Wine Lies In The Relief Lines

 Wine lies in the relief lines of every good road trip.

Someone once said they disliked humanity on the whole but individuals were often delightful. Meeting those individuals is a benefit of travelling. Though bad travel stories abound, serendipity surprises.

We walked toward roadside relief beyond the shiny sliding doors of the TA travel center. A shiny black SUV pulled up beside me, rolling down the passenger window. Reaching across the vehicle, he said, “My name is Achmed. May I ask you for a favor?” As I shook his hand he recounted an incredibly intricate story of how his wallet had been stolen at Walmart, and he was driving through Santa Fe to California and did not have enough money for gasoline. In the back seat, his pregnant wife nodded through each mounting interval. By god’s grace, I really wanted to help him if he needed it. Yet every intuitive alarm in my body was ringing “No!”. I glanced at my wife. And I offered him five dollars. He left in a huff. Sometimes you open with a move to discern whether to lean in or out.

You’ll meet quirky people. “And how do you spell that?” asked the Barista. The tall Teutonic looking gentleman replied that it was “Erich with an H,” and launched into a lengthy story of how his mother didn’t want him confused with other Erics. We ordered after them and went to sit out on the patio. The couple invited us to sit with them, “No need to sit in the sun!” He was an engineer of sorts (shocking, right?) and his wife a nurse. Because we were in Santa Fe, conversation turned to art. Erich said a friend of his is the most left-brained engineer he knows, going on to tell us about how his friend designs houses and sees possibilities in texture and color. They live in Poway, forty-one miles south of Temecula Valley, which bills itself as “a wine-plus spirited destination inspired by the vine.” We wrapped up our conversation in agreement; Temecula Valley isn’t Napa and shouldn’t charge Napa prices.

“I’ll sit with these folks,” Mary the Administrator shouted to her bureaucrat friends. Tall, sharply dressed and sharply featured, she pulled up a chair. Though Mary is HR administrator for a school district, she is also, seemingly, the unofficial PR spokesperson for New Mexico. She leans in. Begins with an affirmation of what we’ve already encountered, New Mexicans are a warm and welcoming people. The conversation bounced around like small talk does; places to visit, places that no longer are. How the fires ravaged Ruidoso, draught (light snow) in Taos and why the college makes Los Cruces hop. The talk flowed, like the Rio Grande, shallow, in small ebbs and flows, to the Gorge an hour north, home to one of New Mexico’s’ three wine regions.

 

 

 

Not A Charade-Longing for Intimacy In Marriage

 I’m gesticulating wildly in the midst of a game of charades. I’m focused on the faces of my teammates.  “Three syllables, sounds like...” Trying to get the picture across. The clues aren’t connecting. Pointing to my chest and making drawings in the air isn’t helping.  At the end of the round, my ex turns to me and says, “You are way to intense.” Words that cut like a sword.

My friend, my wife of fourteen years, affirms my intensity. On the same hand she is wired with soft and gentle edges. She is the reason we get invited to parties. With that mix, like any mix, it is easy for us to hurt each other. With words. Or complete silence. To insist that she be more like me. Friendship should be different. “Iron sharpens iron,’ is friction which renders a positive result.

Marriage is meant to be more intimate. If you want it. Authentic connection isn’t easy. Sister, I’ve got wounds and warts. I’m bent in ways that will hurt you. If I wound you, if you wound me; where do we go? Cry to Christ.

Nobody likes to hurt. At gut level I’m not going to pursue relationship if it hurts self. Painful words, wounds from my parents and previous partners lead me to protect my heart.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please forgive me. I love you.” This is a mantra that my wife’s family picked up at a Christian youth conference. Now we use it in circumstances ranging from silly (it really did need salt!)  to serious (I’m sorry I screamed at you). It’s about commitment to the covenant.

I long for that intimacy. It’s only going to come when I lean inward with courage not outward with fear. It’s so crucial to have the relationship be a safe sacred space. As Keith Green once sang, “For there are many where friendship's unknown, they live together but really alone. And the days go their ways in silence, tense hours of woe. We do not mean to have it so."

