; bathing suit gets wet and heavy. Two steps down then hold to the side, hold to the side! 

Grasping tight the pool’s edge over there is a pile of rectangles; like tops from Styrofoam ice-boxes. Bright colors; cherry red and cobalt blue with corners cut-off. For what purpose?

Inside the pool a line of children hold to the edge. An adult towers over us in a red bathing suit. “Pretend you’re in a big bathtub.  Face down and blow bubbles.” Easy. Each is given an ice-box cover. Trembling and terror, we leave the side. Grasping kick-boards we shove out across the shallow end a line of stick men without arms.

The new house has a pool. Neighbor girls hurl us into cold water. The sink-or-swim school. Dog paddles stave off drowning. Paddles turn to superior strokes. What was fearful now’s freedom.  Summer days spent swimming til cool water constricts blood vessels. We turn purple.

We swim in an alien atmosphere. The sink-or-swim school. Bright colors bid us leave the shallow end to the scary deep. Perhaps freedom awaits!

Guilt Is The Thing Missing From The New Testament

The two-a.m. terrors came again last night.  An hour-long window when I’m awake but not energized.  Flashbacks come in that window.  People I’ve hurt long ago.  Venom I spewed not meaning to poison. The poem I wrote to manipulate the girl. The what-ifs run right along pressing in with tangible weight. Palpable pressure in the chest.

Guilt is the thing missing in the New Testament. Peter does not refer to his big blunders. Paul doesn’t apologize for holding coats to give stoners of Stephen better elbow snap. No 12-step program; no making amends to all he’d harmed. Paul’s perfectly Jewish without the guilt!  It’s as though those things have all been set right.  Trajectory changed; no skeletons in the closet. What sets them free?  What’s the skeleton key?

“…But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”  Knowing Christ matters.  Past sins, what-ifs, should-have and shouldn’t have’s out with the trash.  Yes, we make amends.  We seek peace. The past is a place we’ve left; Christ is the future we have.  We live here.  Rejoice in an all sufficient Christ in the present. Those dead skeletons; crucified and buried with Christ.  That’s the truth but not the experience.

Like buried hearts in a horror story they beat their way back. Try fight them off with denial, the fact is we are guilty.  As Spurgeon has said, “Your sins are so gone that they cannot be laid to your charge.” This is what Paul and Peter understood. Cry to God and fight. Cling to what is now a clean slate. Skeletons of the past will reach out to grab hold. Look forward to the future. The refrain is true; the cross has the final word.

The Cabinet Keeper

The stubble on his face was razor sharp.  Not his memory.  That was growing soft---not growing really but diminishing. He couldn’t remember what he didn’t remember. Wasn’t sure that what he recalled was ten years ago or ten minutes. Frustrating. He didn’t mean to lash out in anger. Irritation comes as he tries to tether to the old memories and connect with the new.  The rope keeps unraveling before he can tie it all together. Hair and memory both graying out.

 My sister and I have shared the same moments…and we have different memories.  I can access complete experiences if I see a picture. Blocks of my childhood are absent along with chunks through my twenties.  A snapshot or a story will open those files—sometimes. Raising my daughter; full soundtracks and photos filling my personal memory cloud. My brain has archived trillions of tidbits; rock and roll lyrics, Monty Python skits, facts about writers; quotes and quirks—all easily accessed.

Memories are stored in the brain in multiple file cabinets; back of brain, front of brain.  Current events we toss into the back brain cabinet (hippocampus). After a while we give it a manila folder. Every ten years the files are shuttled to front brain storage (frontal cortex). Simple.  Unless there’s a disruption. There’s always a disruption. Current memory must be reinforced; the little file cabinet guy must scribble onto that folder. The folder properly placed in context. To retrieve it the incoming query must be clearly understood; “Okay, brain, find me the actors in eighties movie files.” Over time the little file cabinet keeper gets tired and just throws those memories into a box.

It came time to move him to smaller quarters, the movers were oblivious, the children miffed and mystified. The ‘new’ boxes in den and kitchen were filled with Hammacher Schlemmer catalogs, Hollywood Bowl librettos, miscellaneous mail along with important letters from the IRS, postcards from friends abroad and medical bills. The boxes in the backrooms were neatly organized; photos of grandchildren and family, notes from mom, lists of knick-knacks, tools and finances to be distributed ‘when the time comes.’ Temporary amusements and current finances not held tightly; not filed rightly.  Kinships and clan, close connected friends and things done by hand---these the keeper stores in the strong room.

