Januarys' Promise

 She emits five sighs that once were beeps. The Cuisinart brewer breathes out letting me know the coffee is ready. My wife on the other hand grabs the carafe before the beep. Forcing the cycle, trying to get that thirty-second jump on the day. I’ve never been a fan of mornings, preferring to unfold into the day slowly. Morning feels like the friend in Proverbs shouting, “Rise and shine!” It’s a curse not a blessing.

January feels like morning to me. A slow, cold start to the rest of the year. I choose a favored coffee cup for the morning brew. We have fifteen but I prefer about five. Generally journalling or reading a devotional and a brief Bible passage. Too much lately I reach out for Instagram. Going to try limit that this year. The cold provides an easier excuse for vacuity.

January is the jump-start for the year. The life calendar eases up providing windows to look forward and back. Fortunate enough to be able to envision hopeful dreams for the upcoming year. We’ve seen wrecks in the rear-view but not as bad as some. Set some personal goals. Martin Luther King weekend the wife and I escape town for marriage inventory. I have a list of questions pulled from another author: If the last year could be summed up in one word, what would it be? What new territory needs to be explored spiritually, physically, emotionally? What are some things that MUST be done in order to move my life forward? What could I do to make you feel more understood? It’s still early morning in January though; hard to know what God will allow as the days warm up.

Going on five cups of Arabica I still want to crawl back under the covers. Cold world, cold January, cold morning. Goal setting is the little ember lighting my fire. The thing with feathers, as Emily’s prone to say. Caffeine kicking in, undeterred by the draw of the comforter, January holds promise.

Photo by Boshoku on Unsplash

Comfort Earns Its Recompense

The fear for me,

Is complacency,

Being cast into the fire.

Pharisees and scribes are told parables as a goad,

Let not the scattered seed get crushed upon the road.

There is a list,

We’d all agree,

Acts that bring God’s ire.

Violence to humans, derision and scorn,

Others say drinking, gambling and porn.

To make one free,

Takes eyes to see,

That I’m walking on a wire.

Middle road, comfortable, no active sword I wield,

Comfort earns its’ recompense a place in Potter’s Field.

Keyed up at three,

Quite anxiously,

The kiln in which I’m fired.

Scared to take the noble road, uneasy to lead or track,

To follow Him who lived for God, my sins upon His back.

The seed that’s sown,

Oft surreptitiously,

By men who work for hire.

Fertile soil, stretching out, resting in such grace,

Yielding fruit a hundred-fold, behold the Master’s face.

Photo by Vince Veras on Unsplash

The Knife and the Lilies

 A minute from here there’s a place where tree leaves are fiery freesia; cement sidewalk a blaze of yellow, calling into a canyon of color. I made a mental note last year to capture it on camera this Fall as I’d missed the narrow window first time around.  A simple supposition not quantified with a ‘Lord willing.’

It’s never good news when the neurologist calls you at home after the MRI. The nerves from the spine impinged on their way down like good seed falling among thorns. An urgent but planned surgery; not like a heart attack or cancer.

The therapy for the back surgery has been to walk. A blessing because it gets me out of the house and slows the spinning of my mind. First of course there were the ‘what ifs?” Post surgery now I’m anxious about recovery and return to normal life and work. Walking has been good. Glimpsing the last fall colors, taking in the neighborhood, praying about the lilies.

“Consider the lilies,” Jesus said. That’s the struggle. ‘Incurvatus en se,’ turned in on myself and minor concerns. Barely out from under the knife I worry about new burdens. Those tree leaves will burn yellow again next year. Come spring they will bud anew. Flowers will burst forth everywhere. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow.

Heavens' Honing; Heroes and Outliers

                                                           Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

"And through everything we've learned, We've finally come to terms,

We are the outsiders."

All my heroes are outliers. The Cambridge definition of outlier is “a person, thing, or fact that is very different from other people…” That could mean a whole hell of a lot of things. To help clarify here’s a shallow skim-of-a surface list of mine. They are: A poet to the Yukon, a photographer of the Sierra, a martyred missionary to the Waorani, a writer of a nonfiction narrative about the fields near Roanoke, and a Parkinsons afflicted writer grappling the problem of pain. Prophets pointing us to a ‘better country,’ while showing us present beauty. Writers whom, in the words of Annie Dillard, wrestle with this question,  “Why would an omnipotent, omniscient and merciful God allow natural evil to happen?”