 

I'm Giving Up Sleep For Lent

 Not all sleep, of course. It’s my first time ‘giving something up’ for Lent. Ideally, it’s an opportunity to identify with and appreciate the significant suffering that Christ went through on my behalf. People give up all kinds of stuff, chocolate, fish, social media and sports. I know of one person that sacrificed sarcasm.

I don’t want to approach Easter with arrogance. Nor do I desire to enter into self-flagellation as Martin Luther did before he understood his justification by faith. Seems the season should hold some sacrifice alongside a reflective posture. Loss and discipline. Remembering and celebrating. Perhaps you’ve come across people where their supposed sacrifice seems ho-hum, “I’m giving up salads!” I felt like I should loosen my hold of something that’s got hold of me. Something my friends recognize as my attachment. My wife’s loud guffaw when I told her I was giving up sleep let me know I was giving up the right thing.

Why sleep? I love my sleep. I have friends that enjoy sunrises. I don’t. Sunrises happen early in the morning when people should be sleeping. If I were on the show Survivor, giving up food would be a tertiary problem. What would ruin me would be giving up sleep. And coffee. The coffee which I need because I’m waking up---from sleep. It comes easy to me; in cars, on airplanes, in chairs and beds. I go to bed late and get up late. But not this season.

I’m not the watchman waiting for the morning, but I’ve been surprised to find a richness in rising earlier. My own voice encourages me to rise up saying, “It’s Lent!”. There’s been no mystical experience, no deep insights into Christ’s suffering. Nothing earth-shaking at all really. There has been this; a settling quiet. A peculiar calm as I sit at my desk drinking my coffee and reading my books. Beneath all that is an expectancy for Easter, the most earth-shaking of events preceding the raising of Christ, the First-fruits of those who are asleep!

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

When The Poem Ends

At very first glance, her beauty slays,

She’s there in the flesh, not a vapor,

Pulse revs up and breath gives way,

As you put pen to paper.

Every line a work of art,

Every word has you stirring,

Oh the joy I feel in my heart,

With every rhyme that’s occurring.

 

Happy days of cheese and wine,

Sweet chocolate and red rose,

All things come to the end of their time,

As poet writes their last prose.

 

Rapture gone that once was mine,

Your lips no longer ignite,

Darling we’ve reached the end of our line,

No more words to rhyme or write.

Radical Hospitality

 

 A hotel stay in California during the Pandemic was far worse than staying home. It was more like paying your neighbor hundreds of dollars to sleep in his garage. You had no access to food, kitchen or coffee. Amenities disappeared. Hoteliers, to protect housekeeping staff from germs, only had them enter your room days after your stay. One favorite aspect of vacation was now ruined. Hospitality, a word once associated with the industry, had lost meaning. It was in the midst of this dark time for travel that my wife and I experienced a most memorable inn experience.

Though strangers, The Lancaster hotel greeted us as friends returning from a journey. Our California experience was insipid and antiseptic. Here we were welcomed with champagne in fluted crystal glasses accompanied by macaroons. We were shown through halls of beautiful paintings and sculptures to our room. Tiled, Romanesque and beautiful. The most comfortable bed ever slept in. Fluffy robes and slippers.  After all of it, the next morning, the hotel manager granted us a choice. Though most eating establishments still required outdoor seating, we could have breakfast inside! Not on Styrofoam or paper but porcelain. Hoorah, Houston! That’s how you celebrate hospitality.

Hospitality is a core biblical principal, taking care of orphans, widows and strangers without neglect. Andi Ashworth models this beautifully in her life. “But if you can latch on to the truth that caring for human life is a very powerful work that actually changes the shape of people’s lives and the way they experience the world, you will have a vision that can hold you even in the midst of dismissive cultural attitudes.”

Porches are now built in the backyard and not the front yard because we no longer celebrate community. Hospitality is a radical lifestyle that moves your “porch” back to the front yard and invites neighbors into your life. It’s exciting, cruciform, giving and scary. They could break that mug your daughter gave you! Steal your silverware! I’m set in my ways and rhythms, and inviting people into my day can disrupt my “precious’ plans.

Can I share one more story? My wife and I had invited this single guy over for dinner. During the meal, nearly weeping, he thanked us for the invite. He generally ate alone, and nobody had invited him to share at their table!

