Treasures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Sleeping Sweet

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simplify Your Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letting Go

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

Monday Disclaimer

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

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

Fall Colours

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

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

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

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

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


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

Pessimism-The Tension We Live In

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

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

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

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

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

The Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H/t to GB for help with the creative process

A Time For Every Purpose

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

And there is a time for every event under heaven—

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

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

I told him there was a delightful new woman in my life; he prays for reconciliation—at times-hungers for the arms of a woman.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.

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

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

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

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

a time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.

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

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

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

Neighborhood Beautification

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

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

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

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

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

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

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