Perhaps I am mistaken in my choice of heroes. My failures are not a result. Nor my triumphs. My decisions may have cost me what the Jones’ have and I don’t. In a world of tangibles it’s hard to see the value of intangibles. To quote Madeleine L’Engle, “What would have happened to Mary (and all the rest of us) if she had said no to the angel?”

To anyone choosing a hero I would give this advice; wait. Wait until you are in your forties or fifties so as not to choose the wrong one. What if you were to choose as your hero one who enjoys freedom? Then one day sitting at breakfast in Dallas with a specialized accountant for the rich, and an executive for BHP among others you realize your choices, fate and living quarters don’t compare well to others. Those insecurities rush in. Perhaps you should have chosen that money-making, fitting-in archetype instead.

Having heroes is like the back surgery I just had done. The world pushes hard against our spine. We are unaligned. Realignment is sometimes as easy as a crack from a chiro. Picking up an essay from a role-model keeps us on track. Other times gotta hideaway with that Spofity playlist, some journals and tattered tomes.

Choosing a hero is easier than becoming one. Maybe we choose them according to our souls wiring. Do the chords resonate because you’re attuned to them? It’s not always comfortable being an outlier. If that’s who I am then that’s who I should be shaped to be. Heaven and heroes honing me to be my best.

The Wonder of Words

For the three years that we were in middle school, and even beyond that, my sister had a secret weapon. She would sing these words, “Ching chong, ching chong, boop scala vatske, gilly-gilly-gilly vitch on vo, vitch on vo.” That’s nonsense you might say. I was convinced the taunt had meaning. It was some sort of curse or an insult. What made it worse was when my sister sang it in unison with her friend Sylvia, the one who made it up or shared it.

My strength was no match for those words. Is the pen truly mightier than the sword? Perhaps not if the sword has insecurities or feels mocked. I still don’t know the meaning of that chant. It certainly says something for the power of words. “By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it, smoke right from the pit of hell.”

That same chaos can be turned to harmony. Even that ching-chung was a song sung by my sister. Who can not be flabbergasted at these words, “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…” Or those deep lyrics of the Beatles, “I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.” Image bearers are we and we can create complete new languages like the Quenya and Sindarin spoken in Middle Earth.

One wonders, if we’d had different songs sung over us as children if the taunts and blows we’d dealt each other would have happened. Certainly my sister understood that by flinging ching-chung boop-ska-la-vatski she was only making me feel more helpless and angry. I had no magic words. Only anger and force. It could have been worse.

Words and language are wonderful mystical things with great power. I wish our politicians understood that. And our bosses. And some parents. We could sing silly songs over each-other to make us laugh (There once was an old lady who swallowed a fly—perhaps she’ll die). We could sing spiritual songs, songs of blessing and peace. Romantic stories (No more Mr. Darcy please) about deep love and heroic tales. Legends that married the two together.

My sister called today to wish me well. The words we speak to each other now are to bless and encourage. We speak of wine and art and love and life. Life is short we realize. So we sing a different song.                                   

Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash

Rejoice In Them All

 “Seems to me, other than all things eternal, the only promised things in scripture are suffering and presence.” Our dogs were gentle and patient to no end. When they got in a fight though…You could lose an arm or a leg trying to break it up. Bruno, the younger Samoyed would step out of the round gladly but Sam was in it for dominance and blood. There was no letting go. This quote from E. Brown has had its’ teeth in me the same way.

Is it that black and white? My initial visceral reaction was to dismiss it as too simplistic. What about joy? What about peace? No, they don’t occur in a vacuum. They are a result of presence. This concept of presence persisted. His presence means we have immediate access to the ear of God; for worship and for lament. “A time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth.”

“In this world you will have trouble and suffering.” Jesus guarantees it. That quote comes at the end of a stream of scripture assuring deep-in-the-soul peace to His followers. That peace comes in the person of the Holy Spirit as a result of Christ’s overcoming the world.

So what’s niggling at me? Is it the Hound of Heaven (a nickname for the Holy Spirit) stirring me? Here it is. What about love? Or that perfect wine and cheese pairing you had last weekend? The music group that brought you to tears yesterday; what about that?