This conviviality is an invitation to the great table. The hosts breaking of bread with us during Covid was gracious and risky. In an age of safe spaces and selfies, us and them, pandemics and phobias, hospitality risks it all.

I Am A Romantic

 Fifteen year old boys hardly believe in monsters. That year, in the northwest, Sasquatch stories were on everyone’s lips. The three of us were on a short walk, a familiar trip to the spring. A large wooden cask, brown and covered on the outside with lime-green mildew. You could feel the moisture, smell the wet earth, see the beads of water leaking out, the glint of big yellow slugs feeding even as they produced their own slime. Shadows increased. Panic intensified as the sun slowly disappeared. The obvious trail back to our trailer was hidden to us. Yards from us, something cracked. A breaking. Dry sticks stepped on. A bone broken?

I am a romantic. I cry during Romcoms (though denying it vehemently). My copy of A Severe Mercy is yellowed and dog-eared. I believe in true love. My wife and I have “As you wish” stamped on the inside of our wedding rings. Deep down I believe Hobbits are real. Elves too. In a world where men are beheaded and burned at the stake for professing a risen Christ, dragons are possible and less horrific. Monsters exist.

This is why I tear up at even a basic Hallmark movie. I want that girls’ berry farm to survive! Her prince must save her! I hate murky, grey endings. Evil must be quashed. That is how the world is supposed to work! And it did, once, before the slithering monster came. And it will again. Every love story should end “happily ever after.” Dragons slayed, evil sorcerers getting their just reward. True kings crowned, friends safely celebrating.

The panic rose and rose. Though a stones’ throw from home, in a secluded forest. Where monsters don’t exist. Did the way home open up (magically), were our friends’ voices suddenly heard in the distance? Did evil just retreat? A short walk and we were home.

“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.” (Chesterton)

Photo by Ravit Sages on Unsplash

For Her And Texas... A Love Poem

 I told my wife I’d write her a love poem. This isn’t that. Not quite.

“The Lone Star state?” I asked my wife,

Leave roots, friends, your ocean blue?
The answer same as long ago,
“Wherever you go I’ll go with you.”
Babe, in all the world, you are my nexus,
My one delight, but so is Texas.

When mind and heart are a jumbled mess,
The world going up in smoke,
I rest within your beauty,
Spread below a canopy of Oak.

Arctic blast meets warm Gulf wind,
Tornado warnings cresting,
Hot or cold what will I find?
Most days I’m always guessing.

You are quite the humdinger,
All that and a bag of chips,
Respectfully giving the finger,
With a “Bless you” on your lips.

I delight in that twinkle in your eyes,
The smile upon your lip,
Bluebonnets bursting forth at every rise,
On every curb-side strip.

God Provides In The Dark And The Desert

In the desert all kinds of things are buried and unearthed; dead bodies, gold nuggets, aquifers full of water and whatever one can fit into the back of a pick-up truck. My marriage too, buried, my life unearthed. I was cast out of my house, like Jonah from the whale, escaping with two suitcases of clothes and a credit score that opened the door to an apartment.

Divorce has a way of divesting one of clutter. One is stripped bare. Unadorned like a desert view, snow peaked mountains unobstructed by trees, Milky Way galaxies unobscured by ambient light, air devoid of choking particulates. Except for the dust and sand stirred by the wind, un-tethering everything that isn’t nailed down.

Out prospecting one day (for gold!) my friend Dana saw this behemoth lying in a ravine. I do not know how he hoisted it onto his truck. Real furniture this, cut from some wood that wouldn’t give up its soul. Pulling into my driveway he asks, “Do you need a dresser?”

My friend found a different kind of gold! A practical altar to friendship, God’s faithfulness and a place for my underwear. Straight-forward oak, shiny dark brown shellack, cool and smooth to the touch. Early American, French provincial, I’ve no clue. Stamped with the name of the furniture maker, Angelus in each drawer. Sun and wind only taking their toll on exposed corners.

Little is permanent in the desert. In that first season, the dresser was a beautiful altar to God’s provision. The next season it stayed a strong and secure piece as I moved into my second marriage. One more time on a truck to an expansive home overlooking Joshua Tree.