Water

“And whoever in the name of a disciple gives to one of these little ones even a cup of cold water to drink, truly I say to you, he shall not lose his reward.”

 ^"Again he prayed, and the heavens gave rain, and the earth produced its crops."

Water had hold of his mind. Water; our landlord was convinced one of us was stealing it.  We shared the meter with two other tenants. First came the personal interrogations. He insisted we use the same amount of water as our neighbors though there were three of us vs. single guy and married couple. Then came replacement to low flow plumbing. Rants continued every time contact was made.  Then a list of suggestions such as ‘do laundry once a week,’ ‘hand-wash dishes,’ and ‘limit baths and showers.’ He could have simply raised the rent. Water was available in ample supply; but the landlord didn’t want to pay for it.

My morning shower is a ritual; like morning coffee. The average ‘American’ shower uses 17 gallons and lasts eight minutes.  My wife would have you believe mine take twice as long. Taking my water use out of the equation; the average American uses 80-100 gallons per day. Meanwhile, “Yasmin Dawood is working hard to stick to her limit of 13.2 gallons per day for individuals...”

Cape Town, South Africa is to run out of water in July.  The government is shutting off the supply. The dams are empty. The original shut-off date was April; but through conservation and water borrowing the taps now will go dry in July. Four million people (between the census of 1996 and 2011, the City of Cape Town grew by 45%) scrounging for water. Worldwide, 663 million people lack access to improved drinking water.

 When your ‘small l’ landlord messes with your water you can move.  When the Lord of all withholds water you can pray, utilize your resources and hope like crazy for solution. We can be part of the solution. These 5 non-profits have a healthy focus on water.  Pray with them.  Hope with them. Think of them with your coffee, shower and shave.

Seasons Mundane and Seasons Exuberant

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth,
before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say,
 “I find no pleasure in them”—

An alpine climber leading summits of Aconcagua and Everest; a couple visiting each National park while living out of their RV; a witty, well published, motivational speaker; and a handful of professional photographers regularly appear on my Instagram feed. This morning I hit the snooze button twice and poured myself two cups of coffee before my morning reading and writing time.  I’ll write words for soul satisfaction only then head off to work that I do for the paycheck….’a time to throw stones and a time to gather stones.’

Autumn’s season sneaks up on her. My 85-year-old mother in law’s mind and muscle don’t respond as quickly as they once did.  Things that were once crisp and clean go hazy.  Eager exploration gives way to tiredness, frustration and afternoon nap. Entropy relentlessly pursues. Staying in bed is easier. TV easier. Decline is gradual.

Life has its’ seasons.  I’ve canoed the Colorado and submitted Whitney. A summer spent working with teens in inner-city Chicago.  Countless road-trips; sleeping under lightning sky and seeing countless shale streaked wildernesses by car.  I’ve quit taco-selling jobs after three weeks; had Summer jobs and jobs to make ends-meet. I expect all seasons to be like those seasons of exuberant exploration.

As axial tilt brings Earth closer to the sun; the choices we make and outside forces spin us throughout the year. We bend toward old age; bodies give in to gravity. This spring will be a different Spring than when I was Thirty. The tension remains. To find pleasure; and so there is a seeking.  To find contentment; and so there is a letting go.

My Monasticism

I am not called to poverty,

Not convinced it will set me free;

By my choice or by decree,

Money doesn’t follow me.

I’m not forced to steal or plead,

Have no want for daily bread;

Have access to pool and gas char-grill,

While many fend for just a meal.

Five thousand living just by me,

Labelled homeless; categorically,

In river-wash and county seat,

Lord could I learn to wash their feet?

I seek to live in simplicity,

For that is what Christ wants from me,

Much in debt I want more toys,

Am I the source of all the noise?

‘Where there is injury, pardon,’

Offended by world my heart does harden,

I’m less like a saint than a Pharisee,

Living like Christ hasn’t died for me.

I am called to death and cross,

For sake of Christ count all as loss,

For we are all monks in part,

When we follow from the heart.