My answer has to do with the Ecclesiastes and Chestertonian mindset I’ve been soaking in this last year. “We want a fiercer delight and a fiercer discontent. We have to feel the universe at once an ogre’s castle, to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage, to which we can return at evening…. We should not be affected by the fact that there are more dragons than princesses.” Delight in the fruit of your labor, worship God the creator, enjoy the friends of your youth. Even in seasons of deep suffering these may lighten the load. “Indeed, if a man should live many years, let him rejoice in them all, and let him remember the days of darkness, for they will be many.”

        Photo by Kateryna Hliznitsova on Unsplash

Water

         “Why this obsession with water?” she said, sipping Buffalo Trace on the rocks.

Declan lowered his phone. “So many posts about Yosemite! Nevada’s  plunging crazy like this year! And Pika’s on fire.”

Pulling a handkerchief from her purse she wiped the glow away from her cheeks. Marguerite swirled her glass. “Your mom loved telling us that story! How she and her girlfriends partied it up while Firefall fell.” Lightly she laughed. “She swore no alcohol was involved!”

A temporary respite this. Both knew time was hunting them down. Rain continued to fall outside the umbrella covered table. Summer heat aside, cobblestones shone brick-red while rivulets ran between. Conversation ebbed and flowed, circling and flowing forward.

Unhurried conversation! Daily life is filled with imperatives. “Don’t forget the meds. Take the dog out. Water bill’s due on Thursday.” Since the Ark set down on Ararat we’ve been paddling upstream.

“As kids we'd hike this local park. We’d walk trails and scramble up sandstone.” Pausing, Declan took a sip. The ice had all melted. “Don’t know why I remember this. Up top after all our scrambling there were pools of water. Rain-fed. As a kid it was this calming, mini-miracle kind of thing. Speaking of tiny-miracles,” raising his glass as for a toast, “here’s to the two we helped escape.”

“Poor Bruce,” she said with a sigh. “The edema almost killed him. That’s done. Now it’s back home where the watchers watch and the keepers keep.”

“Catch you there. Stow the ropes to dry. Leave the light on. I’ll pick dinner up on the way. Damn, this rain keeps falling.”

Photo by Guilherme Stecanella on Unsplash

Letting Go Of Baggage

 Despite flight delays, crowded airports and TSA I still find vacation travel refreshing. It’s got me thinking about perspective. Glass half full? Hero or victim? Upon landing on one of our flights a middle-aged woman began jostling those ahead of her while talking on her cell phone and loudly saying, “Let me move forward. I’m missing my connecting flight.” Our flight had arrived early! Frustrating, yes! But you can pack that bad behaviour! Missing flights or being delayed is normal (more so post-covid it seems).

Ushered out of the terminal by police a crowd of us waited outside while security in flack jackets marched by with bomb-sniffing German shepherds on leash. This was my experience on another trip years ago. Once given the clear I headed back to the gate where I was told I’d missed my flight! “We called your name,” they said. “I was out on the curb with a hundred of my best friends,” I replied to no avail. Eventually a ticket agent assured me I’d have a ticket out on the next flight.

Travelling encourages me to experience the good in other people. The traveler stepping backward in line and graciously allowing us to take the spot in front of her. The tram attendant that grabbed our suitcases first (probably because we look feeble and in need of help) and insisted we find a seat before the bus filled up. The worker in the parking structure who gave me a ride on his golf cart so that I could get to our car and then go pick up the wife. There are these glimmers of other human beings that give me slight hope for my fellow humans. A very slight hope.

Purpose and attitude; it all comes down to those. Less escape than release and recalibration. The lady trampling down people to get out of the plane; what’s her purpose? One can only guess. Some bring all their baggage with them. Some leave it behind to calibrate and evaluate what to jettison when you return back home.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter of faith.”

                     Photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash

Crash Courses In Connecting

 “Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and of infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still do not know where else I could have found one. I do not see how "fear" of God could have ever meant to me anything but the lowest prudential efforts to be safe, if I had never seen certain ominous ravines and unapproachable crags. And if nature had never awakened certain longings in me, huge areas of what I can now mean by "love" of God would never, so far as I can see, have existed.― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Single dads have essentially two vacation choices: their own vacations solo or take their kids. Or no vacation; three options. Here’s what made it easier, we already had laughter as a connection. My child’s lifetime of inside jokes already existed.