Howling wind and sand bury most everything in the desert. The stories stay alive. Winter rains and summer monsoons pour water down dry, cracked channels of dirt and sand filling springs and giving life to tree and grass. Gold washes down these channels as well. A prospector hopes to make a find in these dry washes and old streambeds. He may discover other treasures there as well. Like a cast off dresser.  

Cure For A Heavy Heart

Out my window a squirrel reclines like John on Jesus’ breast.  A summer night in Joshua Tree I watched meteor after meteor streak across the sky in a Perseid shower.  There are small delights in nature as well as great grandeur and beauty. On the flip side she can be a horror, a “howling wilderness.” As I write this hurricane Melissa has savaged Jamaica and is bearing down on Cuba and the Caribbean. It is in this tension between its enormity, power and beauty that man continues to find perspective and peace.

“There is but one spot on El Capitan’s upper margin where one can lie down and look into the abyss 3,300 feet beneath him. If a man is a little touched with self-conceit, let him seek this position. Then in his humility and thankfulness would he exclaim with good old Job, “What is man that thou shouldst magnify him.” So writes James Mason Hutchings, the father of Yosemite. I had a similar experience hiking solo down the Narrows in Zion national park. As I stood in the river with towers of red rock rising on either side, I felt immense peace and an assurance that God was in control.

Spurgeon, the great preacher struggled with deep depression. He wrote, “He who forgets the humming of the bees among the heather, the cooing of the wood-pigeons in the forest, the song of birds in the woods…needs not wonder if his heart forgets to sing and his soul grows heavy.” I have sensed God in wind whipping down a canyon and grass growing beside a pond.

Cycling up the west coast years ago a friend and I got stuck in a storm. Hail pelted our helmets as we climbed hills overlooking the ocean. In that beauty with nature fiercely hurling herself at us, I felt very much alive. When soul and heart grow heavy there is no cure like hurling ourselves from our creature comforts into an encounter with creation.

Hidden Riches In Hard Things

 “Officer Thames took me up the driveway, he started kicking me in the back, he kicked me in the kidney and slapped me back of my head and I don’t know if he was hitting me with his hand or hitting me with something…” One of the students testified later that they had a ‘leather blackjack thing’ and that four or five patrol officers would walk by every two or three minutes and kick or hit Reverend Perkins with one of their blackjacks or their feet.

Dr. John Perkins would write later that while in the hospital, “…I began to see with horror how hate could destroy me…Anyone can hate. This whole business of hating and hating back. It’s what keeps the vicious circle of racism going. Jesus’ enemies hated. But Jesus forgave. I couldn’t get away from that.”

We are called to do hard things (apologies to my college professor that insisted, ‘tables are hard, problems are difficult’). My Instagram feed is full of climbers climbing mountain peaks, cyclists speeding and bull riders bracing to reach 8 seconds. The apostle Paul says they do it for a medal that tarnishes. We pursue one that’s eternally gold. But there are overlaps.

Turning the other cheek or climbing K2 forces you into desperate dependence. Living on the edge is never boring. You will experience emotions and perspectives beyond the average Joe. You will have to face yourself. You will face crisis. Labelled an outsider for choosing to swim upstream. For the “tepid soul knows nothing of great and generous emotion, of the high pride, the stern belief, the lofty enthusiasm, of the men who quell the storm and ride the thunder.”

It is in doing the hard things that Christ flourishes in us. Crucifixion isn’t grandiose. Small acts take courage. Reaching across the bed to your spouse after a fight. Confessing your addiction to another human. Inviting the neighbor over for dinner. Speaking out against that thing no one else is speaking out against. Leaving a note on the car that you scratched. Saying “I love you.”

“They do it for a perishable prize…” The focus is on the prize, not negative consequences. A tale is told by S.D Gordon wherein a man sets out to climb a mountain carrying all his household comforts. As he ascends, he discards them all piece by piece finally arriving at the peak. “And so it is with the Christian life. Many find that when they cannot reach the top with the things they hold in their hands, they let the top go, and they pitch their tent in the plain; and the plain is so very full of tents.”

“There are churchgoers who have little capacity to resist, because they have been taught that the good life is free from suffering. If they have been taught the faith at all, it has been a Christianity without tears.”

The Ear of the King

 

For if we are beside ourselves, it is for God; if we are of sound mind, it is for you. 2 Cor 5:13

She dances on the corner, boom box in her grip,

Grape-Crush carton she wears as a cap,

Folks think we’re like the former, when prayer is on our lips,

As bent-kneed we stand in the gap.

Hard not to feel crazed like that,

To believe that prayer has clout,

Pleading for the church in Nigeria,

Or healing for grandma’s gout.

Don’t try calling Elon or Billy Gates,

They don’t give a damn,

Instead try Him who purchased you,

Who sits at God’s right hand.

You get that call, the tests come back,

It’s cancer rattling your bones,

There is one who calls you friend,

Yet sits on Heaven’s throne.

The failure you face-it’s so bad,

You’d rather amputate a bone,

If a child asks her father for bread,

Why would he give her a stone?

We wonder if He’ll answer, still we persevere,

A beggar’s cardboard sign on a string,

It’s a post-modernist age, “You do you, maybe He’ll hear,”

But we have the ears of the King.

Seasons, Egrets and Death

 

I set out to see the egrets but they were gone. There are things in nature I can watch for hours, lightning storms, meteor showers and egrets on water are some. The wingspan of an egret is roughly two feet less than that of an eagle. In stillness their white regalia makes forest backgrounds fade. Majestic and elegant flying over water, still captivating, though not as dramatic as an eagle stretching out to snatch a fish from the water (go watch a Mark Smith video). The egrets are gone from the rookery. To return in Spring. The cycle of seasons.

The question on the intake form, “Do you think of death?” I answered no (I lied) and handed the form back to the masked lady behind the desk. I think of death often. It seems a natural thought process. I mean, the song that put Marc Scibilia on the charts begins, “I’ve been thinking about dying, and how that’s gonna be…” In Christ it’s the air we breathe; crucified savior, cruciform life. Even Solomon says, “It is better to go into a house of mourning, for that is the end of every man, and it causes the living to take notice.” Maybe I should have answered yes to that question. The question should read, “Do you think about death without hope?”

My hope is to photograph an egret in it’s glide over the water. White wings shimmering in reflection, all creation still and silent. And why head to the rookery? To quote Lewis, “But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still do not know where else I could have found one.” For nature awakens in us longings for another world. I glimpse that in the egret.

Photo by Akshat Adsule on Unsplash

God Of Wild Outside

In childhood bed with wheezing lung, I couldn’t sleep just gasp,

I’d set my mind on storybook scenes and roads and maps.

Burdens change, that wimpy kid, anxious and alone,
Found solace when by foot or car he set out on his own.

A fledgling man in mothers’ house, never felt at home,
Find a squiggle on a hiker’s guide, lace up and out to roam.
Bottled up with teenage rage, always asking why,
Hoping that there’s a god who hears when shouting at the sky.

Inside my room with panting breast, I need a God of wild outside,
Who places stars in motion and boundaries for the tides.

In a scorched and aching place upon a desert path,

Atop a climb a tiny stream yields a patch of grass.
Hope rises up beside a sob for a future yet unseen,
Creation reminds me once again that you promise pastures green.

In open field by red painted barns, wild geese go drafting by,
Or crashing waves on white-washed beach, I cease from asking why,
There’s a hint, an unbroken place, nature writes a note,
In honey-sweet Wisteria, maple-syrup creosote.

When I’m dying and can’t catch a breath, I need a God of wild outside,
Who thunders in the heavens and makes chariots His ride.

Twisted

Written as a submission to Dallas Art House in response to this year's Origin theme 'On Darkness.'

I’ll make it mine”, age-old thought in a little boys’ brain,

Child’s plaything, magnifier.

I can feel its smooth leather pouch,

In my pocket,

It channels the sun, what twig and beetle burned,

Now burns in me.

“That girl is fine,” A king whose lust won’t be tamed,

Smokin sweet, trophy wife.

Baby you’re going to get lucky,

On my mattress.

From Adams’ rib both lips and breasts satisfy,

And makes hungry

“I’ll be divine,” A creature who wants just to reign,

Proud cherub, anointed.

Your god only wants you happy,

Comes the whisper.

The Liar promises life in taste and tree,

Whose fruit is death.

“I am the vine,” cure the sick and heal the lame,

Whore lover, law breaker.

Cannibal? You said eat your flesh,

To come alive.