She had this stuffed animal that looked like a cross between a bear and a pink pig, aka Pigbear. I’d play the part of Pigbear. 

Pigbear, in squeaky voice: “ One time, when I swam across the ocean…”  

Daughter: “You’re afraid of water!!”

Pigbear “ Right! Last week when I fell into the bathtub…” 

Pigbear was a delusional and grandiose story teller. He’s soft and cuddly which made him quite the travelling companion.

I looked on these trips as crash courses. Though road trips are a great vehicle for bonding this wasn’t my specific aim. I wished for the daughter to catch three things: An understanding of vacation and rest, to apprehend beauty and to glimpse God. If you get those you get me.

Beset by bugs in stagecoach and tent, sharing music, losing camera bags and patience, swimming in cold pools and natural hot-springs there have been plenty of adventures! The kid is grown up and adulting now; setting out on her own adventures. Now I get to glimpse her heart. A rich and delightful privilege for a father!  As Pigbear might say, “One time, I created the greatest meme of all!” Life!” 

 

My Friendship with Jazz

 “I don’t like any jazz,” my ex-wife once said. Both a statement of shallow misunderstanding and commentary on all my friendships. I’ve had many, from short sandbox relationships in kindergarten to life-long ones. Jazz is one of the life-long ones.

We met when I was young; brief encounters. Once, in a childhood cartoon I heard a character singing “Cement mixer; putty-putty.” It stuck. And Disney’s Jungle-Book soundtrack; 'I Wanna Be Like You'; boogie and scat! Jazz was winking at me.

Friendship is a funny thing. It can start with a laugh—or a fight. It can go underground for a season only to rise up again after summer. In sixth grade my closest friend and I brawled at recess all fists and fury. We didn’t talk for two months. I wanted companionship for family vacation though. There we were back again. That’s how male friendships seem to work.

That first French kiss wasn’t all that great. Jazz feels like my friendships with women. Mysterious and shallow at first.  A landscape I didn’t know how to navigate Then startling moments when something deeper was glimpsed.

My music collection in school was comprised of rock. On the fringes though there were albums with lots of brass; r&b, Earth, Wind and Fire, Chick Corea and an abundance of Boz Scaggs. Oh, jazz--beyond music, beyond emotion! Can I get lost inside of you?

Life kept drawing us closer. Intro to Jazz was arguably one of the best classes I took in college. There were phone calls and trysts. Still jazz remained on the periphery. But music has all kinds of friends. 

“If the Mississippi River has a musical signature, it’s the blues.” There’s also an app, an historical blues route and historical markers set in place in 2006. When my friend and I set out to do a quick Blues road trip there was no app. It was jazz that found us enjoying a traditional New Orleans band on an alleyway corner; and jazz that took us from Clarksdale to Chicago. There was a fight over jazz too! Both of us wanted to experience a different venue; I wanted a George Winston concert vs. an historic Blues concert. We separated, did our own thing; and came back together. We’re still the best of friends to this day. And the blues and I? We are still getting acquainted.

Photo by Konstantin Aal on Unsplash

Oil of Zarephath

My friend, she says, is sustained day by day,
Just like the widow in Lebanon.
Polio, yes, takes all her strength away,
Health’s not what she’s depending on.
 
The widow, she scrapes, together one last potpie,
Convinced her son won’t go on living.
By famine, true, means they both will die,
Biscuits and oil are life-giving.
 
The prophet, thus says, shall put end to the fast,
With challah bread from oil and flour.
Her only son, gasp, breathes away his last,
Crushed beneath deaths’ dark power.
 
Holy man, I’m marred, sin is brought to light,
Is it your plan to kill or set free?
“Thy beloved, see, alive and alright,”
She glimpses Him from Galilee.
 
Oh Lord, we sing, how long these bitter pains?
Drought of oil while famine breaks and mars,
He will provide, trust, hear the gentle rains,

Oh Lord fill these our earthen jars.

Photo by Roberta Sorge on Unsplash

The Wounds Of A Dishwasher

 How could such a simple chore,

Escalate into a war?

Whines, whimpers and well-reasoned pitches,

Was Sis or I forced to do the dishes?

Not hours and hours breaking our backs,

Just loading them into dishwasher racks.

Scarred I was; I’d learned to hate,

Washing and loading pots, cups and plates.

In my first marriage, might I mention,

Dishes became more than a point of contention.