Nail in bone for boasts of God their fury spent,

The cost for me.

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

Letters In A Box

 

“What are you hoping to get out of them?” my wife asked. To which I’d reply, “If you’re parents abandoned you, abused you, or sent you to boarding school in Siberia there’s always a ‘Why.’”

I’m reading through some letters in a box. They were with my mom’s things, fifteen years ago when we cleaned out her house. A shoe box I put in storage. Forgot I had them until the unit was unloaded. Letters from my dad to my mom. Letters dad wrote to my mom from before my birth until I was seven, my sister five. A one-way conversation.

There are relationships where one partner’s vibrant character, and purposeful lifestyle pulls the other clod out of catastrophe and into a smooth orbit. Not our story. My parents were arcing toward collision. To avoid it my parents lived separate lives, three-thousand miles apart.

The iconic Civil-war letter goes something like, “I would brave hot musket shot and cannon-ball fire to experience your red-hot loving again.” Those were not my dad’s letters. Writing from New Jersey to my mother in the San Fernando Valley the letters contained four basic sentences, incorporated four themes: the weather, repentance, money, and plea.

Two pages, handwritten; “It is March, and I am still sleeping in my long underwear.” “Sorry I missed you when I called last night. The boys and I went out. They bought a round. I bought a round…” “Did you receive the money from Rochester? They owe me about 140 dollars.” Often, there was a question about bringing us to visit or to live in the east. Neither ever happened.

The explosion came in high school. Legal divorce. My sister and I were not surprised. The letters survived, in a box. In a closet. Devoid of answers.

Photo by Ire Photocreative on Unsplash

Hemingway Meets Jelly Roll

 

“I hate the man I used to be, But he'll always be a part of me, right now looking at my past…I know it’s unpretty.”--- Jelly Roll

“I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?” ---Hemingway

 One classic struggle, two men, two souls. Hemingway seems a man broken by tension. A man’s man by reputation. The four wives, the whiskey and emotional polarity, all hint at a soul not sated. In contrast his experiences were bigger than life. His writing rich and vibrant, he poured himself into everything he did.

Jelly Roll is the biggest artist on the country music scene. Not the man’s man Hemingway was. Incarcerated for much of his young life, his daughter Bailee was born while he was in jail. That crushed him. He turned to the gospel he’d heard as a child. His music is his story. He plays it close to the bone. It resonates.  

Both struggling with darkness and their love for whiskey. Hemingway certainly; and would have benefited from current pharmacology. Jelly Roll shares part of how he was healed from self-pharmacology through 12-steps, “Hardly sobered up, already wanna quit quittin’, sweaten’ in an old church basement, wishin’ I was wasted.”

At 19 Hemingway was on the frontlines delivering candy when he was hit by machine-gun fire and 200 metal fragments. A priest administered last rites. As a result he converted to Catholicism. Later, he “more formally” converted” upon marrying his second, Catholic, wife. Some credit these ‘conversions’ to his vision and moral landscape. Whether he was committed to the framework of the church or to the risen Christ, his writing reflected the three great transcendentals of truth, goodness and beauty.

Knowing God doesn’t guarantee good art. Faulty coping mechanisms aren’t easily slayed. It’s surgery. In Christ, in art, in healing, fulness necessitates leaning into the blade. “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

A Man's Man

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

For God’s honor he fell a Philistine.

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

Oh, the depth of my own carnality,

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

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

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

Where do I look for a man’s man,

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

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

Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash

A Cautionary Tale

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Photo by Tahamie Farooqui on Unsplash

 

Rembrandt Has A Pauper's Grave

 

Rembrandt has a pauper’s grave,

The museum tourbook read,

A reminder that my life’s appraised,

By others when I’m dead.

 

How could he lie in such a pit?

My confusion here I’ll confess,

Master of both brush and light,

Off canvas so distressed.

How real he draws the prodigal,

Feel the beggar’s plight,

Oh might your heart be so gripped,

With the words that I would write.

 

His paintings are in the Rijksmuseum

Some are in the Hague,

Bankrupt of wives, children and home,

Possessing only the plague.

 

 

Sing Like A Hobbit

 

 

     

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

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

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

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

Photo by Sergio García on Unsplash