Her every need stirred with bent of lies,

Wished I’d do that which I did despise.

It so inflamed her every nerve,

Soaping ceramics was not the way that I served.

My dearest one-we've walked 'along side,'

Our rings scriven from Princess Bride.

That travel mug with rings of pink,

Sits unwashed next to the sink.

You rise with the sun, Oh heavy toll,

Not much left in tank, barely in soul.

Might Westley have meant; in his "As you wishes,"

That he would gladly do the dishes?

A Sweet Bite Of Life

 

“I don’t get the draw,” my wife said, quickly biting into a Jordan Almond. How could she understand the depth of my relationship? Jordan Almonds was childhood innocence, teenage sweat and romance with sweet sugar coating. Right up there with Nonpariels. The nonpareil attraction I can blame on my grandmother. I can never eat them without making them into a little chocolate shaped hamburger by bringing the flat ends together. Sitting on that couch in her North Hollywood apartment my sister and I were always plied with sweets. So it was that those candies connected that kid on that couch to my first job as a teenager.

I was twelve year old and every Saturday morning my friend Keith and I worked at our Lawn Mowing service; Barbro mowing (Barnes and Brook). We’d roll that Briggs and Stratton lawnmower and gas-powered edger to our neighbors’ yard. Professional edging and mowing; I think that’s what our business card said. We did a damn good job; matter of fact. Keith doing the edging and me mowing. Collect our money and move onto the next yard. Some weekends we’d reward ourselves with a walk to JC Penney. JC Penney had these large glass display cases, imagine a goldfish tank, filled with every kind of candy. Always part of my lawnmowing take went to the purchase of nonpareils or Jordan Almonds. Because boys like candy…and girls.

Old friends won’t be surprised she was a red-head (years later this trend would yield to some catastrophe; but that’s a story for a different day). There’s the one that got away and the one you never had. She’s the never had. In junior high Keith and I named our imaginary consulting company after her. Always elusive, she may not have ever known she was my crush until we told her at reunion. Her name was Jordana. Like the candy.

Of course she didn’t get the draw. It wasn’t just the Jordan Almond. It was youth, laughter, wonder, innocence and puberty. No quick crushing bite of life. It’s that rich coming into fullness, savoring that sweet sugar coating and the reward of that final almond crunch.  

 

Pheremones and Home Invasions

                           Photo by Michael Milverton on Unsplash

I vacuumed up two more ladybugs this morning. One with dotted bright red-orange that one expects to find on a ladybug. One with a color bordering porcelain and parchment. A scattered few seeking refuge but finding their demise. No colonies setting up camp; thank goodness! An internet search states they’re seeking winter warmth. Funny how nature is wonderful and stunning when outside your house but frustrating, annoying and frightening when she invades it.

Tar-like brown oozed from the air vent and dripped into the bathroom in my old southern California house. A mystery this! Perhaps there were issues caused by the new roofing? Only years later when bees were becoming an issue outside the house that the apiarists addressed the problem. A large beehive had been built in the attic! So they were removed with a catch. Bees, like ladybugs and myriad other pests leave a trail of pheromones. And so they returned. To be removed again.

We’ve all seen the industrious ant in some nature documentary. Fascinating and fearsome in their subterranean tunnels; fierce in flood and forest trees. We had a flood of our own in the form of a burst pipe in our neighbor’s apartment. The water itself would have been trouble enough. Then came the ants. A square outline as they marched around inside our closet. Streaming from the baseboard in bathroom and hallway. Trails of pheromones, ants on conquest. Perhaps, as I write this, the pest control has succeeded in shoring up the walls. I expect a breach at any moment.

There is a wonder in it all. The myriad types of ants; crazy ants, fire ants, carpenter ants. Fortunately, these tiny ones in this invasion aren’t fond of sugar. The kitchen holds out thus far. There is the beauty of the ladybug. The mysterious way in which she finds entry into our place. The ants are militaristic, sending out scouts, scouring wood, enlarging territory. Ladybugs are gentle as though they would ask permission to alight and winter with you if they could. My answer would be no. I am grateful for the diet of the ladybug which protects my rose bush. Happy to have the ants aerate my garden. Ladybugs stain, bees sting and ants bite. There’s a reason for the words ‘inside’ and ‘outside’. Inside home, a haven. Outside, the garden, in all its’ fear and perplexity.